Daddy's Guitar

learned to play guitar because of my dad.

I never had too much to say about my father. Since I can remember, he served like a backdrop in my family. He was always quiet. When he wasn’t away working, he was either doing chores or sleeping. I remembered he never talked much. Nor did he ever come to any school events I participated in.

When my classmates talked about what they did with their families over the weekend, all I could do was listen. My dad had promised to take me to the aquarium or the amusement park. But, in the end, he always rescheduled. And if it was a family trip, he’d once again disappear into backstage. The cameraman. The chaffer. The bellboy. For a long time, I could barely regard him as my father because he seemed much more like a butler.

Dad didn’t like talking about his life. He seemed to have experienced many things, to the point he would often scold me: “If you keep behaving like this, you won’t survive in the society.”

I thought his solemn voice was both funny and suppressing. I always had a different idea what a man should be. My friends had showed me pictures of their fathers. Those men were handsome, confident, and didn’t give a damn what the society thought. Meanwhile, my father only smiled timidly whenever his name was brought up in the family. He wouldn’t acknowledge any compliment, nor would he dispute any accusations. He was quiet like water, if not a statue.

And I secretly hated him for his reservation.

But he was different when he spoke of music.

Teresa Teng was his favorite singer. He could easily hum and recite her song lyrics. He always squinted his eyes, and hummed in a voice as low as possible. But you could clearly hear those words, resonating in the unique voice of a male, narrating the tender feelings of a female. I never knew my dad had such a beautiful voice. I never knew he could look so focused, so dedicated, so… romantic and attractive.

One day, I finally asked: “Did you used to sing?”

Startled, he didn’t answer.

While grandma revealed a big secret: “Your dad plays guitar really well.”

“That was all in the past.” Dad said. There it went again. That timid smile. That “there’s no reason to talk about me” smile.

“So, you did?” My face lit up. “That’s so cool!”

“Your dad was popular back in the days.” Grandma continued. “But he only looked at your mom.”

“Awwww, oh my god!”

“Granny, please.” My dad pleaded. His eyes were steeping with sorrow: “It was nothing major. Plus, we don’t have a guitar anymore.”

Until I brought home a guitar.

It was the first week after the beginning of my freshman semester in college. My roommate talked me into joining the Guitar Club. Since newbies were waiting for our guitars to arrive, there wasn’t any real practice during the first week. Instead, it was a talent show featuring the upperclassmen, meant to get the freshmen excited about their club-life.

And I got excited alright.

Playing guitar on the stage was the coolest thing I’d seen back then. Yet I couldn’t see myself rocking the crowd. So instead, I thought about my dad and his guitar — the guitar that no longer existed.

So, after waiting patiently for a whole week, I presented my brand new guitar in the living room: “Look! Dad! Now we have a guitar!”

“But… I’m not good at this anymore.” My dad said, avoiding making eye contact with me.

“Oh, come on. Look how excited your daughter is. Why are you being difficult?” Grandma shook her head and stepped in. She was always the authority in the household. Nobody disobeyed grandma. Not even the man of the house.

“I… Alright.” Dad compromised.

Reluctantly, he picked up my guitar, took off his slippers, sat on the left chair arm, and lifted his right knee onto the cushion for extra support. My compact guitar looked a bit small. But dad didn’t seem to mind.

Stroke.

It was a new guitar and hadn't been tuned, although it came with a tuner.

However, dad didn’t need machine assistance. He gently picked each string, and listened to the ringing.

Stroke.

A harmonious E-A-D-G-B-E chord resonated in the air.

“Wow!”

That was cool, I thought. How he tuned the guitar with naked ears.

Dad played a few basic chords. I looked at the man with his head turned toward the strings. His fingers were firm and slender. The frets mine won’t reach were a piece of case under his large hands. I only saw one picture when dad was younger. He was a handsome man with melancholy eyes that could drown any love-struck girl, but a gentle, confident smile like the radiant sun on a warm winter afternoon.

I held my breathe, waiting for dad to play a tune.

But he didn’t.

He sat still with the guitar for a moment, plucked a few more notes, then abruptly ended the performance session.

I had hoped my dad to protect me when I felt lost, to offer me harbor when I needed somewhere to heal, or even raise his hand at my ex-husband who abused me. Unfortunately, he never became the father I hoped to have. His timidity stayed with him until I left home for the other side of the world. The few times he visited me in the States, he was still that scared man who apologized for everything, lowering himself into dust to the point it was frustrating. Never for once did he stand up for me. Never for once did he stand up to defend himself, either.

For years, I held grudges. I wished he was a better parent. A father I could feel proud of.

Until I heard myself telling people: “My dad’s pretty cool, you know? He taught me how to ride bikes. And, yea, he plays guitar. He’s the reason I learned guitar.”

Unexpected words came flying out of my lips like nothing before I ever realized I learned guitar for him.

“I can play some simple fingerstyle songs now.” I told him the other day. “But I still suck at bar chords. I think my fingers are deformed. Dad, you’ve got any tips for that?”

“You play guitar far better than I do now.” He said.

“No way! You’re just rusty. I’m sure you’ll pick it back up in no time.” I replied.

“You are too nice to me. But as far as bar chords go… Try to tilt your hands a bit so the outer side of your index finger is fully pressed onto the bar. If you are not strong enough, try to press your thumb behind the fretboard.”

“Ah! I get what you mean!” I threw a cute bunny sticker over the chat at him.

It took me years of healing and forgiveness to be able to have normal conversations with him. Before, I would burst into rage or tears, accusing him of never being there for me. And I knew it had hurt him deeply.

And finally, I no longer cared.

Now I just want my Internet to be steady enough, so maybe I could have a Zoom guitar session with my dad sometime.

When he was by himself. When I am by myself. When both of us felt just like our most beautiful selves.