Goodbye Dad, and thank you.
Goodbye Professor Liang. 梁發進教授,再会了。爸爸,感谢你。Dad, thank you for being my teacher.
My father Professor Liang Fa-Chin (1938-2023) died on the morning of August 28, 2023. I am grateful to have had this year with him. Before he died, I held him in my arms, holding his hand and gently touching his hair. I whispered into his good ear as I have all year. I urged him to follow the Buddha’s Light. I assured him that his earthly duties had been successfully completed. I told him that as his eldest son, I would protect our family on his behalf.
Though Buddhist teachers taught me to be calm and reassuring for those dying, as he drew his last breath I broke down. I have never sobbed as often as I have this terrible, wonderful year. One of the last things he heard was me thanking him for being my father, while I gently kissed his forehead. Paying final respect and bidding farewell to my teacher and role model.
Other than my Neihu Grandma, my students have heard me talk about my father the most. Which is funny because he rarely talked about himself. He grew up in impoverished rural Neihu, as the eldest son he took on the economic responsibility for his family as a child, and nearly got starved to death by the invading Chinese. He never had the luxury to ponder and verbalize about his life or feelings, always responding from one crisis to another, one responsibility to another. He spent his life making sure my brother and I would never worry about our next meal, the next tuition bill, or the money for the next book. He made sure his life’s burden would not be ours.
My love of books is because of Dad. He taught me at a very young age to find used bookstores in every town we visit. My love of teaching and learning came from him. I applied for the scholarship that funded his Ph.D. We attended the same graduate school. I wore his neckties when I taught. I always have a pen and something to write on because of Dad. Like him, I cannot go anywhere without a book in my hand. Everything I did as a teacher was my attempt to live up to the standard he set. Stern and quiet at home, there are so many photos of him surrounded by his students, and my dad laughing heartily. I often tell my students, the classroom is one of the few spaces in my life where I feel at peace. Maybe I got that from Dad too.
Dad sold vegetables and worked on the family farm while putting himself through night school. He taught himself English by listening to the radio at night. Earned cash for his family whenever possible. Helped to put his younger siblings through school. After he got married and had us, he continued to provide for my grandparents. He made sure my grandparents were cared for until the very end. With his family, with his elders, with his students and friends, he was quietly generous. For a super frugal man, he was quick to help others. One of the last times I went for a walk with him he handed a beggar a big bill without saying anything, the kind of money he would never spend on himself. Just like my Neihu Grandma, people who feel the pain of poverty have a quiet, determined, generous way.
The most remarkable thing about my father is that no matter how high his education, no matter how elevated his school and political offices became, he never forgot where he came from. When he visited his rural ancestral home, when you spent time with him, you could never tell. He never put on air. For him, it was about the work, the ideas he was thinking about, not about status nor the money. What I admire the most about him, he rarely talks about himself and his accomplishments. I have had this year to ponder what it is about him. He seems genuinely befuddled that one would even want to talk about it. There is a kind of peace I think, a confidence where one does not need to prove anything to anyone else.
The gifts my father gave me have been lifelong. He set a standard for scholarship and hard work. I keep running into people who have read his books or taken his classes. His students tell me Dad had a knack for translating complex concepts into memorable, digestible pieces – I like to think I learned that skill from him as a teacher too. He taught me about being kind and thoughtful, particularly to those in need.
The gift he gave me during this terrible, difficult, complicated year – his decline and illnesses forced me to fundamentally rethink assumptions I had about family, about life and death, about the nature of suffering, about Buddhism. About love and commitment. About the meaning of life. Before his steep decline the long walks we took – talking about economics and politics and history and the nature of scholarship. The love and respect we have for one another, though very different people that we are. We always consulted one another before making big decisions. The most significant gift from my father was being able to accompany him as he faded, step by step, minute by minute, to the very end. Bitter, angry, sad, painful. Loving, gentle, heartfelt. Every moment mattered. And to face all the things I feared and dreaded, and to find peace with these facets of life and death.
My father is my most important teacher. As my role model, he rarely instructed or lectured – and so it made sense that his final year on earth and final lessons as my teacher on life and death were to guide me by example.
I miss you terribly Dad. I am grateful for this year together, and for being your son. May the compassionate Buddha and our ancestors embrace you with serenity, joy, and love.
17. 9. 2023 Taipei, Dad’s beloved democratic and independent Taiwan Republic 在爸爸心爱的民主独立台湾国。
—
This is the video of Dad's life from the funeral, and my translation of the lyrics. Skills from my previous life as an editor came in handy. How does one summarize a life in sixty photos? You don't. I think these photos captured the spirit of a life no longer here. In choosing the song, I knew it must be in Dad's beloved Taiwanese. I did not choose one he loved, but instead, one I listened to while he faded away. The Liangs believe that less is more -- not-ornate, few stanzas, simple ideas and words. And Dad, while occasionally mumbling about how songs from his youth were superior, was delighted to learn from me that "young people" are still writing songs in Taiwanese and Hakka and indigenous languages -- much as during the torment of his final year any news of his grandchildren gave him relief and hope, something about the future cheered him up.
Art is life. Love is everything. Do, don't wait.
--
旺福 Ōng-hok
等待雨散 Tán-thāi Hōo Suànn
Waiting for the Rain to Stop
-
今仔日的風澹澹
Kin-á-ji̍t ê hong tâm-tâm
It is raining today
今仔日的天暗暗
Kin-á-ji̍t ê thinn àm-àm
And the sky is dark
今仔日我需要一个人
Kin-á-ji̍t ê guá su-iàu tsi̍t ê lâng
What I need today is someone
來陪我風吹雨淋
Lâi puê guá hong tshue hōo lâm
Who will be my companion during the storm
人生親像一場夢
Jîn-sing tshin-tshiūnn tsi̍t tiûnn bang
Life is like a dream
你是我上媠的夢
Lí sī guá siōng suí ê bang
You are my most beautiful dream
你是風颱天衝煙的泡麵
Lí sī hong-thai-thinn tshìng-ian ê phàu-mī
You are like a steaming bowl of instant noodles during a typhoon day
你是我上愛的人
Lí sī guá siōng ài ê lâng
You are someone I love the most
若是有你佮我做伴
Nā-sī ū lí kah guá tsuè-phuānn
If you will be my companion
好額散食我攏無差
Hó-gia̍h sàn-tsia̍h guá lóng bô-tsha
Whether we are wealthy or poor does not matter
攑著雨傘等待雨散
Gia̍h-tio̍h hōo-suànn tán-thāi hōo suànn
Holding the umbrella together to wait for the storm to end
我欲牽你的手
Guá beh khan lí ê tshiú
I will hold on to you
牽甲手紅紅
Khan kah tshiú âng-âng
Until our hands turn red
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