Father and Son
Christmas 1976, when I was six months old in SOMA, San Francisco. When you were smiling in the Purple Rain.
I must have listened to Purple Rain five times in a row last night, and I’m listening to it right now.
Rachele said that Issasi saw a monarch butterfly right after they saw your body yesterday. How fitting. A monarch butterfly—the butterfly that calls California and Mexico home. And the colors? You guessed it: the orange and black of our beloved San Francisco Giants.
I am starting to tear up again.
I am happy that you are not suffering anymore. No more pain, Dad.
I am at the part of the song when Prince is wailing and the guitars are blazing. I hope you are soaring.
Like that monarch butterfly.
You were born under the most f**ked-up circumstances. An orphan in New Jersey, bounced from abusive foster home to abusive foster home. You graduated high school at 21 years old, got drafted into the U.S. Army, and served in Vietnam.
From what you told me, you were stationed in My Tho. I remember the story of being attacked by the enemy, hiding behind—or under—a table, and somehow surviving. The next day, you said that we—the U.S. Army—destroyed that town with napalm.
I remember how you said it killed everything: plants, animals, everything. You had to dig a massive pit for all that was lost there.
I also remember you telling me about your French-Vietnamese girlfriend and how one of you would ride back-to-back with the other on a motorcycle through Saigon.
It just took me three tries to spell motorcycle correctly.
Make that five.
Early Fam Bam
My tears sting on my face now.
After the hardest years around Tet, you were stationed in Germany and then redeployed on the fly to work as a photographer for the U.S. military newspaper.
You said you taught yourself photography.
It was a hobby you carried throughout my childhood. Though you never really taught me how to be a photographer, something about that passion resonated with me, and I ended up studying and graduating with a degree in Film and Asian American Studies.
I remember all the stories—how after Vietnam, you just couldn't bring yourself to date an average "American" woman.
I remember the stories of you dating a Native American woman and living with your brother, my Uncle Ritchie, in Brooklyn.
All of this was after your service in the Army.
Though I am not as patriotic as many folks out there, I am still an American, and I am proud of your service, Dad.
I also remember you telling me that a friend or coworker introduced you to my mom, Natividad Espano, and somehow, some way, the two of you fell in love.
I remember the stories of people in the New Jersey and New York area not being so open to your relationship, so together you decided to move to SOMA, San Francisco.
My real hometown.
The epicenter of the Filipino American experience.
Together with Mom
Mom didn't make it to my fourth birthday. She died of cancer.
I don't know how long it was afterward, but you found my second mother, Donna Principe Vista, and together you raised me, Rachele Vista, and Regina Vista-Buoni as a blended family in the Outer Mission.
You worked as a janitor at San Francisco International Airport for many years. Though you were not Filipino, you found comfort in the Filipino community, and we are blessed that the Filipino community embraced us with open arms.
You loved San Francisco.
And shit, you loved Daly City.
Pinoy party back in the day
I remember that years ago, when I was tasked with finding a nursing facility for your illness, you chose Daly City over San Diego.
In the end, I am happy that you chose to be where you are.
Last week, I watched a full interview with Jeremy Lin, and much of it resonated with me. The main themes were "doing yourself" and "letting go."
I took a cue from your book yesterday.
One of my employers was kind of, sort of holding me hostage—telling me, "You can go to San Francisco anytime," while at the same time rescheduling make-up lessons down to the minute, even though they knew you were in hospice.
I quit that job yesterday.
Effective immediately.
I remember years ago Mom being hella pissed at you because you retired early from your San Francisco job with nineteen years of service. If you had stayed one more year, you would have received a better pension.
But you knew you couldn't hustle anymore. You had already hustled around the world.
You served in Vietnam and Germany. You visited Japan, the Philippines, and Nice, France, for a peace conference.
Years ago, you asked me to visit all of those places before deciding what the best place in the world might be for me.
Last night, while listening to Purple Rain on repeat, I asked whether the song had anything to do with a father-and-son relationship.
Gemini told me that the song serves as the emotional climax of the film, where Prince's character, The Kid, finally reconciles with his father's legacy. His father was a talented but frustrated musician—much like Prince's real-life father, John L. Nelson. By performing the song, The Kid finishes the music his father started, transforming his father's pain into something beautiful.
But you knew you couldn't hustle anymore. You had already hustled around the world.
You're free now, Dad. I hope you are soaring. I am making a commitment to visit Vietnam and France, and to bring your remains to Colma and to the Philippines. I owe it to you. I love you. I miss you. I am proud to be your son. I hope that I served you well. The Brown Family I am Arniel Brown, a San Francisco native, a veteran English educator with twenty years of experience in Japan, and an M.Ed. candidate at Edgewood University. I anticipate graduating in June 2026. I am the son of a Vietnam veteran and a Filipina immigrant to the United States, and I have attempted to contact the Library of Congress Veterans History Project to preserve my father's service in the U.S. Army. I am also contemplating using my father's experience as a janitor as the foundation of my master's thesis on transformative leadership and on giving voice to the voiceless.
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