Letters to PiePie

The Story In Each Of Us

April 24, 2020

Dear PiePie,

You wouldn’t remember this when you’re older, but when you were really, really small, there was a period of time when you didn’t leave the house for months. Outside the house doors, one of the worst pandemics that anyone can ever remember was raging on.

You will read about the numbers – which as I write, stands at 2.8 million confirmed cases and more than 190,000 deaths. You will read about the aftermath – how it shaped the psyche of a generation in ways that I cannot predict now. But beyond the serious-sounding numbers and serious-sounding implications, I hope you read the stories and accounts of individuals that will invariably emerge from this period.

These stories will make you realise the fragility of human life. They will break your heart. They will make you cry.

A saying goes, “a single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.” I hope we don’t miss the trees in the forest. Every death is someone’s father, mother, son, daughter, grandpa, grandma. And many more, all over the world, are put out of work, wondering where the next meal will come from or how to pay for the current month’s rent.

But these are the stories that truly tell the tale of these times. And they are the stories that will show you the kindness and strength that individuals can find deep within themselves when the need calls for it.

I hope these stories give you hope in humankind, but more than that, I hope these stories provide a reminder that everyone has a story. The nameless face that sat across from you in the train. The Starbucks barista who took your order correctly but renamed you on the cup. The famous singer whom you are crazy about. Your teacher who is boring and looked like he never had fun. Your friend. Your enemy. Mom. Me.

We all have a story that we are living out. As are you. And these stories shape us with every new page and with every new chapter that is written.

When someone does something incomprehensible, something that that makes you mad, something that causes you to caricature them into labels, I can only hope that these stories serve as a reminder that there might be a story you don’t yet know about. A story that may not make what they did right, but may make it understandable.

You may still be hurt after. You may still be mad after. And that is ok.

But do try to listen. Who knows, another light might just emerge.

Love, Dad

One

April 16, 2020

Dear PiePie,

You are 1 today. As I sit, writing this amidst your celebratory balloons and large “1” sign, I can’t help but feel wistful, as if already reminiscing of a life that has barely yet begun.

There isn’t a second go at life. There isn’t a rewind, pause or even fast-forward (why would you ever do that?). The singular happenstance that is life, is what makes life so precious. Everything happens once – you read a book for the first time only once, or you read it again a second time once, the experience different from the first.

You become one, once.

Years later, you may not remember it. But we will. This celebration is as much for you as it is for us. In some ways, it’s a celebration of your mom, your yaya and me – we did a thing, you, and in doing so, we left our own transient mark on the world. And we’ll be sure to document it. Technology now is amazing. We can take videos, we can take photos.

I was born in a time before videotaking was ubiquitous. When I look back at the photos I have of myself when I was young, I see a static image. But for my dad, if he should look at the photo, perhaps in his mind he recalls the “video of life” that surrounds the static image. The smell of the birthday candles in our old house, the jokes that may have been cracked in getting me to look at the camera, the stories that he might have told the day after at work. Even while we have videos now, the longer “documentary of life” remains mainly in our memories, ready to be revisited when we see the photos or videos.

And that’s why we celebrate. Not because in this particular moment when you turn one, you suddenly gained superpowers that you didn’t have the day before – you are pretty much the same you, still trying to eat books and remote controls and hair off the floor. No, we celebrate because these serve as checkpoints of remembrance. And we desperately want to remember you as you are now because oh baby, you grow so quickly.

We need to be thankful even as we complain that you are heavy, because you still want us to carry you. We need to be thankful as you whine in your baby chair and try to spit out food, because you still rely on us to feed you. We need to be thankful that you are afraid of strangers, because you still need us to guide you through this strange world.

Because one day, you’ll be independent – physically, emotionally and spiritually. And then, we will no longer have the duty of carrying, feeding or guiding you. This duty is tiring. This duty sometimes feel like a burden. This duty demands trade-offs in time spent doing what we may enjoy. But this duty is a privilege, for in needing us to do those things for you, you put your unconditional trust in us.

Thank you, for the duty of being your dad. It is my privilege and honor. You will, hopefully, have such a long long journey ahead of you. I can only hope that, for as long as is possible, you have unconditional trust in our love and care for you. That we will be there, if you need us, and that we will always be your safety net.

Love, Dad

It Starts Here

April 16, 2020

Dear PiePie,

When you get the link to this site, this letter is what you should read first. It’s a little about why I embarked on this.

I wanted to write a series of short letters to you so that when you are an adult yourself, and are reaching the same life stages that I am currently, perhaps the path that your mom and I have walked will provide some illumination to you. I also hoped these letters provide another window into who we are, beyond your experience of us being your parents.

I realised, as a child myself, we don’t really know our parents because it’s usually difficult to have that heart-to-heart talk, whether through a lack of opportunity or simply because those emotions or thoughts are lost to the passage of time. Who remembers their feelings from 18 years ago? As much as modern technology (which by the time you see this might be antiquity) allows us to capture photos and videos of moments lived, writing captures a snapshot of the soul: who we are at a certain point in time, having a certain set of values, thinking certain types of thoughts.

Through these letters, I hope to pen down my thoughts on different topics like happiness or work (alternatively named “Daddy decided to nag at me through letters”), to share a little of what I enjoy, and to reflect on moments with you. When you’re still young, you probably won’t remember those moments, so these may help to fill in the gaps of consciousness. But as you grow older, you will increasingly have your own memories of those moments, and it may be interesting to eventually see those moments from another lens.

I say this is for you, but selfishly, it is for me too. In writing to you, I want to peel back the layers for me to understand myself as well. And I hope to continue this consistently – one letter a week for 17 years, totalling almost 900 letters. Future only knows whether this came to fruition, and I hope I persevered. Since these are open letters, others may be reading it. But know that these were written with you, and only you, in mind. If you are the only person that read this, that would be enough.

Love, Dad