How to be present

I rarely speak or write about my family, but I think I’m finally ready to write about my parents. Or at least one of them.

Without getting into details, I grew up without a lot of things I feel others take for granted. There’s a reason I often say my life really started at 18, and even more so, at 21.

My parents made choices I didn’t and still don’t agree with. My relationship with both of them was turbulent at times, and I think I was a pretty independent kid by necessity. Some things happened in my childhood that forced me to grow up quickly.

My dad had his faults - quite a few of them. But in every single moment that mattered, he was there. And he always delivered.

On the first day of 7th grade, I came home and complained that my Algebra I teacher made us use six pages of paper a day, one for each section of class. Without me asking, my dad went to Walmart that night. Just before going to sleep, I found a few extra stacks of lined paper sitting by the stairs. No words, only an unspoken message: I’m listening. I’ve got you.

The summer after 4th grade, my mom was diagnosed with leukemia and hospitalized at City of Hope. My dad worked from 6 AM to 5 PM every day. So I woke up at 5, got myself ready, woke my younger sister, helped her brush her teeth, packed both our lunches, and we were dropped off at our grandparents’ house by 5:45 AM. It sucked, but I had bigger problems. My dad and I never talked about how I was feeling, but one day, I came home and found a pair of black high-top Converse and Grand Theft Auto: Chinatown Wars for Nintendo DS by the door. I don’t even know how he knew I wanted them, but I did. All he said was something like, “Thanks by the way.”

A few years later, I had a PE teacher who kept picking on me. I don’t remember how things escalated, but one day I found myself in a meeting: me, my parents, the principal, and the teacher. The teacher admitted what he did, and then laughed it off. At the end of the meeting, he held out his hand to shake my dad’s. My dad didn’t even look at him. He turned and locked eyes with the principal, ignoring the handshake completely. Stone cold. I’ll never forget that moment.

After my freshman year of college, I landed a summer internship at Salt Lake City, the furthest I’d ever been from my parents. My parents had driven my things to UC San Diego the year before, but Salt Lake was 10 times further. Without hesitation, my dad loaded up a van with a mattress and folding desk, drove alone for ten hours (stopping in Vegas), dropped everything off, and drove back alone. Nine weeks later, he did it again, just to pick me up.

That same summer, I was in a bad housing situation: a three-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment with two construction workers where the bathroom was constantly filthy. The landlord rented out each room independently, so I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I was 19, but looked and sounded 14, and the landlord brushed me off. I mentioned it to my dad. I don’t know what he said to the landlord, but the bathroom was deep-cleaned the next day.

My mom spent more time with us, but my dad was more removed and much quieter. After I’d grown up, we had talks about why this was. I don’t agree, but I understand. But what took me a while to realize is that he was always watching from the background. And any time I needed something, he’d be there: silently, without question, and without expecting thanks.

He doesn’t show much affection. He doesn’t say “I love you” much (I think I’ve heard it a few times? I think?) and he gives me side hugs when I leave home. But just like everything else, the message is there, unspoken but constant: I love you, and I got you.

And honestly, I think I learned that from him. Always showing up for people, sometimes with words, but always with actions.