My Father's Greatest Gift

A Tribute To My Dad, Tommy (8m read)

You will travel far.
We will never leave you, even in the face of our death.
You will make my strength your own.
You will see my life through your eyes, as your life will be seen through mine.
The son becomes the father and the father becomes the son.

~Jor-El, Superman II: The Richard Donner Cut

My Dad is going to turn 82 this year. He’s lucky to still be kicking, especially compared to his peers. He proudly, and repeatedly, reminds me of these two facts during our daily walks along the beach when I visit.

I’ve grown used to seniors repeating themselves, as if reliving long-lost memories. I know his mind is faltering to father time, folding in on itself. I know his body is deteriorating, unable to reclaim his identity, his manhood. And yet, I feel his heart expanding: growing stronger, kinder, more loving.

I feel grateful that my father is in impeccable health for his age. He built himself into a paragon of physical perfection. I’ve never seen him sickly or weak, beyond the occasional cold or flu. He’s never struggled with unhealthy addictions. He has always been full of life.

I feel the urgent need to cherish him while he is still alive, a preemptive celebratory grief. The inevitable day will come soon when I am at the hospital, sitting at his bedside, holding his hand, caught between wanting him to stay and letting go.

The following is the story I will carry with me of my Father, my hero.

Born Into Internment

The man I’ve known all my life hardly resembles the “Tommy Boy” of family legend.

Make no mistake, my Dad is, in his own words, one tough S.O.B. He came into this world behind barbed-wire fences, inside the barracks of a Japanese internment camp in Poston, Arizona. He was born into a hostile world, an unimaginable tragedy, to a people who unjustly lost everything during the war.

After World War II, my grandparents returned to Los Angeles to rebuild their lives. My grandfather worked tirelessly to open and run two 24-hour diners called the Night Owl Cafes. My father loves to recount stories of meeting Muhammad Ali there, who used to frequent the coffee shops.

Then tragedy struck again when my grandfather died unexpectedly of stomach cancer when my father was just a boy, no older than ten. Without a strong male figure in his life, he grew up wild and rambunctious, getting into fights and being expelled from public schools.

He still loves to retell the stories of him and his friends getting into street brawls around East L.A.

A Gumpian Life

To this day, I still don’t understand how my father rose above his challenging childhood. How he managed to avoid bitterness. How he softened instead of hardening. It’s a mystery to me, one I’ve come to accept as part of his mythos: coal, under intense pressure, becoming a diamond.

My dad was accepted to USC, and from what I’ve pieced together, it was during his time in academia that he began channeling his energy into education, excelling and making the Dean’s List.

Yet another hurdle soon followed: a draft letter for Vietnam. My dad has never lied about the nature of his military service. He’s always been upfront that he didn’t see combat. As a college graduate, he was immediately promoted to officer. He describes his time in the service as if it were summer camp.

After returning, he went into banking—just in time for the meteoric rise of the Japanese economy. He was recruited by a Japanese bank to build out their commercial real estate division, ultimately channeling hundreds of millions into Southern California development. At its apex the bank he helped build would eventually become the fifth-largest financial institution in the world.

Long hours at work meant my dad wasn’t around during the week. For more than two decades, he woke up around 5 a.m. and returned close to 8 p.m. And yet, I’ve never once felt like he was an absentee father. On weekends, he would proudly walk around shirtless, showing off his six-pack and sculpted frame. Often, he’d bring us along for his workouts or take us out to play tennis.

Looking back I realized how privileged we were spending holidays at winter wonderlands across California, Nevada, Utah and Colorado. Some of my earliest and fondest memories are of riding silently beside him on chairlifts, wrapped in winter gear, gazing out over the vast whiteness of distant mountains. Even now, whenever I’m on a chairlift, I feel that same stillness. Safe, self-assured, like anything is possible. That life is limitless.

My mom loves to tell the story during family gatherings: when my brother and I were little, the moment we heard the garage door creak open, we’d run to greet our dad. When he was home, he was fully present. Attentive, never talking about work. That’s how I learned one of the most important lessons of my life: it’s not the quantity of time that matters—it’s the quality of presence we offer one another.

People don't want your time, they want your presence. ~Jay Shetty

The Son Becomes The Father

About a month ago, I received a phone call from my dad while walking through the streets of San Francisco. He never calls. Never texts. I immediately braced for bad news. Instead, he launched into one of his usual diatribes about “egotistical” Trump, despite being a lifelong Californian Republican.

After about twenty minutes of listening to my father, I arrived at the park to meet my friend. I’m admittedly terrible at goodbyes, at relinquishing attachment, especially when I can feel the weight of the moment. I made a few half-hearted attempts, I finally told him I had to go. That’s when he paused and asked how I was doing, what I was up to.

I took a long breath, debating whether to give him the safe version or speak from the heart, a mundane moment between choosing fear or courage.

“Well, Dad, honestly… I’ve been processing some disappointment and grief. I’m trying to make sure that whatever I do next in life is meaningful and aligned. I don’t think I can go back to finance or tech. I love connecting with people and being of service, so I’ve been thinking about starting a business in that space, perhaps a non-profit, or maybe going back to school, Berkeley. But I’m still not sure. I feel like I’ve been stuck in an existential void.”

I clenched my jaw, started gnawing on my nails, bracing for dismissal or worse judgment.

Instead, he responded calmly, warmly:

“You’ll be fine. You’ve done so many different things and achieved so much already. I have no doubt that whatever you choose next, you’ll be successful.”

I felt my whole being lighten.

His words were exactly what I needed to hear. The same words I’d been telling myself, and what I told friends who asked, but deep down, I wasn’t sure I believed them. Hearing them from him soothed the shame I had been carrying. In that moment, I heard my own voice in his. I felt my kindness mirrored in his grace, his goodness alive within me.

Even at 81, he could still hear me. Most of my life I’ve felt alone when it came to life decisions, choosing to forgo any counsel. But I’ve always yearned for validation. This time, I needed the man who really knew me, my whole history, offering strength, empathy, mentorship, and compassion.

The Father Becomes The Son

The older I get, the more I see my story in my father’s eyes. I know I will carry him with me always. His spirit will live on in the people I love most. I now understand that our connection will be the longest and deepest I will ever experience, perhaps only surpassed by the love I feel as a father myself.

I’m continually amazed at how gracefully my dad has met the slow fading of his body and mind, with acceptance, humor, and humility.

I only hope that when my time comes, I can meet that new reality with the same quiet strength. That I can rest peacefully, knowing I lived a life of integrity and through that embodiment positively impacted others, especially the ones closest to me. That I gave freely the greatest gift I carry, my father’s spirit.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I feel grateful to have you with me for another year. Thank you for your quiet love and light. I love you.

Thank you for reading.