My dad is an abusive man. Always has been. He would say the worst things to my mom. My family is Chinese, see, and Chinese is a language that has existed for over two thousand years (by comparison, modern English is about 600 years old). So in Chinese, there are deep, sophisticated word connotations, mired in millennia-old cultural context and tradition. Linguistic connections and implications are complexly interwoven, to the point where context and subtext seem to matter more than the words themselves. It’s unlike anything I know about in English. So I’m not exaggerating when I tell you my dad would say the worst things you could say to someone in any language, the most depraved, disgusting, humiliating, obscene noises the human vocal chords have ever been capable of producing. Worse yet, he would use all the details he knew about my mom’s past -- her dearest loved ones, loftiest ambitions, and most miserable failures -- against her. It was the most malicious pairing of content and expression imaginable. Any time I or my siblings tried to stop it, it would only get worse. On top of that, he’s been physically violent toward my younger siblings. It hasn't happened often -- I can count the total number of occasions on one hand -- but this sort of violence is the sort I categorically can not forgive. The effects of these actions are deep and scarring. I think it has caused my siblings to reject and despise their Chinese heritage to some degree, as they consider this type of misogyny and abuse as a direct product of my father's Chinese background, which in turn builds even more resentment between them and my parents.
My mom wanted to get a divorce recently. I wanted it to happen. I encouraged it. I genuinely believed it was the best thing for our family. But she ended up deciding to stay in the marriage. I wasn’t happy, but I respected her decision.
A couple weeks after that, I said horrible things to my father. I told him his contribution to the family has only ever been financial. I told him his children didn’t respect him, listen to him, or care about him. I told him he wasn’t a real man. I told him the best thing for all of us would be for him to leave, and never contact us again. I told him these things with no purpose other than to hurt him. See, my dad doesn’t have any close friends here in the US. He’s never fully realized his passions of scientific discovery. He watches a lot of Chinese television, but other than that, family is all he really has. And I wanted to take that away from him, as well. I wanted to destroy the only thing that gave him purpose. That made him happy.
So in the face of this relentless negativity, this act of raw hatred, how did my dad respond? He told me the best way I could take revenge on him would be to live a successful, joyous life -- and that ironically, this would be the thing that made him happiest. So here I was unleashing my loathing in the most vindictive, unproductive way possible, and what I got was the purest, most unconditional love in return.
I’ve learned a lot from this interaction. For one, I’ve learned about the overwhelming power of positive emotions (love, compassion, forgiveness) over negative ones (hatred, resentment, bitterness). It reminds me of the difference between the strength of gravity and electromagnetism. The strength of gravity is quite literally astronomical. It binds stars and galaxies together. It dictates the movements of celestial bodies so large I can’t even imagine them, all while keeping me sitting in my chair. Yet it is nothing compared to the strength of electromagnetism. Gravity is weaker by 37 orders of magnitude. They are hardly comparable. And so it is with love. My hatred meant nothing in the face of my father’s ocean of loving patience and forgiveness.
I’ve also learned how complicated people can be. I don’t consider my father a good man, but men who are not good can still possess wellsprings of selflessness and love. I consider my father one of the smartest men I know, but smart men can still be calamitously ignorant to the consequences of their behavior. I consider my father a careful man, but careful men can ruin their most cherished things in an instant. And my father’s own past is filled with the sort of tragedy and despair that would dwarf mine. He grew up in a horrifically abusive home, exacerbated by the most extreme conditions of poverty, starvation, and lack of opportunity; he had to learn how to provide for his family at the same age I’d said a swear word for the first time. Yet despite knowing all this, and despite all the words I’ve written about positivity in this very post, I still can’t find it in myself to forgive him. I don’t want to, though I know I should. Of all my relationships, this one is the most painful, and much of it has to do with the fact that it is entirely within my power to end the pain. I could forgive him. But I won't, and I'm not sure I ever will.
