When Life Gives You Tangerines

Holidays are over.

Amidst the trade war that is currently rattling the world, for the past two weeks Jakarta has been nothing but pleasant. The congestion-free roads, the clear blue skies, the fast commute, and the experiences of culinary adventure that seemed so relaxed.

Despite all that, I nestled myself, still, mostly at home. I spent the first week of the holiday  focusing on work and relaxing from work at the same time, catching up with new books, and spent more time with my parents and girlfriend.

The second week, it took a quick turn and I spent my days crying quietly and realizing how my entire life I have been a selfish prick to my parents.

When Life Gives You Tangerines - if you have Netflix, you probably know this series. If you don’t, then I suggest you watch it.

This isn’t a review where I give scores based on the metrics of what makes it a good tv series.

This is just me watching the series from a man’s perspective. As a son, a brother, a lover and hopefully a father in the future.

There’s a particular kind of ache that comes not from pain, but from recognition. Recognizing something about yourself, your past, or your relationships that you hadn’t truly faced before. I didn’t cry because it was sad, I cried because it was familiar. The kind of familiarity you don’t talk about with your family. The kind that lingers in the silences and actions when your parents ask, “Udah makan belum?”

Each episode was a mirror I didn’t want to look into, yet couldn’t turn away from. I saw my mom, dad, sisters, and myself in the struggle of each character. In the quiet actions of the father, in the way the daughter wrote poetry instead of “I love you”, in the way the mother puts aside her dreams and aspirations so that her daughter could live hers.

It reminds me how blessed I am growing up in an Asian household where love doesn’t have to be loud for it to be true.

I didn’t grow up hearing  “I love you” before bed. I grew up seeing it—in the form of peeled fruit, usually tangerines, placed hastily on my study table while my mother complained on how messy my room is, or in the quiet way my dad would wait for me to come home and pretends to be asleep when I am.

I reckon fathers are the architects of invisible care.

They are the first to rise, the last to speak, the ones who bear storms in silence so the roof over your head never shakes. They don’t ask to be seen, but they carry the whole house on their back.

You won't always hear their love, but you will feel it in the things that don't fall apart in your house.

My dad has always taught me that strength is silent, and that to love is to endure and to struggle is to protect. Men know that tears don’t help build walls, and whenever you get hurt, we clench our jaws, not our fists, and keep moving.

Many in society now believe that such belief is archaic, destructive and backward. But I believe it is actually a blessing in disguise. A sacred duty passed down, unspoken, from father to son just like what we witnessed in the dynamic between Gwan Sik and his son. He carried his pain and pride in silence because someone has to hold the line.

One important lesson we need to learn here is that, men don’t love less. We just love in a way that isn’t always seen, only felt.

Through action.

Through sacrifice.

Through presence.

It made me reflect the times where I had chosen silence over gratitude every time my parents showed up for me and I didn’t know how to say thank you, so I didn’t.

That’s the thing about our parents, especially in Asian culture. They love with endurance, they carry their hope in the weight of our future, never asking for repayment, only wishing we’d visit more often.

After watching it, I wonder how many small heartbreaks my parents endure in silence, just so me and my sisters don’t have to feel guilty.

I honestly felt grief watching the series. A grief for the moments I missed, for words I withheld, and for the days that I prioritized other people than the ones who were there for me.

As I said, this isn’t a review. This is a confession. A letter to my younger self who took advantage of his parents who would always wait, always understand, and now realizing it’s my turn to return the favor.

The holidays are over.

But something in me woke up.

And when the time comes for me to become a father myself, I’ll peel the tangerine, place it on the study table, and hope that my son / daughter understands what it means.