My Dad: A Story of Love, Struggle, and Starting Over

"Every immigrant is a lover of possibility. Every journey to a new land is an act of faith in the unseen, the unknown, and the hope that love will be enough." — Unknown

Today is my dad’s birthday. He would have been 87 years old. He passed away from lung cancer over 15 years ago.

In February of 2020, I was in the Philippines with my family because my mom was dying. After long days spent taking care of all the heavy things you have to handle when a parent is nearing the end, my oldest sister and I would sit and talk. One night, we dug deep into our family history. And I realized how different my version of our story was from hers.

She’s ten years older than me—she remembers more. She remembers our life in the Philippines before we immigrated to the U.S., and things about our family that I was simply too young to know.

I always thought my parents' love story was romantic. Turns out, the truth was a lot messier. But isn’t that the harsh reality of most things?

My sister once joked that my dad tricked my mom into marrying him. According to her, my mom had come to visit my dad from a neighboring city. He told her there were no more buses running, so she had to spend the night. Back then, if you stayed overnight with a man—even if nothing happened—you were considered "soiled" and not fit to marry anyone else.

The thing is... there was another bus. He lied. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Basically, if you’ve ever listened to "Baby, It’s Cold Outside," my dad pulled that move—with intent.

I don’t even know if my mom truly wanted to marry him. What I remember being told as a child was that my dad heard about my mom, came to see her, fell instantly in love, and did whatever he could to marry her.

Well, long story short: they married. And here I am.

I was 45 years old when I found out that part of my family legacy. Jesus H. Christ on a bike. You can imagine how that scrambled my brain.

Here’s the thing: you can love and hate someone equally. And that was my relationship with my dad. Parent-child relationships are complicated.

I both idealized and resented him growing up. He was a narcissist. He was physically and mentally abusive. And yet... he was still my father. He worked hard to provide for us. He gave us opportunities he never had. He made sure I always had a home to come back to if I needed it.

Your first toxic relationships are almost always with your parents. And when he was dying, I didn’t hesitate. I got on a plane, flew 5,000 miles, and sat by his side. Because no matter how prepared you think you are, you’re never really ready to say goodbye.

I honor my father for the sacrifices he made for our family. I forgave him for the harm he caused. At the end of the day, he raised a family that chooses, again and again, to serve others. And that comes from him. He was a public servant.

As I get older, I think about where my parents were at the age I am now. When my dad was my age, he had only been in America for a few years. He’d crossed the globe to start over, landing in frigid Minnesota—talk about culture and weather shock—and then packed up a station wagon and moved his whole family cross-country to California for a new beginning.

I can only imagine the level of sheer delusion he had to have to believe we were going to be okay. Maybe he thought, "It’ll be good in sunny California... if we can make it there, we can make it anywhere..." Wait—that's New York. Anyway.

As I start new chapters of my own life, I take some comfort knowing I'm only making decisions for myself. My dad was carrying all of us. No wonder he was stressed out. I don’t blame him.

The immigrant story is different for everyone. But at its heart, it’s about survival. About hope. About trying to create a better life.

Immigrants are not the enemy.

We don’t come here to take from anyone.

This land is rich, abundant, and vast.

We come to add to it. To bring our own cultures, our own flavors, our own dreams.

I hope, in my father’s story, you can see the struggle that so many immigrants face.

Seeking safety.

Seeking stability.

Seeking a place to belong.

You don’t have to walk a thousand miles in my father’s shoes to show kindness and dignity to people who don't look like you.

Mahal Kita.

Happy Birthday, Dad. (Vid Vidal R. Castro, April 28, 1938 – October 23, 2009)

My dad's college graduation picture, my college graduation. My dad holding my mom's hand when he was dying in 2009.