My Father: A Legacy in Laughter and Resilience
Growing up in the late 1970s and early 1980s, I was that kid—the star student, quick to answer, curious about everything, and often topping my class. I had a reputation: the storyteller who clinched school competitions every year, the “clever” one. But there’s something about being in that spotlight that makes you put up a bit of a front. I was careful to keep my grades high and my head higher, because I was afraid people would see me differently if they knew my family was struggling with money. That, I think, was my Achilles’ heel: not wanting anyone to know that life at home wasn’t as perfect as I tried to make it seem.
Chicken Soup for a Clever Kid’s Soul
I remember one day at school when the teacher asked each of us to share something we did every day. Hands shot up, my classmates rattled off their routines—swimming at their condo pools, piano lessons, rounds on their Atari video games. When it was my turn, I felt that familiar pull to keep up the act. So I smiled, lifted my chin, and said, “My dad makes me drink chicken soup every day.”
The class went silent, then erupted into a mix of admiration and awe. “So that’s why you’re so clever!” my teacher beamed, impressed. I smiled, lips pressed together, letting the rest of the story sit quietly within me.
Every morning, my dad would walk to the wet market with me, slipping through the stalls like he belonged there. He’d greet the chicken vendor and point to the pile of discarded heads and necks—the bits no one wanted. Back in the 70s, when live chickens were common at the market, these scraps were free. My father brought them home and simmered them into a pot meant for our two dogs. But the broth? That was mine.
It was simple—a thin, warm bowl, holding a comfort money couldn’t buy. In our family, it was enough. I saw no reason to shatter their illusion of me. If my teacher and classmates wanted to think I was the “chicken soup kid,” so be it.
The Man Who Could Light Up Darkness
But my father, with his humour and resilience, had a way of making light of our toughest moments. He showed me that the challenges we faced didn’t have to define us; they could even become the source of our best stories. The electricity frequently got cut off because we couldn’t pay the bills on time. When that happened, my father would break out the charcoal stove, announcing that we’d be roasting dried cuttlefish by candlelight.
We’d sit around, savouring the smoky aroma, candles flickering around us. My father would morph into quite the entertainer, singing and dancing with abandonment. He had this way of dancing, swinging his hips in these wild, exaggerated circles, like he was doing a hula hoop routine, while his arms stayed tight and tucked close to his sides, much like a dancing T-rex. He had the whole family howling every time he broke out that move. He was a performer, after all—a singer in his younger days—and he had a knack for lifting spirits. Even my mum’s complaints about our struggles would dissolve into reluctant laughter under his playful charm.
For those few hours, he transformed a moment of darkness into a stage, until all that I lacked seemed to fade into the flickering shadows.
Seeing Green (Eventually)
Then came the day when my carefully constructed front crumbled in the most unexpected way.
At school, I was on the playground, deep in a discussion about The Incredible Hulk, the popular TV series of the ‘80s starring Bill Bixby. Everyone was talking about how the Hulk turned green when he got angry, and I, ever the confident one with the big mouth, jumped in with my “facts.”
“He doesn’t turn green,” I declared matter-of-factly. “He just gets really big and burst out of his clothes.”
Silence. My classmates all stared at me, bewildered. “But he does turn green,” one of them said, half laughing, half confused.
“Not on my TV,” I shot back, a little too quickly. And then, like a slap, it dawned on me: our old, 12-inch, second-hand TV was black-and-white. All this time, I’d been watching a grey Hulk, completely oblivious to his true colour. My mind raced—if the Hulk wasn’t actually grey, what else was I missing? Was Superman’s suit really red and blue? Did Kermit look different too?! I had built my certainty on what I thought I knew, and in a flash, it was gone.
A beat of silence followed as the truth hung in the air, then something unexpected happened. I burst out laughing—not the polite kind meant to keep things easy, but something real, something freeing. I let it all go with that laugh, accepting the absurdity of it all. I even told them how my mother had to give that junk TV a hard whack on the side to make it work. And when I imitated her with bulging eyes and single-minded determination, swinging my hips wildly, as if unhinged and flailing like a puppet on loose strings, they practically collapsed, tears streaming down their faces.
Whether they were laughing with me or at me on that hot, sunny afternoon didn’t matter. On that day, something shifted within me. It was a small realisation: “this wasn’t so bad.” My world didn’t crumble; my friends didn’t turn away. It was just me, laughing at the small absurdities of my life.
As I sit here writing, I find myself smiling at the memory—and yes, still laughing a little too.
Holding Hands Through Life
While most kids grew embarrassed by their parents, avoiding their hands when walking to school, I held onto my father’s hand with pride. He walked me to school, guided me through the crowded wet market, his hard, calloused hands bearing the weight of years spent trying to make ends meet. I loved that hand, as tough as it was, because it held our family together. And thirteen years ago, I held that same hand when he took his last breath.
It’s been thirteen years since my father passed. Though the ache of his absence lingers, I remember him now with more smiles than tears. Grief is a strange thing—it doesn’t get smaller over time; instead, we grow around it. There’s a part of us that will always hold what we’ve lost, a place shaped by love and memory. And as life continues, we find ways to build new experiences and joys alongside that space, allowing both love and loss to coexist within us. Clients sometimes ask me, “Where’s the meaning in death?” I tell them, “There’s no meaning in death. The meaning is in us, in what we do with our lives after the loss.”
When life feels heavy, I have my father beside me, laughing that big laugh of his, telling me to light the charcoal stove and carry on. His humour was his greatest gift, a legacy of resilience that lives in me, in every small moment.
Today would’ve been your birthday, Pa. I can see you dancing with that same mischievous grin. Just know, everything you left behind, it stayed.
I love you, Pa.
And I am, without a doubt, my father’s son.
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Warmly,
George Chan
This Is How We Heal
George Chan, MCOU, is a Counsellor, Grief Educator and Breathwork Coach who specialises in helping individuals navigate grief and loss through his private practice, This Is How We Heal. With a rich background in theatre and entertainment, George brings creativity and empathy to his work. When he's not in the therapy room, you might find him performing, choreographing, or working on a new production—or spending time with Luna, his Jack Russell Terrier, who doubles as his unofficial co-therapist and production critic.