Gear

I think my fondness / obsession with having the right gear mirrors my dad's debilitating anxiety about every situation. The man is so risk averse about everything it's a wonder that he somehow captained a boat to escape Vietnam with our family and 200 other refugees.

It's a contrast I'm still trying to figure out.

I'm on Bernal Hill regularly with Norah, and sometimes I see visitors come with hiking boots and walking sticks. And here I am with loafers. It ain't a thing.

But I see myself in those visitors. I remember researching and buying so much gear before my first solo backpacking trip to New Zealand. I still have those boots. Those heavy boots. And the pots and pans and all the other stuff that I could've bought used or along the trip if I really needed it. But I had to be prepared.

Dad was just like that. Get to the airport 4 hours early because anything can happen. Don't do this. Never do that. Make sure you know all the rules. The man still doesn't speak English well because he never ventured beyond the confines of Asia Town in Houston. It's like he made one mad dash to be someone else during the Escape, and then after that, he was done.

How much of his trauma do I carry? Did he put on me? That I'm putting on my daughter?