The Language of My Father

Devotions: Father's Day Edition

I was raised primarily around women. My grandmother was young enough to be a second mother to me, and her many siblings created a wide-arching tree of maternal protection that follows me everywhere, entwined with my paternal aunt, cousins, and grandmother. The men in my life were present and a source of joy and laugher — but I only ever considered myself to have one father. My dad has always been his own tree — with thick branches, a sturdy trunk, and low leaves of a million shades of green. There have been times in my life when I have been so distracted that I failed to notice the shade looming over me, and how harshly the sun shone elsewhere. I spent a lot of my teen years in the front seat of his car, as he gave me advice and wisdom that we all lovingly referred to as “Dad’s lectures”. There were times I felt the urge to roll my eyes and place my headphones back in my ears, but even when I tried to let my mind roam elsewhere, it never could. His words kept pulling me back — honest, wise, loving. Even when he would joke that they went in one ear and out the other, I can feel them soaked somewhere deep within me, living peacefully in the space between my brain and the back of my eyes, touching everything that passes through.

Like many immigrants, my dad came to America alone as a teenager. His parents sent him away to keep him safe, with the same faith and trust I know he has with me. There are things I will never understand about the way he thinks and the way he sees the world, but the older I get the closer I feel to him. It’s clear that my qualities are fundamentally paternal: the quiet introspectiveness, the sensitivity, how much I enjoy sitting quietly with a cup of tea. Every day I grow into them more. When I was really little, we used to babble together using something we called American Flag Language, the origins of which I cannot remember, but was often sparked by the passing of an American flag. I used to hang out in his office when he worked in radio, and I remember him telling his coworkers — who were professional communicators — something like: it’s our thing. You wouldn’t get it. It was pure nonsense, but it made me feel special. The babbling has quieted over the years, but despite all our differences — and some times I can feel the distance more than others — there is still an invisible string, an unspoken agreement.

Robert Hayden’s poem “Those Winter Sundays”:

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

My mom works in the medical field, so my dad often took the role of cheerleader at our soccer games and plays and after-school awards ceremonies. There was a period of time where he went to work around 5 every day, just to make sure he got everything done in time to come pick my sisters and I up from school. He drove us to all our after-school activities, made pleasant chit-chat in the foyer of my friends’ houses, and cooked dinner for us when it was all over. Even now, though I live halfway across the world, he spends an hour helping me fix my internet, or calls me when he knows I’ll be walking home late. Today, on Father’s Day, he fished all the leaves out of the pool while we were swimming. Later, he brought me cake and tea while I read in the sun. My sisters and I joke about how he rarely says “love you”, and as a teenager I was always hung up on how my white friends seemingly got more verbal praise from their parents than I did. But my dad says “I love you” in a million ways. I have just gotten better at translating.

by Salman Toor, 2018

When I was 10, I came home from school to a card on my desk and a $15 iTunes gift card. My dad and I had fought about something the night before — I can’t remember what — but he wrote me a card full of appreciation and gratitude, confirming he saw the many things I always wished he would notice. I remember my little body crying tears of relief. I guess this is my response, twelve years later.

<3 Love you, Dad

Further Reading

“Shoulders” by Naomi Shihab Nye

“Writing Emails to My Late Father” in Glamour by Rax King

“The Gift” by Li-Young Lee

“Telling my Father” by James Crews

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What I Enjoyed This Week

Recent Reads

• Either/Or by Elif Batuman. This was my joker. It follows The Idiot’s Selin as she enters her sophomore year at Harvard, as she navigates a journey of self-discovery with a natural wry humor and fresh, sparkling observation. I took my time with this one. It gave me the same feeling as Wendy Mass’ books did when I was twelve, searching for answers in her coming-of-age novels following stories of shaved legs and periods, staying up late on a school night because I couldn’t put them down. My favorite part of this book is Selin’s passive persuit of living a life “worth writing about” — staring to chase experiences by exploring different aspects of college life, like sex, parties, alcohol, and international travel, all through the innately observational lens of a first-generation college student. There is so much nuance in her commentary that I think is both deeply relatable and wise beyond her years. I could write so much about this book — but it’s safe to say it’s my favorite read so far this year. Though I don’t think you need to, I do highly reccommend reading The Idiot first (though, secretly, I think I like this one better).

• This short, tender poem by Kenneth Rexroth:

  On the forest path 
  The leaves fall. In the withered 
  Grass the crickets sing 
  Their last songs. Through dew and dusk 
  I walk the paths you once walked, 
  My sleeves wet with memory.

Other Wonderful Things

• I saw Japanese Breakfast and Belle & Sebastian at Wolf Trap with a friend and it was so so so good. I went to Wolf Trap once when I was super young, but it’s a really cool venue that’s actually a national park, and that’s something I can truly appreciate now. Both artists are some of my favorites — I had seen B&S before, but Japanese Breakfast’s Jubilee is probably one of my favorite albums of all time and I was thrilled to see it played live (of course, defying my expectations). My friend and I sat on the lawn with a little Trader Joe’s picnic and I think that made the experience a dozen times better.

• I went to Richmond for a couple days with my family and it’s such a cool, vibrant city. My favorite spots were the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts and Chop Suey Books.

• This song and this song. Playlist

Thank you for reading!

<3

Tara