“Ka Wai, what is your dad’s job?” asked my primary English teacher. In a twinkling, all my classmates swiveled their heads in my direction, like what owls did when they saw a mouse. I lowered my head immediately, to avoid meeting their gaze. But I could still feel their eagerness for the truth. “He’s… He’s a con…” I murmured and saw the wicked grins on my classmates’ faces from the corner of my eye. The corners of their scarlet mouths nearly reached their ears. I knew they were all waiting for a moment when they could tease at my father and me. I swallowed hard and said, “He’s, he’s an architect.” “Wow, you must be proud of him,” said my teacher with admiration. “Class, let’s spell architect together. A-r-c-h-i-t-e-c-t...” These letters hit me straight through my heart, as I knew my father was nowhere near an architect.
My father immigrated to Hong Kong illegally at the age of 13. When I was a kid, he used to tell me how he swam across the Shenzhen Bay with the aid of a few water bottles under his armpits and how he crossed the border without being noticed. He said illegal immigration was just common in the old days. People could choose to starve to death or to swim across the sea to seek for a chance to live. “Some people were not as lucky as me. They got eaten by sharks before they could reach the land,” said my father. As he was not educated, he could only work as a construction worker to earn a living. He said he once slept beside the construction site, in order to save the transportation fee. As a kid, I enjoyed listening to these adventurous and exciting stories a lot. I was never ashamed of mentioning about my father and retelling these stories, until I attended my first parent’s day with my father.
“Please sign your name here, sir,” said the helper while passing a wooden pencil. “I have my own pen,” the young father replied. He took out his fountain pen from the inner pocket of his tailor-made suit jacket. He signed his name smoothly and beautifully. “Sir, please sign your name here, right under Mr Lee’s signature,” the helper then came to us and requested. My father clenched his fist, with the wooden pencil being placed in between his five fingers and his palm. He moved his shaky arm clumsily and his name was messily written. It was originally a neat and tidy list, but my father just ruined it. The helper thanked him with embarrassment and he just smiled back without noticing anything. His palms were so sweaty after struggling so hard, so he wiped his hands on his pants. He gently patted my left arm but all I could feel was the roughness of his palm – it was full of calluses and wrinkles. I uneasily shifted in disgust. “See, if you don’t work hard, you will be like him,” a mother sitting next to me whispered to her son. I pretended that I could not hear her, but her words just turned the knife in the wound. I lowered my head and tears began to blur my vision. The long wait beside my father became a torture.
My father used to drive me to school every morning, with his old dusty van. Sometimes, my brother and I got to meet his colleagues – Gum Mo, Sor Pao and Dai Ban Gau. Gum Mo (which means “blonde hair” in Cantonese) literally has long blonde hair. His weird outfits and his pair of glasses which was in bold colors reminded me of the heavy metal singers all the time. Sor Pao (which means “Silly Leopard” in Cantonese) had tattoos all over his chest and arms. He also had stained teeth, as a result of his long-term smoking habit. Dai Ban Gau (which means “Big Stupid Dog” in Cantonese) was an obese man who swore a lot. My father always managed to squeeze the six of us in his small van. Our arms touched one another’s and my face was usually pressed against the glass window. I became a bundle of nerves every time. I would first worry about being caught by the police, as the van was overloaded. “Neville is tiny. He can just lay on the floor and no one will see him,” my dad comforted me with what he thought was humorous. “It was just ridiculous,” I murmured to myself when they were laughing so hard. Then I would start to worry if my dad would park his old and dirty van in front of the main school gate, where prefects and disciplinary teachers were standing at. Luckily, the road was always full of cars when we arrived, so my dad would just drop us somewhere near the school. I heaved a sigh of relief every time when I escaped from the van. But once, I failed. “Dad, just stopped here,” I requested. “It’s ok, there isn’t any car in front of the gate. I’ll park a little further,” said my dad. He ended up parking in front of the school gate. The door opened, all the prefects and teachers were looking at my brother and I. I plucked up courage to stepped out the van and avoided meeting their gaze. “Keep calm and walk normally. It will pass very soon,” I told myself. “Work hard Cheung Ka Wai! Ha ha ha!” Dai Ban Gau yelled suddenly and made me the center of attention again. I went scarlet and I walked as fast as I could. I could still hear their annoying laughter after entering the lobby.
My father ruined my life and made me a complete joke.
One day, my friends and I went to a fast food shop to have lunch. We saw two empty seats right beside a middle-aged man. When I was walking towards those seats, my friend stopped me. “That must be a construction worker. See how dirty his shirt is! I do not want my food to be covered in dust!” Her deep aversion to that construction worker could be seen obviously. “Don’t you think so?” “Yes, how dirty he is,” I flattered her with a bleeding heart. Since then, I would conceal my father’s real occupation from everyone I knew. Whenever people asked me about my father’s occupation, I would say that he was an architect, to avoid being teased at. Sometimes they even showed admiration for my “architect” father. I usually faked a smile, as I knew my father was nowhere near an architect.
One night, I could not sleep. I went to the kitchen to grab myself a glass of water and accidentally heard the conversation between my father and mother. “Just send them to government schools if you cannot afford their school fees. They will be fine,” said my mother. “I can work longer hours than I used to,” my father replied. I heard a deep sigh. “But you’re already working 13 hours a day and you’re hurting your back again,” said my mother. “They will learn better in EMI non-government schools. I don’t want them to be like me,” replied my father. I suddenly realized that I was actually the one who ruined my father’s life. The calluses and wrinkles on his hands proved how hard he worked for me. He constructed schools; he constructed buildings; he constructed our society. The most importantly he constructed my world with tears and sweats.
It was just an ordinary morning. Dai Ban Gau swore again. “Hush! Can’t you see the kids?” My father cried. Dai Ban Gau poked out his tongue and apologized. My father parked his old van in front of the school gate again but I was not ashamed at all this time. “Work harder so you won’t be like us, kids,” said my father. “I would like to be like you, dad,” I said.
“Ka Wai, what is your father’s occupation?” asked my secondary English teacher. “My father is a construction worker and I am proud of him.”