Grief | Adventure Underpants

To enjoy life <3: a tribute to my ôngie

Posted on December 14, 2020 by lilicedt

My #ongie died today.

He was 96 years young ‒ a pretty amazing feat in this modern age. Yes, to reach almost a century alive is quite a big deal, but I primarily note his lengthy time on Earth because of the zest for life that he had throughout the majority of it.

He was one of the ones who taught me to adventure by inviting me on so many of his own. Like the time I joined his grandfathers’ photography club outing to Death Valley. I met them at a random intersection before we hit the desert, and ông got in my little orange sports car with me to ride the rest of the way. He led me up a sand dune while carrying his camera and tripod, always in that same khaki photographer’s vest with the hundreds of pockets, always with that mischievous gleam in his eye.

We spent the night in a casino-motel, joking, gambling through the night, and splitting a beer before getting some rest to race the sunrise to the dunes. People say it’s the most beautiful place to start the day, he told me with a grin. So we went, because that’s what he did. He found something that sounded delightful or fun, and he found a way to do it.

*“No hopelessness” is about persevering and finding beauty, no matter the challenges. My favorite image and description out of 1000s of ong’s pictures throughout his career.*

He also taught me about the beauty of the world and how important it is to meaningfully reflect on that and share it. For as long as I can remember, he’s been a photographer, seeing things that most others might pass by. Like a little weed boasting an even smaller flower, defiantly surviving in a harsh, dry earth. He named this photograph “No hopelessness,” and he loved the stubborn optimism for this life that it portrayed. I loved it too, and the image now hangs in my room to remind me during the darkest days that life will always find a way.

Most of all, he taught me about relishing everything. His motto and his mantra were “To enjoy life and make others enjoy it too.” Whether it was fun times, good food or better company, he delighted in it all. My grandpa truly believed that this was the purpose of life: to feel joy and to inspire others to do the same.

Following him around the world on his adventures and bringing him on mine, I’m sure a lot of this spirit has rubbed off on me. I readily joined because I wanted to spend time with him, see the world as he did. He always had a camera in hand, always found something to appreciate. He knew the beauty of the person behind the picture, an aspect I now see permeating my own storytelling. He saw fragility and complexity in others and in himself, poetically showcasing an old man walking through fall foliage as “two winters” or two older ladies in Vietnam, obviously not in the best physical condition but laughing still and absolutely enjoying their lives.

But beyond a travel partner and journalistic mentor, he was just my grandpa. He lit up making jokes that got the whole room laughing and silly faces that kept all his grandkids obsessed with him. From dressing up like Bob Marley Santa (complete with a paper joint) to faking Kung Fu fights to letting us squish his cheeks as he made cartoonish rainbow-heart eyes, he did anything to get a smile out of us.

I always looked forward to my #DatesWithOngie and truly relish the many years we enjoyed with him. In those, I also got to see a version of my dad as an old man, something I won’t ever actually get to do. For all of this, all the joy and happiness, the laughs and good times, I’ll forever be grateful.

Adventuring in My Tho, Vietnam
Celebrating Christmas in Bali
Atop Victoria Peak in Hong Kong
Modeling outside a sushi restaurant in the East Bay Area
“VN Passionate” – we turned around and found him doing this to give us a laugh
Adventuring with Truc Vien, ong’s grandfathers’ photography club, to Death Valley, California
Tequila shots with ongie for Thanksgiving in Rocklin, California

As we bid goodbye to him today, I kept hearing his cheerful, sing-songy “I love you, too!” in my head, the always-ready reply he had for our “I love you’s” with that disarming smile of his. It filled me up as it always has and always will.

I love you to the moon and the stars and back, ông. Thanks for showing me how to do this thing called life and to have fun doing it. I’ll continue to make mine good and think fondly of you when I do.

Until we meet again, I love you, and I love you, too <3.

Blue Roses

Posted on October 23, 2016 by lilicedt

We had blue roses at my dad’s funeral. For some reason, he liked this made-up flower, so my mom asked the florist to make one bouquet of food-coloring-stained blue roses for my mom, my sister, and I to lay on top of his casket.

That was 15 years ago. It is insane to me how fast the years have whizzed by. I’ve been dreading this death anniversary in particular, because it marks the threshold of when dad will have been gone for as many years as he was alive for Vickie; she was only 15 when he died. And that means that my threshold — 17 years — will be here in a few short breaths. He was our hero, and he was gone in an instant. As I approach my mid-30s, I realize just how unfairly young he died — 48 years old. I have no idea how it will feel to surpass my dad in age, but I know that year will creep up on me faster than I am prepared for as well.

Ironically or coincidentally, as we honor my dad today, our whole Duong family is gathered around my Ongie, my dad’s dad, who just went home on hospice care. And just like that, the day that I was so worried would floor me has floored me in an entirely different way. And just like 15 years ago, I am watching my mom move with untold strength, grace, poise, and tact as she navigates an impossible situation while still watching out for me and Vickie. I am literally amazed by her each and every day, and am so grateful for her guidance, presence, and spirit. I am witnessing the true depths of a mother’s and wife’s love, and I am just in awe. After my dad died, she made sure that his dad, my Ongie, became an even bigger part of our life. Ong was with us on every family vacation, came to holiday parties (whether a Duong family gathering or a Nguyen one), and enjoyed more random, casual dinners together than I can remember. I joined him on many of his photography expeditions — trips with his Vietnamese grandpa’s photography club — to take pictures of the fall foliage in New Hampshire, to the flower fields in Lompoc, to the sand dunes in death valley. We fulfilled his lifelong dream to go see Paris, and to his dismay, the streets were not actually made of gold. Vickie and Ong had a standing weekly date to watch Dancing with the Stars together. I am so grateful that mom created the opportunities for me and Vickie to love and know Ong as a proxy for dad. As a result, Ong became the closet thing we’ve have to dad for the last 15 years: aside from looking amazingly identical and giving me an idea of what my dad would’ve looked like as a cute old grandpa, they share that same characteristic Duong disposition: quiet and reserved, but playful and loving underneath. I like to think dad would have been a lot like Ong if he had aged, and through Ong, I feel like we got to know dad a little better.

And now more than ever, in this difficult time, I am reminded even more of mom’s greatest lesson to us: be good to those you love while they are alive. Life is short, time is precious, and nobody is promised tomorrow. I am thankful that instead of wishing that we had taken Ong to more places, that I can sit at his bedside and talk about all the cool things we’ve done and memories we’ve shared together. I’m thankful that we took him on so many trips that he didn’t feel the need to travel anymore. And I’m thankful that I had so many beautiful years with him, getting to know and love him in the way that I never got to know my dad.

So today, instead of mourning dad, I am also celebrating my Ong, and expressing eternal gratitude for the most amazing woman I know, without whom I never could have made it through the last 15 years.