What I Didn’t Understand About My Father—Until Now
My father was already 58 when I was born. He was born in 1933, though his official records showed 1938. He had to adjust his documents back then to qualify for a government post. By the time I was in elementary school, he had already retired. His retirement years were spent supporting my siblings’ wants and investing in our farm. It was his dream to raise chickens and other farm animals, and to grow crops, building something meaningful for the family with what he had left. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to sustain it. Because of that, I had to transfer to a public school to continue my education. At the time, I was angry. I was doing well. I had always been a consistent honor student, and that was something I took pride in. Growing up, I didn’t see myself as artistic or athletic. As a gay kid, I often felt like I didn’t belong in those spaces. Academics became the one thing I could hold on to, the one place where I felt seen, where I felt I was enough. I didn’t want to transfer...
