I'll never forget that look.
It was the summer after high school graduation and I was working in the recycling department of the local Pepsi factory. The same factory that my dad ji had worked at for many years. During a night shift, I had just jumped off my little orange electric forklift and was unloading a few damaged Crush rainbow packs onto a pallet. Though I had seen my dad ride by on his big yellow propane-powered forklift a number of times in the prior weeks, this time was different. He would occasionally just check in to see if things were going well and at times give me a few pointers. But this time, among the forklift honks and the machinery beeps bouncing off the towers of colourfully-labelled plastic bottles and aluminum cans, I didn't hear him come by.
But when I glanced up and saw him seated in his forklift, gently observing me, I saw this look. This look of real pride and a sort of deep-rooted joy. Our eyes only met for a moment, he smiled, and then drove by.
That look. I don't think I've ever seen quite that same look again. Nor do I expect to. And it's not for a lack of accomplishments or moments of joy, but it's because that single moment had this uniqueness to it, as did his look - seeing his kid working the job he grew up doing.
It reminds me of this story my cousin told me about his good friend - this friend who had journeyed off to Dublin to study medicine. As the school breaks took place during the summers in between terms, these were the intervals he would return home. But instead of getting a position in a research laboratory or a clinical setting, he would spend every summer working at this one grocery store for minimum wage. While others made attempts to get positions at places that would add to their CVs and hopefully their passions, he returned every summer to work at that same grocery store, stocking shelves and bagging items. When my cousin asked him why, he gave a very simple response. He plainly said
it's where my parents came from. They worked hard to give me my future. I need to go through that as well. Not for the money, but to be an everyday person and to remember my roots.
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