Day 11, March 27, 2020

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Day 11, March 27, 2020

I remember learning to ride a bicycle. It was summer and we were out in Pittsfield because every summer my family moved out to the Berkshires for the Tanglewood season (my father plays violin for the Boston Symphony Orchestra). My dad took me to the K-Mart parking lot on a Sunday so we were the only car in the lot and surrounded by a sea of asphalt. It was a picture perfect vision of a father teaching his son how to ride without training wheels, like something out of a movie. He ran alongside me holding the chrome bar on the back of the banana seat as I pedaled along, and then, as all fathers do, when I was least suspecting it, he let go and I pedaled off into the void. That is, until I realized he as no longer supporting my balance and, faced with an obstacle, I did the only thing one can do in a sea of asphalt, I crashed into the only light pole in the near vicinity. I'm sure I scraped a knee and probably cried.

I have trouble letting go as a father. I think before this moment in history, we talked about helicopter parenting disparagingly, but now more than ever I miss the proximity of my children. They are mostly grown now, and spread out across three different states, but instinctually I want to provide shelter, be able to tell them things will be ok, and make them breakfast on a slow weekend morning.

Instead, I have to satisfy myself with checkins via FaceTime or the sporadic texts we send one another throughout the day. But even the short texts, or emojis are comforting, a little recognition that we are all still here, we are all still ok.

This morning I was writing about what it must have been like for my parents to immigrate. They arrived in this country right around the same age as my kids are now, and for years their primary communication with anyone back home in Korea was by airmail letters, on rare occasion telegrams, and perhaps an expensive long distance phone call. It is hard for me to imagine what it would feel like to wait for a letter to arrive, the delicate onionskin paper, the cutting of all the edges with a letter opener or knife. To think of all that would be conveyed on just a few sheets of paper and how that would have to sustain a parent for another month. For many years, I know my parents sent money home to their parents once a month. I think that must have felt grounding for them, tied them to their parents as much as it must have been reassuring to their parents to receive that money and know their child was still out there, still thriving, still alive.

I have not been a great model of keeping in touch with my parents, or even my brother. I was a rebellious teenager and wanted great distance between myself and my parents. As an adult, that gulf has narrowed and we all have a warm relationship with one another, but until recently, whenever I called home my mom would say, "Long time, no talk!" Now, I don't go a day without trying to reach out to somebody. I try to talk with my parents at least every other day, and last night I FaceTimed with my brother for the first time since the pandemic broke. He's a doctor on Long Island and talked about the state of things in New York. It think it must be hard to know too much, to see what is coming. He talked about chastising my parents for going to the grocery store to get bread. He called just as I was sitting down to eat dinner and we had to cut the call short, but it was nice to see him and hear a little about his days. His caseload is focused on epilepsy patients, so most of that is moving to telemedicine and he is working from home. His mother-in-law is also at home and fighting cancer, so it is a good thing that he does not have to be in the hospital right now.

As much as I relish the silence and space of a different era, one filled with letter writing, paper books, Monopoly games, and spans of boredom... I am grateful that I can reach out and touch someone (to paraphrase an old ad campaign) with all the tools of this modern era.

I hope you have a wonderful weekend.

Stay safe and be well,
Leo


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