My Dad: Words and Swords of Life

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His name is Agus Supriyadi. He was born in Surabaya 52 years ago to a strong woman I coloquially call Mbah, whose husband, Mbah Kakung, died several months after my dad’s third brother birth. I never know much about my dad’s life or childhood, but I know he was, and has been, a man of steel.

I have shared my stories about him to my closest friends several times. I shared about how he stubbornly sticks to his perspectives about life and how those change mine. But I know he and I may have one thing in common: that both of us view our lives, whenever we are down or up, in a broader way of many people seem to scope theirs.

One day, he sat me down and talked about spirituality in the religion of what we well-constructedly believe in, Islam. We discussed about earth and the galaxy–the Milky Way right after this seminar that we attended near our house in Ciledug, Tangerang. He then showed me this video of Ari Ginanjar explicating about how earth is just a glimpse of dust amongst other planets in the galaxy out there.

It’s just a hard time that came my way whenever I’m down being a busy bee for my college in Bandung. I rarely had specific time to chat with my parents, for I didn’t have something to really say. Indeed, I always privilege the moment to call them everytime I’m in a leisure, though even I call only to ask for some of the money for my daily needs. Nonetheless, I feel like there’s nothing holding me and my father in like other father-son relationship. It’s all somehow monotonous, and these submissive feelings were killing me everytime I had a leisrue but didn’t give myself a moment to have a chance to call home. It’s not that I regret such relationship, but I know that being different from everybody else is what makes it unique.

This may sound cliche but it has truly been a 19-year long walk of a life journey to find who I really am. I figured out that what made myself today originated from what my parents had done to me for years. And my father was the one; in fact, he shows me bravery and loving realm of becoming a man. His family is a rush of blood injected with a lapse of, certainly speaking, selfishness and individuality. My aunt–my dad’s sister–Tante Lies, taught me that I had to have the power to study and greatest effort to reach what I want to reach in the first place. This paradigm is very well-attached onto her head, for which reason she hasn’t got married up until now. It’s out of context, anyway, but I know that she is, after my mom, the most courageous, loyal, and risk-taking woman Allah has ever bequeathed to me. I learned that to obtain the dreams I have listed, I have to know that there’s always hope inside us. “And Allah is the All-listening,” she always says.

That is perhaps why his blood has rushed through mine by being an independent person. I even once had this thinking that I don’t need friends in college, which is pretty much self-centered in some ways. But as the time goes, I realized that what he has done for me is worth being counted in. Not only that, I always get goosebumps as I stand on the door of my house when I come home, feeling like standing amidst the thresholds of the traversing bridges between my childhood and adultery.

Indeed, I have never talked much nowadays with my father. We only spoke only few times; like, really few. Even when we have the chance, we spoke about something serious or “spiritual,” which I love. Furthermore, his being silent and bossy sometimes makes me feel like this is what I am destined for. But, whatever Allah has designed the life for me, I know that it truly is, although not perfect, the best for me.

He always tries to be funny or likeable everytime all family members are around. It must be strenuous for him to do nothing or play game for hours in his computer while my brother and I are out studying outside the town. I always think of him idling around the guestroom, all alone. And I understand the beautiful feeling of welcoming all the children from the long way of being in the college. So, I want to make these moments to be remembered, by which I can inspire myself that I still have people to overjoy.

At the end, I know that he is not the perfect dad like other dads, but I see the perfection inside his being imperfect really.

Then, what about you? Do you have particular moments with your parents? Or your father/mother? What do you remember most and how those privileges change your perspectives about both your parents’s lives and yours?

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