Dear Appa

I took it for granted then that I could call you and you would know what to do. I didn’t realize that it wouldn’t always be so.

Dear Appa, 

The other day, Umma told me you had completely forgotten about something, but this time it wasn’t hours or days after the event—it was just minutes after it happened. I worry that by the next time we meet, there will be even more that has slipped from your memory. The last time I saw you in person was when we visited Vancouver over the Christmas holiday, before COVID changed the world and before your second stroke. You and Umma wore matching red sweaters on Christmas Day and your eyes were bright, watching the kids tear open their presents. 

Dad, do you remember that time when I was 24 and the clutch on my car completely gave out just as I pulled into the parking lot near work? I was panicked, unsure of what to do next. So I called you and you hurried over, told me to go to work and not to worry. You would take care of it and you did. I took it for granted then that I could call you and you would know what to do. I didn’t realize that it wouldn’t always be so.

Like that time you visited us in Toronto, shortly after I became a mother of two. You had gone out by yourself on a walk to our local library, tripped on a jut in the sidewalk and landed face-first on the pavement. You returned home, your face wounded and bleeding, insisting that you were fine, but visibly a little shaken. At the time, your face startled me. It was a door opening on my growing awareness of your vulnerability. Fast-forward to our current times, when I began to see news reports and Instagram posts about elderly Asian Americans being randomly attacked on the street, in the neighbourhoods they’ve lived in for years. Their faces, bloodied and bruised, brought back the memory of your damaged face those years ago. I feel sick when I see footage of the attacks and the aftermath, but I can’t look away because in those victims, I see someone I could possibly know. It’s too easy for me to imagine it could be you.

I never told you this, but years ago, when E was still a baby, the two of us were out for a walk, me pushing him in the stroller down a quiet street in our North York neighbourhood. I heard footsteps coming up quickly behind me, perhaps a jogger, I thought. Suddenly, I felt a hand jammed between my legs, then sliding up my backside. The man ran off as quickly as he had appeared. I never saw his face. In a blinding fury, I screamed out after him, launched a profane tirade at this fleeing, unknown attacker, called him coward and worse. Afterward, I was stunned, once again, unsure of what to do next. The whole thing was so unexpected. 

How could I have predicted such a thing would happen to me, a mother walking with her baby on a sunny Saturday morning? Dad, it worries me that the unthinkable can suddenly come pounding on our door, brazenly upending everyday life. A few weeks ago, a 65-year old Asian woman was attacked in broad daylight on her morning walk to church. Her head was repeatedly stomped on, as bystanders turned away from her motionless body lying on the ground. I think of that woman. Perhaps she was humming hymns as she prepared to leave home that morning. Could she have ever imagined that the raw, distorted face of hate would target her, knock her off her feet without warning and pummel her to the ground? Fear gnaws away at me that such a thing could happen to you or Umma. What if you are in the wrong place at the wrong time and encounter someone looking to fire their misplaced rage, their growing darkness? 

There was a time when darkness was a seemingly constant companion to me. Not that angry, suspicious kind of hate, but rather the yawning, bottomless pit of depression. This was back when I was mid-way through my biology degree, and as far as you or anyone else could see, I was a productive and well-adjusted student. But inwardly, I fixated on the meaninglessness of life and many nights as I lay down to sleep, I’d wish for the earth to rise up around me and silently swallow me up. At the time, I didn’t have the language or the courage to talk to you and Umma about how I was feeling, but one day, grasping for answers, I asked you, “Dad, what do you do when you are stressed?” You paused, giving the question some thought. Then you told me about how sometimes when you are really overwhelmed, you will sit quietly for a few minutes, close your eyes and imagine walking around paradise with Christ. 

Appa, I look forward to joining you two on that walk someday. 

Love, Becky

Text: Becky Chai

Art: Charissa Poon