There’s a box on my desk at UCLA devoted to him. Rectangular and plastic, it contains the heart-felt letters he’s written to me, a Hello Kitty watch from a McDonalds happy meal that he drove miles to buy me, a list of his favorite quotes for inspiration—half of them, his own—when my morale is low, and some photos of us from various times in our life together. The box sits quietly to the side, ready to be opened whenever I need a reminder about the existence of unconditional love.
Who is he? Not the boyfriend, but the father.
My dad has always been my biggest fan, my most loyal supporter, my fiercest advocate. From day one, I knew in my heart that I could count on him—not only to be there to catch me when I fell, but also to be my constant in an otherwise unreliable world. No one could hurt me if he was around; in his presence, I was safe from every evil.
Quite the opposite of the stereotypical Asian parent, he has never asked anything more of me than to give life my best efforts. He has embraced my mistakes with open arms and allowed me to make my own choices while simultaneously showing me that failure is something I am not. He believes that I can change the world, and his faith in me gives me hope for tomorrow.
I’m actually reluctant to use the past tense, because I’m still learning from his infinite wisdom. He’s teaching me that life is beautiful, but transient; opportunities should be seized, people loved, and blessings appreciated. When his birthday passed two weeks ago, I made him a card. With a sad attempt at humor, I joked that because the saying goes that girls marry men like their fathers, I’ll die alone since no one will ever come close to equaling the amazingly selfless, empathetic, and genuine person that he is. He is my hero, and whatever path life decides to take me down, I want nothing more than to make him proud.
So why do I do what I do? I do what I do to deserve the blessing that is my dad.
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