Stand by Me

Stand By Me: Speaking Nearby*
by Karen de Luna

On New Year’s Day 2021, my friend sent me a link to the music video for Temple, a song by Thao & the Get Down Stay Down. Temple features a cast of older Vietnamese dancers in a botanical garden. They strike poses and gesture together as they walk. The plants bear witness to their parade. I love this video for many reasons: the choreography that incorporates pedestrian movement and non-dancers, the family vibe, the song… My favorite part was shot indoors; the dancers improvise moving their bodies freely in ways that are authentic to each individual. Intercut with the dancing is Thao on her guitar. She wears a very wide brimmed hat that obscures her features, reminiscent of a traditional Vietnamese farming hat, nón lá. The lyrics to the song are heartbreaking.  

I know your father can’t call anymore
He never meant to be a man of war

— from Temple by Thao & the Get Down Stay Down

Recently we had our sewer line repaired. It kept backing up into the basement. The plumber, who was white, came with two Spanish-speaking day laborers who dug a very deep hole in our backyard. After the hole was dug, the plumber commenced with the pipe work, replacing part of the sewer line that had root damage and installing a clean out. He backfilled the hole part way and then left the job half done.

This repair was a job that cost several thousand dollars and although the plumber claimed that someone would come finish backfilling the hole, I had my doubts that anyone would show up to finish the job.

But we found freedom what will you do now
Bury the burden baby make us proud

— from Temple by Thao & the Get Down Stay Down

One morning two days later, I spotted a young asian woman wearing black leggings and carrying a shovel wandering around in the front yard. She was accompanied by an older asian man. I put a mask on and stuck my head out the door to ask what they wanted.

“We’re here to finish the plumbing job.” She must have seen an incredulous expression cross my face because she followed that quickly with, “I’m the owner.”

I showed them to the back yard and they proceeded to fill the remainder of the hole.

Later the same afternoon, two young caucasian men came to scope the newly cleared sewer line. I asked one if the young woman was really the owner and he said. “Yes.” Curious, I asked if she was a plumber and he replied, “No, but she likes to pretend she is. Thay† is a plumber.” From this short exchange I gathered that her father was the plumber and likely founder of the company.

We don’t have words for the way you have grown
We’ll always feed you
You can always come home

— from Temple by Thao & the Get Down Stay Down

My father is from a small village in the Philippines. He is a retired civil engineer and ran is own firm for many years, but the business always seemed to struggle. Ever the eldest son, he always paid his employees before he paid his bills or himself.

Firstborn, I was good at math and could easily have followed in his footsteps by becoming an engineer, but I didn’t. Instead I found my way as an artist, having studied dance and math and art and worked variously as a photographer, aerialist, software engineer, and graphic designer.

For Christmas, I sent my father a small bag of delicious salt and pepper pistachios and a short note. I related the story of the Vietnamese plumbing family and how that encounter made me wonder if he had ever wanted me to take over DeLuna, Inc., his now shuttered civil engineering firm. If he had wanted this, it was a wish that was never voiced. My father is a man of few words. In my note, I thanked him for allowing me to go my own way and for letting me be an artist. I know the pressure was there, unspoken, and this is the first time I had addressed it. At this time I am almost 50 years old and my father is close to 80.

A few days after Christmas, my father sent me a text message:

Got the package. Appreciate your little note and thanks for the pistachio

Winter 2016
by Michelle de la Vega

Tonight in one of our frequent phone conversations my Dad asked me, "Do you remember the names of your great grandparents?". Then went on to ask about great greats, at which point I had to admit I didn't - not all of them. And he said with the sweetest humor. "Wewillbeforgotten won't we?", and we laughed, and then sighed about what a relief that was. We'll beforgotten, and how cleanly that washes away the illusions about making our marks and impacts and so on in this world, and growing it all into the big pinnacle of vision we're sure we must have been made for. Maybe, but for the last hour I've been thinking about how I really don't have to fight so hard for illusions and that leaves me free to choose what really matters to me. Love rises to the surface.... and grace. Nature.
Before my Dad and I hung up the phone he said, "No matter where you go you'll always be my darling baby. For all eternity".

Summer 2021

I can recall over decades with such clarity the marked moments like that conversation in the winter of 2016. Turning points, influences along the way.  They are only clear because they were part of becoming something. 
My father is turning 93 in 10 days. In 35 days he’ll be moving from the state he has lived in for all of those 93 years to live and stay with me and Jeff on a rural farmstead in SE Minnesota. The last adventure. In some great truth I am here right now because of dreams he and I have shared. Romanticized pie in the sky impossible dreams about growing things on the land. Oh, we used to wax about it! 

Dad, Dad, it’s all been so much. Such a long story, so many threads, roads, places, moments, scars, joys. God, the impossible complexity of it all.  Every single thing. How can it be this part of the journey now, and where are we going next? 
I repeat your words and store them deep. “For All Eternity”. 
Amen. Amen.

It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’ve got me. 
Another turning point, along the way. 
Memory Eternal.
I love you, Squeak.