A Misdiagnosis of My Dad

My dad told me he was remarrying on the same night that I saw him for the first time in three years.

We were sitting on some crusty couches at a pub above a train station in the Northern suburbs of Sydney. He suggested we start with hot pot. I was more nervous than hungry and astounded at how much more things cost in Australia in 2022 compared to when I was a sunkissed little immigrant schoolboy. He kept ordering, and I went through the motions of eating. We got a split pot and I dipped my meat in Szechuan numbing spice while he dipped his in a gentle herbal bone broth.

The pandemic had made travel near-impossible and my family, already scattered, were no longer able to see each other. The secret was that some of us relished this. Boundaries were easy to set when violating them could be solved by ending the call at the touch of a button.

The conversation was stilted. We both wanted to make up for lost time, yet didn't really know how to do that. No, I wasn't dating anyone, but I had been talking with someone I met my first year of college and it could go somewhere. Yes, I know that's confusing and in your day the labels we put on romantic attachments were simpler. Yes, work is going well and I don't have any regrets about leaving that cushy big tech job to go work at a startup just because I really like buses. Yes, my brother's doing well. Haha, isn't it weird that I know more about what's going on in his life but you both live in Sydney?

The funny thing about growing up with siblings, not that I know otherwise, is that most days it's easier to talk with your parents about their lives than your own.

I suggested the pub, for several reasons. One, I knew that my dad didn't drink and disliked being around alcohol. Two, I knew that he didn't like loud places. But three was, I grew up in the scouts around an abundance of dads. The kind I always wanted was the kind of dad who would go to a pub with his son to chat over a beer. Even at the age of 26, I was still trying to make my dad something I knew he just wasn't meant to be.

So that's how we ended up on the crusty couches, me nursing a lager and him, a solo when he told me: "I'm getting married tomorrow".

No beer comes flying out of my mouth. I am shocked by how my default reaction is not bargaining or pleading, but just: "Well, this makes sense". What did marriage even mean if it couldn't apply to cohabitation with two kids with hushed vacations to the Mediterranean?

"It's just something we have to do. I hope you understand. I'm working on the paperwork for her visa and it'd be easier. I wanted to ask if you wanted to be at the wedding tomorrow. Absolutely no pressure, I just wanted to check."

"Who's going to be there?"

"Our kids and my good friend, Joe, you must remember him, is going to be the witness."

I did not know my dad had a good friend named Joe.

I've often heard fellow Asian diasporic friends talk about our parents as if they're narcissists. All they know how to do is think about themselves. For years, I had put my father in this camp. Yet, I was shocked how much this moment inverted this notion in my head. Here my dad was, telling me he was about to get remarried in a matter that seemed utterly devoid of joy. It was necessary. It was paperwork.

When I was a kid, I was a very big fan of the much maligned Adam Sandler, especially his mediocre (in retrospect) 2006 film "Click". Sandler's character possesses a universal remote that lets him fast-forward through all the parts of his life that are meaningless. Unbeknownst to him, the remote starts fast-forwarding him through meaningful parts as well. He lives his life on "autopilot", possessing utterly no agency as he fast forwards through the disintegration of his marriage, his own kid's wedding, his dad's death and other important life milestones.

I know it screams /r/iamverydeep, but in this moment, I was shocked at how my dad could describe his own marriage as if it were something that was happening to him, or as something that he just had to do. In that moment, I found myself feeling like there was a fundamental misdiagnosis of narcissism. I tried to pinpoint a time in my life where my dad has ever told me to do something for his comfort or to satisfy a want or need of his. It shocked me that I could not come up with a single example. Instead, he communicates through the wants or needs of others, or of systems. This leads to a life that resembles a form of autopilot. I found myself aching for an answer to a question that surprised me.

"Do you love her?"

"I mean, we've been together for so long. It's just something we just have to do."

"That doesn't answer my question dad. You've been married once already. God knows I've had to work through a lot of the hurt from that. You're being given a chance to do this over again. I know you might think that you're protecting me by telling me this is something you need to do, but I promise you that's not what I want to hear. I want you to tell me that this is a decision that you're making and one that you're excited about. Just for once."

I'm entering my thirties soon. I'm astounded by the many moments where I find it easier to hand agency to someone else. I do not write this in scorn of my father. I feel the tug of what we were given living inside of me. I'm ashamed to say that I've stayed in relationships years past their expiry date. More days than I care to admit, I don't feel that much control over my own life. I revisit this moment often, to remind myself that these are the cards I've been dealt.

And what better way to play these cards than to thoughtfully consider whom I enjoy being around and say to them, with conviction, I love you.