Happy Father’s Day, A Ba.
- 1 day ago
- 3 min read
A few weeks ago, I had a dream.
In the dream, I hugged my father and told him in Teochew, my mother tongue, that I loved him very much.
When I woke up, I felt strangely unsettled.
Not because of the dream itself, but because it had done something that neither my father nor I would likely have done in our waking life.
Neither of us came from a culture that spoke those words easily.
Yet there they were, spoken so naturally in the dream.
The experience lingered with me for days.
The more I thought about it, the more I found myself thinking about my father.
As one of eight children, each of us probably carries a different memory of him.
Perhaps each of us carries a different version of him as well.
We called him A Ba.
Even though he had eight children, I sometimes think he must have been a lonely man.
A Ba played two significant roles in our childhood. He was both father and mother to us. He stayed home and cared for the children while my mom ran the family business. Whenever one of us fell ill, he was the one who tended to us. Despite his loving care, we were afraid of his stern face. Whenever he was around, we instinctively stayed out of his sight and kept our distance.
What is interesting is that despite the distance between us, some of the things that define my life today came directly from him.
What I remember most about A Ba was his generosity.
He loved his children, and he also loved his neighbors.
During my early childhood, my family organized a trip to the beach once a year. In those days, a beach outing was considered a luxury. A Ba would rent a small mototaxi, a traditional Vietnamese Xe Lam—a cross between a small truck and a passenger carrier—that could barely fit our family and a few workers.
Yet somehow, there was always room for more.
He invited the neighbors to come along free of charge.
No one was asked to bring anything. Yet each family found a way to contribute to the journey. One brought fried chicken. Another prepared sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves. Someone else made sweet desserts we called chè.
The night before felt like a festival.
Our homes were separated only by brick walls, and neighbors called out to one another as they cooked and prepared food for the trip. The air was filled with voices, laughter, and excitement. We would leave around four o’clock in the morning, but most of us were already awake long before then.
The beach was only about 120 kilometers away, yet the trip took nearly four hours. By the time A Ba added a wooden bench down the middle of the vehicle, the mototaxi somehow carried nearly twenty people, along with pots, pans, clothing, and enough food to feed everyone for the day.
Looking back, it wasn’t really the beach that made those trips special.
It was the sense of community.
A Ba created that same feeling at home.
We were among the first families in the neighborhood to own a television. Rather than keeping it to ourselves, A Ba welcomed everyone. Neighbors filled our home to watch soccer matches and soap operas. During soccer seasons, we cooked porridge while neighbors brought snacks and homemade dishes to share. Our house became a gathering place where people laughed, ate together, and enjoyed the games and one another’s company.
As a child, I never understood the significance of what he was doing.
Today, I do.
I realize that I inherited many things from him:
A love of travel.
A joy in bringing people together.
Looking back on that dream, I think that is why it touched me so deeply.
A Ba never really left.
He lives on in every trip I organize.
In every community I build.
In every table where strangers become friends.
In every journey that brings people together.
For years, I thought A Ba’s greatest gift was his generosity.
Now I think it was something even greater.
He showed me that life is richer when it is shared.
Perhaps that is why, all these years later, I still find myself bringing people together.
Happy Father’s Day, A Ba.
I love you.
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