Conquering My Greatest Fear
| October 31, 2010 | Posted by caroline under myself, on identity, personal, storytelling |
I often tell people that this has been the best year of my life. I’ve never been so consistently happy and emotionally stable. I could say thanks to a few specific people or experiences, but I think it’s mostly thanks to a lot of effort on my part not to fall to pieces. In this year, I’ve conquered the majority of my fears and insecurities. Tonight, I conquered the greatest of my fears.
We visited a Hakka Chinese restaurant at Bay and Dundas, Spadina Garden. Hakka Chinese is how we’ve celebrated special occasions since I was a kid — my parents are on a first name basis with the owners of Fedricks, Chung Moi and Lucky’s in Scarborough. My mother’s currently out of town, and my father is a little quieter than my social butterfly mother. Still, he’d insisted on taking me out for my birthday.
Dinner conversation did not pick up speed immediately. He was quiet, perhaps with work or poker on his mind — yes, he’s made a small fortune from this hobby-cum-second-career. Ours is an interesting relationship, mostly cerebral — I look up to him and appreciate his insight on almost everything, even though we are often on opposing ends of the spectrum. Since young, he’s supported me on everything and has always been proud of my writing and artistic pursuits. My brothers, who themselves have chosen unconventional routes to success, have also always been privy to his support — always paired with lectures and in-depth analysis, of course. Politically, we clash completely. His favourite subject is business, however, which is also one of my favourite topics — thanks to my family’s entrepreneurial history. We talk every week or every few days, and usually it’s him giving me advice on certain aspects of my freelance work, or to hear about my latest ventures, or him bouncing ideas off me. I enjoy these talks immensely, though sometimes I zone out because I will never be as passionate about business as he is. My relationship with my mother is more like girlfriends, best friends who giggle and tease each other. Sometimes I think my father feels he can never be this girlfriend of mine — and it’s true, he never will be. But over the years, I’ve realized no one can be my father, either.
This past year, there’s been something on my mind, something that’s stood in the way of us getting closer. I wanted to tell him, talk to him about it, but instead I let the fear of confrontation build a distance between. I was afraid of disappointing him. I recently decided I had to tell him. I wanted to bridge the gap, I didn’t want to keep secrets. Now, if you know my father, you’ll know that he has a fiery temper. Nobody wants to face his wrath or stand in the path of his fury. In the past, fights between us have been highly volatile. We know how to get under each others skin, because we are far too much alike. My family likes to say I have a tongue as sharp as a sword and I think I got it from him. I’ve said things to my parents and siblings that I hope they’ve forgotten. It’s taken me years to tame this ‘tongue’ of mine, and I am now an apt diplomat. I keep my opinions and the harshest of criticisms to myself. I don’t get a rush from making people bleed anymore. Well, unless they deserve it.
As we continued with the meal, my dad opened up some more. I got him talking about his new ventures, and we also discussed assorted family gossip. He confided in me about his concerns, and I felt my eyes get glassy in gratitude, for the fact that I have someone so intelligent and ambitious in my life. Not everyone is so lucky to have parents that have put the world at their fingertips, who’ve given them everything they could ask for. Not everyone has received such unconditional love from their parents. I cry easily when I’m near my family, and I cry as I write this, because I know how hard they’ve worked to give us everything, and I know how much contention they faced for the alternative way in which they brought us up.
As dinner neared its end, I realized it was now or never. I knew I had to tell him one-on-one. I knew this dinner was the chance. I had talked to my brother’s GF a few days ago and she’d said the same. The sooner, the better. As he paid the bill, I cracked open my fortune cookie, eating the cookie without thought. I ran to the bathroom with my phone in hand and called my best friend from the stall. My hands were shaking. Please note that I am the queen of confrontation. I am not scared of talking about important things and in fact relish such conversations. But this felt like a breakup with the love of my life. This was huge, the thing I’d been mulling over for months. Dinah told me to just do it and wished me luck. I returned to the table, quivering with anticipation.
“Dad, before we leave, I have to talk to you about something.”
He shook his head, rolling his eyes. The last time I said this to him, in 2006, he had taken it in and responded with calm. I wasn’t sure this time. I looked down at my hands, fiddling with the fortune cookie paper. “You will be an accomplished writer,” it said. I was shocked, and nervously laughed as I repeated aloud what it said. He cracked a tiny, sarcastic smile, recognizing my discomfort. His paper was nearby and I read it to myself. His paper said something even more shocking, and I held onto it tightly as it propelled me to say what I’d been holding back. And I conquered my greatest fear. I told him, bravely, that his opinion mattered to me. That I needed his support to move forward. I needed to know that he loved me even with the decisions I made that were going against his expectations for me. He told me that he would be my father regardless of my decisions, regardless of the fact that he didn’t like them. He didn’t disown me, as I feared he would. He didn’t write me off as a failure, as useless, as the black sheep that I’d been feeling like. And as he talked to me, like an adult, like his daughter, I felt a wave of relief and love wash over me. I was grateful beyond belief. My eyes were glassy again, and I think he could tell just how difficult this was for me to say. We got up to leave the table and he grabbed the fortune cookie paper I’d been thumbing.
“Someone looks up to you,” it said. “Please don’t let them down.” He smiled, and I took his fortune cookie paper and mine, tucking them into my wallet. “Thank you,” I said, hugging him tight before we walked out of the restaurant.
