First Date

I originally posted this here on February 11, 2018 @ 02:56 but later un-posted it because I thought that maybe I was airing too much of my “dirty laundry”. But then I remembered how I wrote about fearing making a caricature of myself, being afraid to post my real thoughts and feelings, so now the post is back. Hopefully, it stays that way.

There doesn’t seem to be anything great about aging at all. My eyes are going. My memory is going. The main purpose of this post is to preserve a memory from adolescence, the first date that I ever went on. Sprinkled in is some parental resentment that has bubbled up during these past couple of years. As you can see, there was a flurry of activity on this site in the first half of 2017, with a dramatic slowdown and a few inconsequential posts in the latter half, followed by no activity at all these past few months. We finally moved back to Hong Kong, because we couldn’t take living with our parents anymore. I’ve been mourning the end of the first half of my life. Perhaps I’ll explain further at a later date, but for now here is the first post in a long while, my first ever date.


To a person from a normal, loving family, it would never occur to them that another family could be so broken that it would produce a person who did not know how to express his own feelings. I was taught to never approach a love interest because that would make me “less valuable. Let them come to you, that’s how you know you’re a catch.” Sadly, as a result of this type of thinking, my sister, who is only a couple of years younger than I am has never regularly dated a person and has probably never known love. My mother continues to infantilize her today, advocating a policy of “there’s no rush, whatever will be will be”, which means she probably never will.

My first date was with a girl named Julia from my class. It was probably around ’92 or ’93, because I remember my dad taking care of us at that time. Those were the years when my mother had to return to Hong Kong to sort out her legal status. Anyhow, I remember at the time that it was just two classmates hanging out, but maybe I was just dense.

So Julia came to meet me at my old house, that little tiny apartment that I’ve mentioned before. My dad was super (and unusually) happy to meet her, maybe because his son was going on a date, or maybe because Julia was white. My dad and his side of the family have always had white-worship, something not uncommon amongst wannabe upper-class Chinese people. I remember the gray metal gate at that place when I recall this memory. Also, introducing Julia to my dad inside the kitchen which was also the entryway and first room when entering the apartment.

Julia may have been coming from a play rehearsal. She was into the arts and in later years when I looked her up I was glad to see that she continued on the thespian path. I remember her giving me a flyer to go see her performance.

First place I remember going to is Mission Dolores. Despite having lived in the Mission for years, I’d never actually been to the place it was named after. In the years since, I haven’t gone either. I was amazed to see a graveyard and to learn that cemeteries aren’t allowed in San Francisco, with the church being one of the few exceptions.

Next, I think we went to the Randall Museum. For all these years, I would drive by and see the green sign, and have a feeling that this was where I went with Julia, but I never confirmed it until today, when I looked up some photos after reading of its remodeling. There’s no doubt now that we went there.

It’s foggy but I think there were animal displays. That’s all I remember of the interior. But it would seem I remembered the exterior all these years and just never knew it was Randall. When I googled it tonight, I saw the little hilltop where Julia and I sat on some rocks to appreciate the view of the city from up there. It was cold, and she put her arms around me. Thinking about it now at this moment, I remember that she was wearing a gray sweater. The sky was gray as well.

When she put her arms around me, I remember being confused. Did she like me? I tried looking at her face for a clue, but she had this cool look, like she was just taking in the moment, a look of contentment. She inhaled the crisp air through her nose.

Looking back at it now, I think she did like me, but I was completely clueless. I didn’t know how to enjoy that moment at that time, filling my head instead with inconsequential thoughts. Typing this out now, I remember my heart beating fast. I wish someone had told me about love back then, even the puppy variety, and that there was nothing wrong with it. My family treated it as a mutually-exclusive enemy of education.

After this, I remember being in Chinatown, specifically next to the Pagoda Theater in a Chinese restaurant. I’d eaten there with my family before and after watching HK movies next door. I recall introducing and explaining wonton noodles to Julia, and she seemed to like the dish. I don’t remember how we got there, but it seems logical that we might have taken the N or the J downtown before transferring to a 30 Stockton or a 45.

The next thing I remember is dinner. I think I was supposed to go home, but we were having such a good time that we wanted to keep going. I called my dad from a payphone outside the restaurant, and I think I also called my college-age cousin to ask for a ride later on. The restaurant was at a corner, an Italian place in North Beach where we had pizza. One of the streets might have been Grant, with the other being the one that goes up to Coit Tower.

I think it was my first time having pizza in an actual restaurant. Since then, I’ve tried to find a pizza restaurant like that, without success. The closest with a similar vibe would be the pizza place Admiral Kirk went to with the whale biologist in Star Trek IV, but apparently that’s not really in SF. Maybe I was just trying to chase a feeling that can never be duplicated.

The last place we went to before my cousin picked us up was Pier 39. I don’t remember how we got there or even what we did there. It was definitely wet and cold. We sat on a bench near the vehicle waiting area, on the left side (vs. the right where the arcade used to be). This time, Julia took my hand. It was an incredible feeling. We held hands until my cousin arrived.

When Julia got out of my cousin’s two-door car, she hit her head. It was on Army Street, and my cousin’s car was a silver Acura Integra. I can still see that image inside my head. Later, my cousin and his girlfriend took me to McDonald’s in Serramonte and I shared the day’s activities with them over a sundae. They were excited for me just from talking to Julia in the car, asking me if I liked her and all that. I think on my end I still wasn’t sure if it was a date.

The next school day I remember sitting in reg and our mutual friend Emily telling me she’d heard about the date, and asking whether I’d go out with Julia again. I recall being a bit wishy-washy about it, giving off an impression that I wasn’t interested. In the coming weeks, I didn’t really talk to Julia much, and although I didn’t realize it at the time, there was one interaction where the disappointment was clearly visible on her face. When I finally saw it, it was years later, in hindsight.

In my mind, I thought that if she liked me, she would ask me out again. I had no way of knowing that what my mother taught me was so fucking ridiculous.

Over the years, I’d see Julia around the neighborhood every so often. Things were always cool between us and we’d ask each other how things were and all, but we would never go further. I mean, not in a continuing-from-Pier-39 type of further, but more like an extended conversation. We would say bye and then not see each other for years again. At one point, I said that the next time I ran into her, I’d tell her how I really felt back then. But sadly, the last time I thought I saw her last year, I chickened out and didn’t even go up to her.

In conversations with JC about the crazy that I come from, I’d tell her that I regretted my inaction because I probably hurt Julia unintentionally. Perhaps it’s just a projection on my part: my first date, the impression it made on me that 25 years later I still remember it, perhaps it was only a big deal to me, and not so much for Julia. I mean, I’m married now. What does it matter to tell all this to a person I haven’t kept in touch with whom I’m not even certain liked me 25 years ago? I don’t know the answer, but I do know that if I don’t it will be another regret. When I look back on that day with a proper lens, I’d like to think that there was something there. And I would want Julia to know that she was totally awesome and I would’ve totally asked her out if I hadn’t been fucked in the head as a kid. We’re not getting any younger, and some of us have even departed. Who knows who will be next?

Introduction to Hong Kong Museum of History (1982)

Introduction to Hong Kong Museum of History (1982)

For this Friday afternoon museum post I’m delighted to bring you this 1982 introductory booklet to the Hong Kong Museum of History.

I first visited the museum in 2007, when I went to Hong Kong by myself. In later years, I took JC there as well. It’s really a fascinating glimpse into Hong Kong’s past and gives a nice outline of Hong Kong’s story (pun somewhat intended as the permanent exhibit at the museum is called “Hong Kong Story”). Who knew that I had a booklet from there all this time?

The details are murky now, but I am 100% certain that my father gave me this booklet. He either brought it over to me here in the United States, or I saw it at his house or office and picked it up with interest, and he gave it to me. There was a boarding pass stub tucked between the back cover and last page from one of the summers when I returned to Hong Kong as a teenager, so it’s probably the latter.

Being a PhD of history, my father liked to keep these types of old things (and being the son of a history buff, I suppose I do, too). At the time he gave me the booklet, it was already over a decade old. Now, it is 35 years old, and has spent at least the past 20 years inside that blue shoulder bag that was also given to me by my father. Amazingly, both the booklet and bag still smell like him, even though he himself has been gone for over 20 years.

In my current state of mid-life crisis, I am embracing minimalism to “lighten my load”, so to speak. For most people, it’s probably normal to own a lot of stuff, and after a few decades on this Earth it’s not uncommon to have roomfuls of things collected throughout the years. When my father died and we had to go back and claim his things at the university, there was an entire storeroom of books and papers. But I wonder if he, like me, ever looked at all those things that he saved and kept in his closet and on his bookshelves. What do we hope to gain by saving all this stuff? Will we take it with us when we leave, or will everything just get shoved into a broom closet/storeroom? It doesn’t make sense to keep things we will never use or even look at, but we still do it.

So that’s probably why I’m scanning all this stuff and putting it out here. At least here, someone from the internet might stumble upon it and look at it with fascination like I did that one day in my dad’s room. Life keeps moving forward in many different directions, and one little spark of interest could change the course of someone’s life, even if that spark comes from the past. No, we shouldn’t live there, but sometimes it’s nice to pay a visit.

As always, I hope you’ve enjoyed this trip down memory lane.

Introduction to Hong Kong Museum of History (PDF, 18.8 MB)


Friday morning’s torrential rain reminded me of staying at my father’s house back in the summer of ’96. Relative to most other homes in Hong Kong, my father’s was remote and close to the woods. It was like a rainforest, and hearing the rush of the rain that morning I pictured the hot and steamy mountainside behind his house.

Recently I saw my father’s home on TV. It appeared on one of the nightly dramas. In its current form, the place is now a senior home, and I was reminded that if my father were alive today, he’d already be well into his 60s. It’s kind of hard to fathom. The picture I’ve had in my mind of my father for the past 18 years is how he appeared before he died, how he appeared when we spent those summer nights at his place.

As I watch my mother, grandmother, aunts, and uncles age, a selfish side of me thinks that it was fortunate that my father died before his 50s. Because he did, I don’t have to watch him grow old, watch him deteroriate, or watch him lose his marbles. Although it is a part of life, it is difficult to watch loved ones getting old, knowing that one day they’ll probably leave this earth before you do.

That’s one way to look at it, of course. Another way to look at it is that I’ve missed out on having my father be a part of my life for the past 18 years. Graduating college, getting a job, buying a car, getting married – these are all things my dad would probably have been happy to see. I probably could have used his guidance over the years, and my life probably would be different today if he had been alive.

As humans, our destiny is to be born, to live some duration of time, and then to die. Everybody gets one turn. I wonder if the world would be a happier place if this fact was continually hammered into each and every person. Knowing that I could die tomorrow, maybe I won’t waste my time finding fault with others. Knowing that I could die tomorrow, maybe I’ll skip typing that last email and go home to JC.

Since I can’t control how others behave, I’ll live my own life in this manner. We each get one turn, and what we do with it today will determine what we think at the end. I’ll continue to do what I want to do without infringing on others, and hopefully at the end, regardless of when it happens, whether it’s inside the flash of a split-second or a long, drawn-out departure, what I think will be that I’m glad I lived my life the way I wanted to.

When it’s gone…

Enjoy these times, Geordi.
You’re the chief engineer of a starship.
And it’s a time of your life that’ll never come again.
When it’s gone, it’s gone.

Continuing from the last HK update, I wanted to write a little bit more about my cousins and aunt. When I think of them, I see Scotty giving the bit of advice above to Geordi in the Star Trek the Next Generation episode, Relics. The context is different, but the way Scotty said “When it’s gone, it’s gone.” really resonates with me. My cousins and my aunt are gone, and I will never see them again. An entire family is gone. The permanence is difficult to accept.

My father died pretty early on in my life, but even so I have a lot of fond memories of him and I can talk about these memories with my family, and they understand. I can ask my sister if she remembers the time we did this or that, and she can nod in agreement and reminisce with me. With my cousins, I can no longer do that.

Space Megaforce
Space Megaforce

I was watching some game videos when I saw one of Space Megaforce for the Super Nintendo. My cousin NVG first introduced me to this game; it was one of the earlier SNES games we played together, and every time I play it I am reminded of him. Now, there is no longer a single person that I can mention Space Megaforce to who can understand and acknowledge that time of my life that will never come again.

In the show, Scotty boarded a shuttle at the end and flew off into space, never appearing in canonical Star Trek’s 24th century again, appearing only in non-canonical novels and the reboot. I suppose I can think of it that way for my family: my cousins, my aunt, my father, and my grandpa are all together in a shuttle somewhere, and although I’ll never see them in my “canonical” life again, I’ll be able to see them in my dreams and memories.

Sega Master System Nostalgia

Sega Master System Game Collection
Sega Master System Game Collection

For today’s museum post, I have a collection of games for the Sega Master System (SMS), collected over a period of nearly 30 years. The SMS was the first gaming console I ever had. I remember coming home from primary school one day and our parents taking us to New Town Plaza in Sha Tin. On one of the higher floors, there was a stationery shop where the SMS was sold. I have no idea why my father picked the SMS over the more popular Nintendo Famicom, but that’s what he did and the rest is history, and now I’m a Sega fanboy for life.

A funny thing that happened was that after we brought the new SMS home, we set it up and started playing, and then my father said “Hey, this isn’t motorcycle racing”. I guess he was sold on the motorcycle racing game Hang On and somehow we ended up with Bank Panic, a completely different game. We took it back to the store to exchange it. So, although I’ve thought of Hang On as my first SMS game for the past 30+ years, technically Bank Panic is the first SMS game we ever had.

Hang On - Sega Master System
Our “first” SMS game, Hang On

Pretty soon after, we added the second and third games to our collection. It would appear that we were big fans of driving games:

SMS Games Hang On, World Grand Prix, and Action Fighter
SMS Games Hang On, World Grand Prix, and Action Fighter
Game Descriptions on the Back
Game Descriptions on the Back

Our move to America was, in my memory, quick and sudden. Somehow, either I or my parents was able to pack the SMS and all its games and accessories into a suitcase and bring everything over. Looking back, it’s amusing to me that at this life-changing crossroads, the most important thing to my childhood self was my Sega Master System and its games.

Relics from Childhood - Sega Game Lists
Relics from Childhood – Sega Game Lists

Over the years, I continually added games to my library. One of my favorite places to buy games was Kay Bee Toys, but they mostly sold their games at retail prices. Later, when most retail stores no longer sold SMS games, I hit the mother lode in a place called Toy Liquidators, on Howard Street in San Francisco where the Burlington Coat Factory is now. I bought many games there on the cheap, brand new and still shrink-wrapped. I loved that place. Even later, when I was in college, I chanced upon a comic book store that had a bunch of games that were, though used, titles I had always wanted, but could never afford. I remember running to the ATM to get the cash to buy them, worried that someone else might discover and snatch them away from me.

I have mentioned before that there are some items in my life that I will never part with. My Sega Master System and games are some of those items. I hope you will enjoy the rest of the gallery below.

The (Almost) Original Sony Playstation


As part of preparing to move, I spent some time during the summer to clean out the garage and throw out things that I no longer needed. One of these things was my first Sony PlayStation.

It was the summer of 1995 and I had just graduated high school. It was my first time returning to Hong Kong since moving to the United States. As a graduation present, my father bought me a PlayStation. We had been through so much in those few years; I think I’ve mentioned on here before that my father and I didn’t always get along. For my frugal father, spending HKD$3,000.00 for a toy was a big deal.

The reason this was almost the original Sony PlayStation is that this was the second iteration of the system, the SCPH-3000. The first version was SCPH-1000. I bought one of these for my cousin. It had a black-shaded cardboard box, whereas my SCPH-3000 box was blue-shaded. The SCPH-1000 had a built in S-Video jack. Otherwise, the two systems were mostly identical. This was also back when electronics were actually made in Japan.

Serial Label

Original Box

I think around 2001, I poked around inside my SCPH-3000 and accidentally cut the ribbon cable that connected the CD-drive mechanism to the circuit board. Oops. Since that time, the inoperative PlayStation has been in storage, replaced in active service by the newly designed PSOne.

Being the sentimental person that I am, I took pictures of everything that I threw away. My logic is that if these items are sitting in boxes, they’re not really doing me any good, and it won’t hurt too much to toss them out. Better to take a picture and have it show up randomly in my desktop photo gadget so that I actually see and remember it, rather than out of sight, out of mind. Actually, I’m posting this now because I saw my old PlayStation in the slideshow.

I hope everyone enjoys this trip down memory lane.

Necrology of My Father

I recently rediscovered a necrology (obituary) of my father written by Dr. D. E. Mungello of Baylor University and originally published in the Sino-Western Cultural Relations Journal, XIX (1997).

Reading it again, this time as an adult nearly twice as old as the teenager who read it before, I find that I gain deeper insight into the person who was my father. I feel like I can learn more about myself if I learn more about him. I was barely 18 when my father died, with many of those eighteen years being spent in conflict with him, as can be typical with teenagers and their fathers. I never really got to know my father as a man. Reading the necrology and other articles by and about him gives me a chance to get to know my father a little better. I never would have admit this back then, but I am very much like him, and today I am proud to say so.

Below is the necrology, posted with permission from Dr. Mungello.


Dr. John Dragon Young (楊意龍博士)

John Dragon Young was born on November 5th 1949 in Beijing. He came from a notable academic family whose members have included the English translators, Gladys Yang and Xianyi Yang. In the aftermath of the Communist Liberation, his family fled mainland China to Hong Kong where he received his primary and secondary schooling. He came to the United States for his post-secondary education and graduated magna cum laude from California State University at Hayward. His graduate work in History was done at the University of California at Davis and completed in 1976. His dissertation was directed by Professor Kwang-ching Liu (劉廣京教授) and was later revised and published as Confucianism and Christianity: the First Encounter (1983).

Dr. Young returned to Hong Kong in 1977 where over the next decade he held a number of academic positions. These included employment as a Research Officer of the Centre of Asian Studies at the University of Hong Kong and as a teacher in the Extra Mural Department of the University of Hong Kong. He cofounded the Modern Chinese History Society of Hong Kong and served as its first president. He wrote the foreword that appears in the first issue of the Modern Chinese History Society of Hong Kong Bulletin 香港中國近代史學會會刊. After serving as an active Head of the Department of History, Hong Kong Baptist College, he resigned over what he regarded as a matter of principle. This event was a watershed in his life and he would never again obtain a full time academic position in History.

For the next five years, Dr. Young was involved in the political life of Hong Kong. His academic involvement moved in this direction when he became a professor in the Graduate School of Journalism at Chu Hai College, although he also served as the Director of the Historical Research Centre of Chu Hai College. His commitment to Hong Kong was more than what one would expect toward a place that provided him merely refuge. He had a genuine concern for the people of Hong Kong and would increasingly come to believe that Hong Kong’s unique identity could play an important role in mediating between mainland China and the United States. As part of his effort to raise the people’s consciousness of legal institutions in Hong Kong, he successfully ran for a seat in the Shatin (New Territories) 新界沙田 District Council in 1988.

Excited by the implications for democracy by the Tiananmen student demonstrations, he travelled to Beijing in May 1989 to attend the commemoration of the 70th anniversary of the May Fourth Movement. His intense disappointment over the outcome of events of June 4th would lead him to turn his energies toward Hong Kong. Increasingly, Dr. Young was involved in media debate over political events there. His public criticism of the forced repatriation of Vietnamese refugees led to an extended dialogue with Governor David Wilson over Hong Kong affairs. However, in 1991, his political life suffered a reverse when he was defeated in his independent candidacy in the first Legislative Council elections in 1991.

In 1992 Dr. Young returned to California. He became an advisor on Asian affairs to the San Francisco Mayor’s Office and obtained American Citizenship. He became an editorial consultant with the «大華間雜誌» (Chinese Journal) (San Francisco). After drifting away from his earlier interest in cross-cultural studies, he wrote a series of articles on Hong Kong’s impending absorption by the People’s Republic of China. He published these in such publications as «星島日報» (Sing Tao Daily) (San Francisco) and Asian Week. In addition, he wrote book reviews on China for the leading English-daily in Hong Kong, the South China Morning Post.

Unlike many Chinese academics who established residency and citizenship in the United States, he moved back and forth between the cultures of the United States (mainly the Chinese subculture of San Francisco) and Hong Kong where he had a base at the Centre of Asian Studies of the University of Hong Kong as an Honorary Research Fellow. There was a price to be paid for moving back and forth between these two cultures without being anchored in either. His understanding of American culture was deep and sophisticated, but he appeared much more Americanized than he actually was. The academic job market in the United States continued to be tight and a position there eluded him. Dr. Young’s eventual move back to Hong Kong was probably decided by his securing employment as a member of the Department of Translation of the Chinese University of Hong Kong 香港中文大學翻譯系. In this final academic position, he was involved in teaching the translation of legal terminology from English to Chinese and from Chinese to English.

During the last years of his life, Dr. Young returned to his early interest in the early modern history of Chinese cross-cultural contacts. Sun Yat-sen held a particular fascination for him, perhaps because of the parallels in their lives divided between Hong Kong and Overseas Chinese areas. He wrote reviews for this journal and collaborated with this writer on translating a passage from Yang Guangxian’s 楊光先 Budeyi «不得已» (I cannot do otherwise) (1665) as part of a Sino-Western section for a new edition of Sources of Chinese Tradition edited by Wm. Theodore de Bary. He was one of the organizers of the conference “Christianity in China: Foundations for Dialogue” held at the University of Hong Kong in May of 1992 and he coedited the papers for publication. He was an enthusiastic participant in the International Symposium on the Significance of the Chinese Rites Controversy in Sino-Western History which took place in San Francisco in October of 1992 and in the International Symposium on the History of Christianity in China which took place in Hong Kong in early October of 1996. He looked forward to further involvement in cross-cultural studies.

Dr. Young was self-effacing and personable. On his visit to Texas in the spring of 1995 he enthralled Baylor students with his description of secret societies in contemporary Hong Kong. He experienced a great deal of frustration in his life which made him, at times, critical. He had strong feelings about the issues for which he cared most, including lingering imperialist attitudes toward the Chinese and the future of democracy in Hong Kong. In an article on the meaning of Chinese patriotism, he wrote that whereas in Western democracies, criticism of one’s government “is considered a right, or even a duty,” this is not the case in China where traditionally government officials have acted as “parents” of ordinary Chinese. He believed that the dilemma of Chinese patriotism would continue beyond 1997 “unless efforts were made to inform the average Chinese person that loyalty to China is not necessarily equal to total obedience of its government” (Asian Week, February 18th 1994, p. 2 & 19).

There is reason to believe that Dr. Young might have played a significant intellectual role in Hong Kong after its absorption by the mainland. Unfortunately, his life ended on a note of bizarre tragedy when he was struck by a lorry in the Central district of Hong Kong Island and in a spectacular fall, landed on his head, suffering a brain injury. After three weeks in the hospital, he died on November 5th 1996, which with sad irony, was his 47th birthday.

He is survived by his parents in Vancouver, by a sister in Hong Kong, by a son and daughter in San Francisco and by a daughter in Hong Kong.

In retrospect, Dr. John Dragon Young was a man whose life from birth until death was characterized by struggle. Many of these struggles were inflicted on him by the historic upheavals of 20th-century China. Others were merely personal. But some of his struggles were for the most noble of ends. He will be missed by those of us who valued him as a bridge between East and West, as a colleague and as a friend.

D. E. M.

Goodbye to Guitar


Tonight I packed away my electric guitar in preparation for its sale tomorrow. I’ve had this guitar since ’99 or 2000, the time that I was really into learning how to play. 12 years later, I haven’t really made any progress, my life situation is uncertain, and I think it’s time that someone else benefits from it.

My father playing the guitar
My father playing the guitar

I first became interested in playing the guitar after I found my father’s old classical guitar in storage. I had seen him play it before and he seemed to enjoy it, being able to play a few licks here and there. I’ve also always been fascinated by guitarists, how it seems that they can effortlessly move their fingers across the fretboard. Who doesn’t think guitar players are cool?

Me and My Guitar
Me during my heyday as a guitar “player”

There are some things I’m really good at, but guitar playing is not one of them. I shall accept this fact and sell my electric guitar, but I will always keep my father’s guitar.

My Eyes, His Eyes

I wonder what it’s like, seeing through his eyes;
Is there a struggle, can he hear me.
I had a thought, I pryed open his eyes,
And even though he couldn’t see me, he saw me.

Then he struggled, and my heart jumped.
He tried to talk, but wait;
Why can’t I talk?
I keep trying but my lips do not respond.

What about my hands; I want to move my hands.
Why can’t I move my hands.
I have to;
I just have to.

A tear falls from his eyes, for he knows he is helpless.
The word is a cacophony in his mind.
But that tear, a lifetime of words, in a second of time.

When it falls, it falls.

I feel such pain.
I have tried so hard.
He is leaving. He is leaving.

Come back.
There is something I need to tell you.

He lies there,
In my eyes, in his eyes.


This story is presented as written at the time, with giant paragraphs. An edited version may be presented in the future.

October 27th, 1996

I am writing this so that I have a note as to what happens during this time period. Maybe later I will write a formal story or essay or whatever, but right now I just want to take notes. If you don’t know what’s going on, then let me tell you. My father was seriously injured in an automobile accident (I still am unclear as to how it happened) and now he is in a hospital, barely clinging to life. I suppose I’ll go about this in a chronological order. It was Thursday morning, about 7 am when the phone of my dorm room rang and awakened me. I didn’t want to pick up the phone, so I just stayed in bed. The answering machine picked up the phone, and I listened to the message being left. My mother said that it was an emergency, that my father got into an accident. I got up immediately and called my mother. She explained to me what happened. “He was hit and thrown 30 feet”. I felt so pissed that I punched the wall as hard as I could. Actually I’m trying to remember exactly what happened after that. I remember getting pissed off at whoever had done this to my dad. The severity of what happened didn’t sink in as much as it’s in now, but still I was shocked. I just talked to my mom about it and she told me he was in a hospital, that my aunt had called and let her know about the whole thing. I was so out of it that when my mom said bye to my sister (who was leaving for school) I thought that it was me who was being told bye and so I hung up the phone and crawled back into bed. I tried going back to sleep, but the thought of my innocent father being thrown thirty feet by a truck’s rear-view mirror wouldn’t let me. After what seemed like an eternity, however, fatigue finally took over and I fell back to sleep. When I woke up at 9, I tried not to imagine things too much, and knowing that I should get to school, went and took a shower. Half way through the shower, my mom calls and my roommate yells into the shower letting me know that she called. I finished my shower as quickly as I could, and then got out and called her back. She told me we’d be returning to Hong Kong on that night (Thursday, October 24th, 1996) and that I had to return to San Francisco to obtain my passport. I talked with my roommate and told him the situation and left my Phantom tickets with him. He offered me his bag which I thought was hella cool. So I packed some things with me, made sure everything would be cool while I was gone, wrote some people from class about what happened, and then left my room. I walked to the BART station with my big, heavy bag and backpack, and then took the BART to Montgomery Station.

October 28th, 1996

Alright, let me continue what the story. So after getting off at Montgomery Station, I walk to the San Francisco Passport Office and wait for my mom and sister to arrive. I grabbed a couple of applications and filled out my own, and then they arrived about ten minutes later. We went inside the office and explained the situation to the security guard on duty, and he directed us to call a number, the passport office administration. So I called and explained the situation to them and the woman on the other end of the line instructed me to obtain a flight itinerary to prove my situation in order to rush a passport. We headed out towards Chinatown on the bus, and went to the Delights Travel place where my mom had ordered the tickets. The man there was a former student of my father’s, and he was extremely helpful. We got hooked up with the tickets on that day without having to have a passport which was what we were supposed to do at first. He also helped us take passport pictures, but they didn’t turn out well, which was why we ended up going to Samy Studio in Chinatown to take them. I just knew that i was hella grateful for the man at the travel agency. After we took pictures, we headed to Walgreens and bought gum and chap stick, and then we walked down to Geary street to pick up the tickets. Well before grabbing the tickets we stopped by b of a so that my mom could transfer funds, and then we went and got the tickets. We went back to the passport office and realized that we were two numbers past. We were 322 and the number they were calling was already 324. So we asked the woman at the counter if we could go (actually my mom told her that we went to the bathroom) and the woman was cool and let us get our passport. We did the administrative stuff, and then paid, and then were told that we should be back at three to line up and get our passport. Instead of waiting, we decided to go to McDonalds to grab some food. We had McNuggets and my sister had a Filet o Fish meal. We stayed there until about 2:45 and then headed back to the passport office and we finally got our passports. After we got our passports we went home, and packed and did other stuff to prepare for the flight to Hong Kong. We got ready and my cousin came and picked us up to take us to the airport. Before we left I had two cup o soups. When we got to the airport we checked in and then finally we got on the plane and left for Hong Kong. The flight was pretty good. The seats were comfortable and the stewardess was pretty. When we got back to Hong Kong, our cousin and uncle greeted us and picked as up. We drove back to my aunt’s house and dropped off our luggage, and then we headed straight for the hospital in a taxi. It was the worse, the feeling of uncertainty. At first, I didn’t feel so bad because my mind had not imagined it to be too serious. But when I walked into the hospital room, I smelled a smell that I didn’t like, and I put on one of those robes that they make you wear and walked in. When I saw my dad, I was so shocked. He didn’t even look like my dad. His body was still the same, but his head was all puffy and swollen. He looked all fat and it hella scared me. He looked like some fat guy in a movie, not my father. The top of his head was wrapped in bandages, and tubes went in and came out of his body, some filled with red stuff that I assumed was blood. He also had an artificial respirator tube leading out of his mouth; undoubtedly helping him breathe. I was told that he wasn’t breathing on his own, that it was the machine who was helping him. They said that a lorry mirror had hit him in the front of his head and threw him 10 meters, or about 30 feet. Just imagining how this could have happened makes me feel so sad, afraid, and pissed off all at the same time. I think about how I always used to feel bad for him as he walked on the streets, and I imagine just how all of a sudden he’d be thrown by a damn truck. Shit. It just pisses me off. When he arrived at the hospital, he was still conscious, and knew his name, number, and everything. But then they told me that he started to go crazy, that they had to restrain him in bed. He looked like he was in a lot of pain, people said. He was yelling and shouting out incomprehensible sounds. I wish I could have seen him like that. Maybe then he’d recognize me and stop, and something would happen. I thought that perhaps he was struggling because he knew he had two great children in me and my sister, and that he had to let them know that he loved us, or that he just needed to talk to us. If that was true, he didn’t have that chance because they approved him to have surgery. The doctors said that he had to have his blood clot removed from his brain cavity, because it was causing dangerous pressure on his brain. Besides that, the fronts of both sides of his brain were severely damaged. The first operation was pretty successful, and they were able to remove the bad blood. But then the doctors said that my dad had an abnormal biochemistry, that his clotting mechanism in his blood didn’t function at 100%. So they had to go through a second operation, one in which he wasn’t expected to survive. The problem was that his blood didn’t clot, which meant that it didn’t stop at they were performing the surgery. They said it was fortunate that he was able to make it out of the operating room. When we saw him, it was after the second operation. The swelling in his face scared me a lot. Everytime I thought about it, I felt like I didn’t want to go see him anymore. But after we waited for the doctors to tell us what happened, we came home and didn’t return to the hospital until the next day. (we arrived on Saturday, yesterday was Sunday, and today is monday). When I saw him the next day, he looked so much better. I felt a lot better, too. He actually looked like my dad. Oh ya, the first day I saw him, I wanted to give him a hug, but there were so many instruments and pipes, that I couldn’t. I just held his hand and talked to him, and told him that I loved him. It’s so strange because normally we rarely tell our father that we love him. Even for my mom, it’s rare. It’s just that in our family, it’s more understood than anything else. But I said it anyways. We left the hospital (just me and my mom, my sister didn’t want to go) and we went to the mall to hang around for awhile. Then we went dim sum with my aunt and then dinner at my grandmas. We came home with my uncle who drove us, and then that leads us to today. In the morning me and my mom went to the immigration office to get a new id card for me, and after that was done, we came back and prepared to go to the hospital again. The thing was my aunt Julia called and told us that they were moving him to a different floor, and that we should get down there immediately. So we went down there, and now I saw him again. This time he looked better still, but the doctors said that the way he looked didn’t reflect what was going on inside his body. Things were still just as bad. We hung around in a tiny room for awhile, and soon they closed the door and said we couldn’t go in for awhile. So we just sat in the room and then my mom and my sister went to go eat with me, and then we came back. We talked about all the traditional stuff about death and everything, but I feel like I don’t want to go through with it. It’s so pointless. Waiting is pointless. I didn’t want to wait so we all came back here. I know my dad wouldn’t want me to wait, so why should I? I knew he wouldn’t want to go through all the trouble with funerals and burials and all that. Yet, they say that I should do it, that’s it’s my responsibility. I really want to go home and go on with my life, but I think I will do this anyway. Perhaps right now I don’t understand, but maybe sometime in the future I will and I don’t want to risk regretting what I didn’t do at the time. Well, that’s it for now, but there is a lot more that needs to be said. I will write more later.

March 3, 1997

It has been four months and I am finally adding to this recount. I don’t exactly remember what happened after I wrote my journal, just that we did eventually leave Hong Kong. Looking at the calendar, I think we left about six days after my last entry. I didn’t want to keep any further entries because I felt like I wouldn’t be able to handle it anymore. I am finally able to talk about what happened. It was after that day that I felt like I wanted to run away and not face the situation anymore. My friend Mark wrote me an e-mail message saying that because my father was a such a great man, I should not give up on him. I had only told Mark that my father was a professor, but he interpreted it in a way that shed a new hope on me. I felt at that moment that my dad would indeed survive. My aunts were really pissing me off… to this day, I still hold a grudge. So let me recall what happened that week… I know I got my id card, which I wrote up there somewhere, but I also went to the computer mall to buy CDs for my computer. My mom bought some CDs for Alan and Stanley, and some stuff for my sister too. After we got out of that mall, we noticed a little cart and a man selling counterfeit music CDs and we bought a few. Then we went to eat at a cheap restaurant. It was good, even though it was cheap. After that, I think we went to the supermarket (Wellcome) to buy some groceries for my aunt, and some candies and stuff for me to bring back to the US. I bought some cola candies for myself and my cousin, and also a box of instant noodle bowls for my dorm. That took my mind off of my father’s situation. We continued to visit my dad, and one time we had a conference with the doctors. I think that happened the day after we arrived, except that I didn’t mention it above. I think logically I knew things were really bad because we were actually flying back to Hong Kong. That is a big deal. But what clinched my fears was the fact that the doctors advised us to prepare ourselves. It’s like something from a movie, you just never expect it to happen to you or your family. I want to say that the doctor was cool about it… he was nice. But there was this other doctor that kinda pissed me off. He seemed so indifferent about it, as if it was another day of work. He knew nothing about his patient, but perhaps if he did, he’d have a little more respect. Fuck him. Fuck him and others like him. Anyways, during that week, we also took the time to visit my dad’s school, the Chinese University of Hong Kong. He had a job there and we wanted to find out about what would happen with the insurance and pay and benefits and all that other stuff. We took the train up to University, took the shuttle, and went to talk with the manager/whatever he was. Then we went back to the station and took a taxi to my dad’s place. No one knew that I had a key to my dad’s house except my mom and her family. I never told my stupid aunts. The taxi drivers pissed me off too… one guy told us to take a green taxi, and the green taxi said take the red one. I knew that we were supposed to take the red one, but the red driver was lazy. I explained to him the address, and we went to my dad’s house. I won’t forget for a long time, maybe forever what I saw at my dad’s place. When I opened the gate, a sense of anticipation filled me. I finally got to the front door and I opened it. Inside the house, things were neatly kept. It looked like he was preparing to leave for somewhere for awhile (that’s another story). In the kitchen, I remember opening the fridge and looking at what’s inside. I saw some food that I wanted to take, because I did not want to waste it, but then I decided not to. It seemed that my dad had stocked up because he knew that my grandma was going to Hong Kong. I usually feel bad when I waste food, so I felt even worse when I left the food and had left it under the circumstances. In the living room, his slippers were still there, placed together. He was wearing them before he left the house… as always. His cup of tea or coffee was on the little table by the sofa, still stained. He must have taken a drink before he left. Everything looked the same as it did when I stayed there during the summer, but the feeling was different. I felt like things were going to waste. I noticed his papers on the dinner table, his mail, his toys. I played with those toys while I was there. My sister watered the plants for him… I still feel horrible for yelling at my sister. She watered the plants and water spilled onto his documents. It was the frustration I felt… I just blew up. I noticed on the other table a watch, a NIKE watch with a red wristband… when he was in the US I told him that mine had broken, so he must have bought a new one for me… it was an exact copy. I felt even worse. Slowly I walked into the corridor leading to his room… I checked out the two side rooms, but I don’t remember seeing anything in there… I think there were clothes hanging from the shower. I walked into my dad’s room… he had just done laundry, for his clothes were scattered on his bed. On the chair of his writing desk, I noticed the green shorts that I used to wear when I had stayed during the summer. My dad’s shorts that he let me borrow. He still wore them. Then I noticed something that almost made me cry. The two cans of shaving cream that we had bought together at a Target store on our way back from our trip to Reno. I still remember how we got the cans cheap, because the man couldn’t find the bar code and so he gave them to us for 99 cents or something. That was something that made my dad happy because he always wanted to save money. I also saw a picture of my sister, my dad, and I from the time we were at Lantau Island. That made me really sad. I looked in his closets and saw his suits. I wanted to take them, but I decided not to. I noticed his fax machine… there was a long roll of fax paper coming out… he had many faxes awaiting to be read. Then I remembered that he kept the metal plaque of his doctorate degree in his tv shelf. I decided to take that. I wanted to remind myself of what a smart man my father was. I remember asking him why he didn’t put it up. I guess he was just modest. I thought it was dope, to have a phd at such a young age. When I got back to my dorm, I put up the plaque in my room to remind myself to work hard. As I type this, I look up at it and see my dad’s name, John Dragon Young. It’s just dope. After we left my dad’s house, we went back to the train station to take the train to my grandma’s for dinner. There, either I yelled or my mom yelled at my sister. Throughout the entire ordeal, she had not shed a single tear. I knew that it was tearing her little 16 year old self apart, but I also knew that she was one of those people who won’t show their sorrow. She hadn’t cried. With the yelling at the train station and the yelling I did to her earlier, she could no longer take it. She burst into tears and my mom gave her I hug and started crying too. I gave them both a hug, and there we were, the three of us, embracing as the train rolled by. It was totally like a scene from a movie. My mom said that she would never forget that moment. I know I haven’t forgotten it yet, and I don’t think I ever will, either. After that things got worst with my dad. Even though he looked better, and there wasn’t swelling, the doctors still insisted that his outside look had nothing to do with his inside condition. At this point I really wanted to return to the US, because I had midterms coming and I had not studied anything in Hong Kong. There was a time when I went to the hospital to say goodbye to my father, because I did not want to see him in that condition again. Do you remember how I said that I would stay so that I wouldn’t regret something later on? Right now I feel it. I feel some regret. I went to his bedside and talked to him. I told him about the Discman that my friends had gotten me for my birthday. I knew he liked getting expensive things for free, so I mentioned that. But he just lay there, his machine inhaling and exhaling for him. I said goodbye to him, thinking it was forever. I didn’t like the smell in the hospital. I could also smell my dad’s rotting blood/fluid which no nurse cared to clean because he spewed it sporadically. I couldn’t stand it anymore. After that I made my decision to return to the US. At this point, I stopped going to see my father. But the day before I left, or actually the day I did leave, I don’t quite remember, I went back, even though I said I wouldn’t. This time, I held his hand. It was warm. Like I said, his body was in good shape, but his brain was wrecked. I said goodbye to him now, forever. It is this moment that I regret now. At this very moment, I feel like maybe I should have been there until the final moment. But back then, I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t comprehend what was going on. We flew back to San Francisco, and I went back to school the day after, a Monday. I went back to SF on Tuesday to vote, and after I voted, my mom told me that he had died. They took away his machines. I had already expected the worst and made myself feel better, but that barrier I built crumbled again. I did not cry. To this day, I still don’t cry. I think about what happened everytime I’m in the shower. I don’t know why, but I do. In my room, there is a picture of just me and my dad. We took it at the rest area on our way back from Reno. He actually had a big smile on his face. He was beginning to smile when he took pictures, something he didn’t really do before. I felt he was finally starting to enjoy life. I was accepting him as my father, developing a better relationship. And on one fateful day, it all comes crashing down. I looked at that picture tonight, which is why I’m writing this now. I look at my own ID card, and I see him in me. Or I see me in him. I don’t know. I really miss my father. How can that be? I was so used to his being away. Why am I not used to it now? I don’t know. I do know that I had always thought we could be friends, playing chess, or talking. I dreamt about how in the movies, a son and his father, two grown men, debate and play chess, like in Independence Day when David and his father play chess. I have an Asian American studies class where I need to do an interview… my dad would have been the perfect subject. There is also a lot of scandal surrounding my father’s death and life. I will not go into that anymore. That will be saved in my head. Maybe I will write it down one day. Another reason why I am writing this is because I read about Carlos Bulosan’s life. His life was way worse than mine, but I felt like I could relate to his pain somehow. It was the paternal bond that really took me. I am still afraid to turn on the tape of our Reno trip in April. I regret not bringing my camcorder to Hong Kong during the 1996 summer, because that’s when my father and I really got along. I will only have memories in my head, not on tape. I am afraid that I will cry if I watch the tape. I want to cry alone, by myself. I don’t want anyone to comfort me, I just want to cry and let it all out. As I write this, I don’t feel a damn thing close to crying. I wish he wasn’t dead. It’s still unbelievable to me sometimes. His greatest achievement, his greatest asset, his brain, his education and his studies, his books, all gone in a matter of seconds. Why was his best part struck? The topic of waste comes to mind again. It is such a waste. What did he go to all those years of school for? He lost it all. His brain cells weren’t there anymore. I am sort of glad that he enjoyed himself near the end. I felt like he was happier than he ever had been. His kids actually talked to him, shared jokes. But he always had this thing… he left without mentioning it before. Or maybe it was me. I still didn’t pay attention sometimes. That explains why there aren’t many pictures of him and I in Hong Kong. He wanted to take pictures, but I always refused. On the day he left, he called me to say bye. I said bye, but it was early morning and I was impatient. I recall telling my roommate David later that day that I felt bad for not saying bye to my dad. The last time I ever spoke to my dad was on my birthday. He called me while I was at the computer or something… and I did not bother to stay longer and chat. What a piece of shit I am. If only I had known… but these things you can never know. That’s why you always have to cherish your moments, and treat everybody with love. And yet, even though I’ve gone through this and have experienced a lesson, I sometimes forget the lesson. Why is it hard to express love? Am I afraid to be hurt? Will I be embarrassed? I don’t even kiss my mom, not even on the cheek. It’s this thing I have. Maybe that is not important, but sometimes I get impatient with my mom. But especially my sister. We are not on very good terms. Why can’t I be more tolerant? Perhaps I have been. I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about that right now. I’ve typed a lot. It’s time to go back to writing my Odyssey paper. Or maybe get some sleep. It’s 3:29 am right now. I’ll end it here, for now.

May 10, 1998

Well, who would’ve known that it’d take me this long to add to this journal? It’s just that I haven’t felt this overwhelmed with sadness and emotion in a long time. Even until now, I had had second thoughts about continuing this journal, but I saw what you might consider to be “signs”. I saw a single drop fall from my water flask, just like a tear falling, as if it were reminding me to do something. Then, as I was re-reading my journal from above, I heard the DJ on the radio say “Hong Kong” right when I was looking at the words “Hong Kong” in my journal. It’s a strange thing… but what really got me worked up and unable to sleep tonight was a movie I just watched. We always watch movies that bring out feelings, don’t we? This movie was about a single father trying to raise his family, and it made me think about my mom trying to raise my sister and I. The son didn’t know how to act and got into all these bad things, like crime and triad stuff, and people around him starting dying everywhere. Unfortunately, this kid still doesn’t get it and he tries to get revenge. His father is there, and the father does so many things for the son that it made me sick to see the son still not listen to his father. In the end, the father grabbed the gun from his son and shot the bad guy, with cops watching and all so that the son wouldn’t have to go to jail. When his son asked his father, “Why father, why did you do it?” the father replied, “No matter how bad you are, you are still my son.” Those words ring really loud in my head, because I know that both of my parents feel the same way. Lately I’ve been really missing home and I wish that I could just stop everything and go home to be with my family. It seems all of a sudden I understand what it means to be alive, that I understand what the meaning of life is. To me, being with my family is all that counts. All these other things around me are there, but in the end my family will always be there. My mom’s been telling me about how she feels sick and all that, and of course I am worried and concerned. Next year my sister is going off to college, and my mom will be alone. I know how bad it is to be alone. Here, I have only myself to turn to when I need someone from my family. Even though when I go home I fight with my sister sometimes, I still miss that. Just being near someone you know cares makes a big difference. The people in this apartment are my friends, but I can’t, I don’t feel the comfort that I feel when I am with family. There was some other stuff that I wanted to write, but I don’t remember. Let me scroll back up and check… Right, my mom says that she’ll have to be alone some day, so she should get used to it now. I don’t know why my mom has so much pride, but I don’t think she really feels that she can be alone. How can a mother let go of her children whom she raised with all of herself? The answer is she can’t. During these times my mortality has really been talking to me. Before, I knew that people had to go away some day, but now I’ve experienced it, and I can almost feel it. I think about the future and the past at the same time, and I think to myself that I don’t want to die. I don’t want my family to die. I imagine how I am going to be when I am 80 years old and in my death bed, about to die… it’s something that I can comprehend, and yet at the same time I don’t want to comprehend it. It’s like my sociology professor said, we’re not afraid of dying, but we’re afraid of leaving everything behind. I’ve also thought that maybe by the time I’m 80 I would’ve experienced so many things that I’ll be ready to go… but at the same time I would have acquired so many things that I wouldn’t want to let go. When I say “things”, I don’t mean tangible property or objects, but friendships, relationships, family. But back to the things I wanted to talk about, I finally had the nerve to turn on the tape of me and my dad and our trip to Reno. When I watched it, I didn’t cry, but instead I wanted to smile because I saw him and I saw us and I saw how happy we were. I still haven’t shed a tear, but I feel like I am really close to doing so. It was this past week where something happened that triggered all these emotions inside of me. The thing was, I’ve been living here for almost an entire school year, and so far it hasn’t been the greatest thing, and so I wanted to talk to one of my roommates about it, since he was the main reason why things weren’t so great. So I just took everything that bothered me out and put it on the table and offered to try and make things better. We got into some arguments about some things, and then he falsely accused me of being confrontational – and yet he was the one who was raising his voice and cussing. But I don’t want to get into that. The thing was, or is, I get the feeling that he doesn’t see me on the same level as he is. Rather, I am so small that he has to speak to me like a child… and everything that I say sounds like garbage to him. I don’t know what makes him assume that, but I try not to let it bother me. The point is, after my little skirmish with my stupid roommate, I felt really emotional, like my hands were shaking and I was breathing heavily and my heart was pounding. I compounded the situation by listening to Sammi Cheng’s Can’t Let Go on my way to class… and it was then that I felt like I wanted to cry. I imagined that I’d call my mom over the phone and tell her that I miss her, and that I also miss my dad, and then I’d be crying over the phone and everyone at VLSB would be watching me. But that never happened. I didn’t have the guts to do it, but I called home anyway and nobody answered. It was that kind of day too, with clouds and rain falling hard. I still remember everything so clearly. I read my original journal at times and I can see everything as vividly and clearly as if it were yesterday. I thought about the times when my mom was in Hong Kong for a year and my dad was here to take care of my sister and I and what we had to go through. Talking about it brings all the emotions back out. I learned that on the day of the accident, my father was indeed conscious and was also screaming in pain. Like I said before, when I found out about that I wished that I could have been there, perhaps to help soothe his pain. The other night I was so stressed out that I recorded my own voice – I just wanted to talk and let everything out. When I played it back, I thought that I sounded like my dad a bit. If I tried hard it seemed like he was speaking. I had no idea that someone like my dad could have such a huge effect on me – doesn’t that sound strange? It’s just that it wasn’t really the greatest father/son relationship ever, but like the father in the movie said, no matter how bad he is, he is still my father. And the thing was, he wasn’t that bad anyways. At least he tried to make things up… I thought about what it’d be like to be in his shoes, and it makes me really sad. Seeing your two kids not talking to you because you made a mistake, being stuck between a rock and a hard place, not knowing what to do, and at the same time seeing things get worse as a result of your own stupidity. I don’t know if my sadness is warranted, because like my mom says, I am a very soft-hearted person. I feel bad about everything. I sometimes feel like that maybe I am different from everyone else because I am like that. I don’t know how I can think that, because it may seem arrogant, but sometimes I just do. I feel like that I am one in a million in terms of the ways that I think. Often it just seems like that nobody understands me, understands where I’m coming from, what I’m trying to say. Remember how I said I thought about dying… well I want to write and write and leave behind my words – because I was reading some books from school, listening to classical music – two things whose creators are long dead. The only thing people remember those dead people is through their creations. So I want to make a difference and leave behind my writings. My father was a very smart and educated man and he left behind some writings as well. Unfortunately I haven’t read any of them. I’ve read a few excerpts, but that’s all. I found his pocket thesaurus that he had when he first came to the United States, and it once again made me imagine what it’d be like to be in those shoes, coming to the United States for the very first time and being young. It must have been really exciting. I never asked him about those things, and now it’s too late. I can only ask my mom and his friends. Another thing is, being a student myself, I see professors lecturing up on that stage, and I try to picture my father doing the same thing. It would be really special to be a student in my own father’s class. He was a professor too, and sitting there listening to him and taking notes would’ve been bad-ass. And then after class we could go home and discuss the day’s topics. That’s something I would have really cherished. But that’s not going to happen, and I can only imagine such a thing happening. I don’t know if think about what happened everyday, or even if I think of him everyday, but I do know that it’s always happening. It probably is everyday, but I don’t want to say just in case it isn’t. But anyways, it seems like that I’ve gone on forever… and my head is getting heavy coz I’m sleepy. It’s 2:38am, and I started at 2:00 am just for the record. Good night.