Kegare

"When my dad was alive, I didn't really need to find 'the right man'.  Because I had him."

- Gwyneth Paltrow

The older and occasionally wiser I get, the more often I think back on my life...what I got right, what I got all wrong, what I can't do anymore because my legs just don't bend that way these days.

I've been thinking about my father. A lot.  Constantly, really. I've offered so much sake and oranges to his kamidana that it's sort of redundant now. 

My father never said "I love you."  He never hugged or touched.  He set rules, you followed them. I can still feel the cut on my brow from the force of him hitting me hard enough that I fell down the stairs. Because I said "nevermind" to him. A blatant disrespect. Never said it again.

I knew that his smirks meant "I love you." His years of overtime to buy us a house in a better neighborhood meant "I love you." When I was 6 and asked him to stop drinking beer and smoking with his buddies because I didn't want him to die, and he stopped that day - that was "I love you".  Letting me get in his way while he changed the spark plugs or alternator or whatever the latest old car issue was meant "I love you." He loved me more because only I could call him "Doddee". ("Daddy" in broken English. I called him that until he died.)

The men at that park when I was little. He could have killed them. They bled. And I was happy. 

My father was a protector. He was fearless. And proud and stern. He protected the weak. He was a superhero.  And I realize now that there is no precursor or duplicate.

My mother still talks about how he yelled at the owner of a kanbutsuya because the store was so dirty and unsafe. She says whatever he told them worked. They closed the store for weeks and reopened and never had questionable issue thereafter. 

I carry so much of him in me, and I try to embrace it with honor and respect. Sometimes difficult, since his character was unconditionally patriarchal. And life inside of the box in which I was born makes that a sort of sacrilege. 

Being like him use to embarrass me, but now the realization empowers me. It makes me brave. Or foolish.

I find it harder to forgive transgressions than most. Like him, I can forgive, but what you've done will always play in my head when I think of you. It's impossible to forget. Third chances are out.

A big guy was texting on a phone with a screen the size of my car in a theater last week. He wasn't in my direct line of sight, but the poor folks around him were visibly (but quietly) annoyed, probably afraid feel he would start some crap if they said anything.  So I called him out. Made sure he knew it was me. And advised him that I didn't pay $15 to watch him play with his janky phone. I stared him down. I waited for him to give me something. I actually wanted it. I didn't have a plan, but I wanted the confrontation. I think I wanted to further embarrass him. I imagined him with a bloody nose. And I smiled. 

A few weeks ago, an elderly lady fell on ice while crossing a busy two-way street in Detroit.  I  tripped through the snow on the median and made it to the other side to help her up. She was so embarrassed, as our elders sometimes are when they think they're an inconvenience. Not a single other person jumped out to help. Ever get one of those instant "anger headaches"? I made sure she took her time to get up, asking her to not worry about anything but being careful. And I demanded she let me drive her home. I purposely took forever to rebag her groceries. I glared at every driver. I dared every one who met my eyes to give me one shady, impatient move. I wanted someone...the larger or louder the better...to give me some sign of their inconvenience. Even an eye roll would've set me off. What would I have done? I don't know.  But it would've started with a broken window. .

And the whole time, I kept thinking, "What would Doddee do?"

But I hurt him. I stayed out overnight. And came home smelling like cigarettes. I shamed him. I told him I hated him. I never told him I was sorry for all the nights he stayed up hoping I'd call and say I was alive.

And as I think back on all my recent self-inflicted hardships, because I've allowed people to make me their fool, offer me the mirage of perfect trust, I'm inevitably back to, "what would Doddee do?"  After beating the hell out the man in question, he would turn to me with an expression of great shame for my indiscretion and naiveté.  Again.  

And so I try to appease his kami. I take care of his home here. And I took care of my grandmother (obviously not well enough, but I gained a special sense humility and honor in bathing and feeding and caring for her).  And my mother back home. I kept two jobs to pay for school here alone in the states. I cleaned up my credit. I have a decent career. I'm not living in poverty like we were at first. I'm not living on the street, though I'm sure he thought I was headed in that direction.  He never knew this me. And every day, I wish he could see that I did okay. It's a heavy tsumi I can't seem to erase.