ba
I have two dads, well, three if you count my father-in-law.
I have a biological dad, and an adopted dad.
The premise of this writing is to do with my biological dad.
Ba is the Vietnamese word for dad.
The thing I wanted most from my dad was for him to be there.
I caught myself acting like him when I got angry.
I used to think my dad didn’t love me, but now I think he does, and has always loved me.
The question I never got to ask him is what he wanted to be if he could be anything.
The emotional core I’m circling when I think of my dad is confusion.
When I read about how others feel about their dads, it usually falls into a few categories - they respect and admire their fathers, or that he wasn’t there, or it’s complicated.
My dad was always present, just not directly there in my life.
You see, I remember a happy childhood up until 7 years old.
The year is 1994.
When I was in the first grade, my father went to prison.
That singular event changed the entire course of my life.
I still remember a scene that’s seared into my memory.
My mom went next door to our neighbor’s, where I was already staying. She entered the door, shut it, and helplessly collapsed to the ground, while holding one of my brothers.
At that moment, I knew the verdict was not in our favor.
In the cultural context, the Vietnamese man handled all the business dealings outside the home, and the woman was responsible for everything inside the home. As immigrants, my parents adapted what they knew from Vietnam.
So I watched my mom learn how to drive, operate a sewing business so she could be home with the kids. There were four of us at the time, ranging from newborn to 7 years old. I was the eldest and only girl, and 3 brothers.
She didn’t know how to speak English. When she struggled, I was right there struggling with her. We struggled together. After school before doing homework, I was at a sewing machine or serger beside her to meet contract deadlines.
Where she couldn’t get it, I learned to adapt and resolved whatever needed handling.
That set the course of my ultra-independence.
Any struggle we had, I blamed my dad. Unfairness? His fault. Getting bullied, sick, molested, raped, not having enough to eat? It was his fault.
He was SUPPOSED TO BE THERE TO PROTECT ME.
It was easier to blame the phantasm that was not there.
His face was hidden under a mountain of unresolve to be dealt with later.
He let his anger get the best of him and he committed a crime that made my life way worse.
While he was in prison, we sent him money, dictionaries, and books he wanted, whatever else he needed. It was already a strain to feed five people, soon to be six. My brother Tony was born in 1998. I was missing school to accompany my mom as translator at the welfare office.
See the irony? I was angry too.
Anger can be inherited.
In January 2026, I quit my job at another nonprofit.
I had unfinished business that was tugging at me.
The mountain.
I had already started Summer Camp Project as a concept, opting for the 501c3 designation because fiscal sponsorship meant loss of autonomy and restricted independence. And I didn’t want to somehow lose out on any funds I’d work really hard to raise.
Fast forward to April, I went to Arkansas to see my dad. I wanted to know what kept him so busy from making the time to see me over the course of 32 years. The way I saw it, I had supported him when he was in prison. He owed me, not the other way around.
But I knew I had to go.
Maybe I’ll learn something?
I’m a little lost as to how to create a healthy relationship with someone who is related to me, but doesn’t seem to show the actions or emotions to want to get close to me.
Often, I’ve heard my Vietnamese friends say the same thing about their parents.
So I was curious, and I had to follow that curiosity.
Curiosity might just kill this cat one day.
After all, my husband and I have our van, Just Twilight the Tardis. We could just pop over.
He is my dad, and I look like him. So maybe it’ll just be like looking at him/me in the mirror.
How bad can this be?
Maybe I’ll learn something?
