Sunday, March 27, 2005
: Happiness Is Not A Fish That You Can Catch
Yesterday, I had dinner with my father at a quaint little restaurant that had a menu detailing the various parts of our bovine friends and what each one was called and worth. Dinner was a odd idea that popped up at an odd time, and furthermore, in the absence of my mother, who usually decides when we eat out by announcing around mid-evening that nothing has been prepared at the table. So father and son it was, and having been, in our own ways, thoroughly enamoured by the comprehensive list of tender cattle portions, a skewer of various red meats and a braised dory fish were ordered respectively.
Conversation started out the way it usually does between a young adult and an elder statesperson - each party takes turns to gingerly grope about in the dark. Eventually we began discussing the menu, or rather, my complete lack of appreciation for its contents. I asked about everything from corkage to consommé and my father assisted where possible, either drawing from his own experience or continually harassing the waiters for their opinions. I could only smile politely. He said that I should make it a point to master the nuances of etiquette and high culture in order to impress important people. Wistfully, he added that he never had an opportunity to pick up on these things and they have since eluded him.
My father has never struck me as a culture savant. He chews his food noisily, which I personally place as the bare minimum flaw for a person to never be considered for a seat in any hall of connoisseurs. His taste in art is restricted to comments such as 'beautiful', 'superb' and any other word that could be used to describe a delightful little tuna sandwich. I dare not judge his taste in music for it certainly is unique. My cousin is a DJ in New York and he cut a CD of his own trance and house music which his father duly sent to my own. The CD has found its way into my family car and its vile cacophony, into the appreciative cochlea of my father's inner ear where it subsequently manifests itself in the maniacal beat he taps out with his fingers on the steering wheel. He refuses to acknowledge my claims that trance music is strictly for dance floors and has not been acoustically tested on the leather upholstery of car interiors.
But, you don't need to be Roman to do as they do. My father, despite the conspicuous absence of refinement in his life, appreciates its value enough to encourage his children to spread their wings in the world of art and creativity.
He asked me what I thought to be the reason for his children being so different from other kids, a question that many parents ask him these days. What did we get that these other kids didn't? He hazarded a few guesses, such as our nomadic early childhood, our travel experiences, and our family's laissez-faire approach to governance. I weighed each one aloud, but certainly they were not unique enough. "Honestly", I explained to him after some thought, "the reason we are as we are is because we have a father who has the gift of tossing his children in the right direction when they're about to settle for less."
I never knew how much of a fighter my father was, in the literal sense. I've seen him argue with customers on the phone, bank managers in person and deans of colleges online, but apart from his college days as a boxer, I've never known my father to have actually knocked the pants off someone.
Apparently he has. Context: London, England, the winter of 1981. A cab stops outside my grand-uncle's residence and my father and the driver alight. My father hands a small stack of notes to the driver who counts the money and sneers. "You bloody fuckin' Indians," he cries, "You gave me a two pound tip, fuckin' hell." My father is astonished, but replies as calmly as possible, "What did you say?" The driver unabashedly repeats himself, "You bloody fuckin' Indi-" He doesn't complete his sentence. My father already has his fist coming around and he knocks the blooming carnations out of the poor sod. He ends up flat on his back, cursing and swearing. In a flash he is back on his feet, rolling up his sleeves. "I'ma gonna kill you," he mutters. My father doesn't back down. Instead he threatens to call the police and promises to show him a good time until they reach the scene. Within half a minute, the cab is speeding away down the street.
Just then, the cavalry arrives in the form of my panic-stricken grand-uncle, who comes barreling down the stairs and starts volleying questions at my father, who by now has picked up his belongings and is making his way to the front porch.
My father did not accept my claim at first, but came around to it eventually. He refuses to accept credit for the things he does to ensure others heap praise upon his children. Instead he uses vague terms such as 'blessed', 'written in the stars' and something about it being written in my horoscope to explain away his part in raising his children. A parent is unglorified labour personified and I can neither feel terribly sorry or particularly pleased about it. Like most other relationships, it is best admired from a distance - but admiring is not living.
Dinner ended with a toast to one another, our ages apparent in the contents of our glasses. It will be fourteen years before I'm only half of his age. There'll come a time when I'll be able to catch up to him, just as he is gaining on his father, as his father did to his own father before him. But he's not worried. He's already found that happiness in life is not a fish that you can catch. And you know what? I'm not worried either.
Your parents have done an amazing job with both of you. They should really be proud of themselves.
-TGO
both of us?
I meant you and your brother. :P
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Conversation started out the way it usually does between a young adult and an elder statesperson - each party takes turns to gingerly grope about in the dark. Eventually we began discussing the menu, or rather, my complete lack of appreciation for its contents. I asked about everything from corkage to consommé and my father assisted where possible, either drawing from his own experience or continually harassing the waiters for their opinions. I could only smile politely. He said that I should make it a point to master the nuances of etiquette and high culture in order to impress important people. Wistfully, he added that he never had an opportunity to pick up on these things and they have since eluded him.
My father has never struck me as a culture savant. He chews his food noisily, which I personally place as the bare minimum flaw for a person to never be considered for a seat in any hall of connoisseurs. His taste in art is restricted to comments such as 'beautiful', 'superb' and any other word that could be used to describe a delightful little tuna sandwich. I dare not judge his taste in music for it certainly is unique. My cousin is a DJ in New York and he cut a CD of his own trance and house music which his father duly sent to my own. The CD has found its way into my family car and its vile cacophony, into the appreciative cochlea of my father's inner ear where it subsequently manifests itself in the maniacal beat he taps out with his fingers on the steering wheel. He refuses to acknowledge my claims that trance music is strictly for dance floors and has not been acoustically tested on the leather upholstery of car interiors.
But, you don't need to be Roman to do as they do. My father, despite the conspicuous absence of refinement in his life, appreciates its value enough to encourage his children to spread their wings in the world of art and creativity.
He asked me what I thought to be the reason for his children being so different from other kids, a question that many parents ask him these days. What did we get that these other kids didn't? He hazarded a few guesses, such as our nomadic early childhood, our travel experiences, and our family's laissez-faire approach to governance. I weighed each one aloud, but certainly they were not unique enough. "Honestly", I explained to him after some thought, "the reason we are as we are is because we have a father who has the gift of tossing his children in the right direction when they're about to settle for less."
I never knew how much of a fighter my father was, in the literal sense. I've seen him argue with customers on the phone, bank managers in person and deans of colleges online, but apart from his college days as a boxer, I've never known my father to have actually knocked the pants off someone.
Apparently he has. Context: London, England, the winter of 1981. A cab stops outside my grand-uncle's residence and my father and the driver alight. My father hands a small stack of notes to the driver who counts the money and sneers. "You bloody fuckin' Indians," he cries, "You gave me a two pound tip, fuckin' hell." My father is astonished, but replies as calmly as possible, "What did you say?" The driver unabashedly repeats himself, "You bloody fuckin' Indi-" He doesn't complete his sentence. My father already has his fist coming around and he knocks the blooming carnations out of the poor sod. He ends up flat on his back, cursing and swearing. In a flash he is back on his feet, rolling up his sleeves. "I'ma gonna kill you," he mutters. My father doesn't back down. Instead he threatens to call the police and promises to show him a good time until they reach the scene. Within half a minute, the cab is speeding away down the street.
Just then, the cavalry arrives in the form of my panic-stricken grand-uncle, who comes barreling down the stairs and starts volleying questions at my father, who by now has picked up his belongings and is making his way to the front porch.
My father did not accept my claim at first, but came around to it eventually. He refuses to accept credit for the things he does to ensure others heap praise upon his children. Instead he uses vague terms such as 'blessed', 'written in the stars' and something about it being written in my horoscope to explain away his part in raising his children. A parent is unglorified labour personified and I can neither feel terribly sorry or particularly pleased about it. Like most other relationships, it is best admired from a distance - but admiring is not living.
Dinner ended with a toast to one another, our ages apparent in the contents of our glasses. It will be fourteen years before I'm only half of his age. There'll come a time when I'll be able to catch up to him, just as he is gaining on his father, as his father did to his own father before him. But he's not worried. He's already found that happiness in life is not a fish that you can catch. And you know what? I'm not worried either.
Your parents have done an amazing job with both of you. They should really be proud of themselves.
-TGO
both of us?
I meant you and your brother. :P
Post a Comment