“English was a problem for me. Therefore my story is funny.”
My father in his own words, on his birth anniversary
My father was born on February 2, 1950. He died six years ago in meditation at the temple where he was a resident monk. I wish I could say I miss him, but we said our goodbyes a long time ago. I do wish I had more of his story, that I had known him better.
Over the years I have accumulated bits and pieces of his life, including the story below. It was given to me by one of our American family friends. She had kept a manila file on our family. It contained less than a dozen pages, but they are all I have of my father’s story.
I have other relics of his life: photographs, memories, and some cloth from his personal effects. The funeral home had a bag labeled “personal effects.” As an ascetic, he didn’t keep much. It all fit into a tote smaller than my daily carry to work.
Below is my typing of a yellowed transcription from that manila folder. This is for you, Dad. ❤️
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