When I was younger, my family used to call me “IKA.” It means squid in Japanese. I originally got this nickname because of my sister. She was unable to pronounce my actual name, and the only thing she could spew was “IKA IKA IKA.” I used to hate the nickname because I thought squids were gross. They are slimy and gooey, with weird eyes and suction tentacles. I mean, who would want to be a squid?
As I’ve gotten older, I hear my old nickname very sparingly—so little, in fact, that every time the word “IKA” comes out of my dad’s mouth, I’m always a little stunned. The one nickname I used to hate is now the one that warms my heart.
My dad has always been cold, you could even say “to the touch.” He never hugged me nor told me he loved me. Honestly, I think he’s called me “BAKA” (stupid in Japanese) more than anything else. He’s everything you would expect in an Asian father—hard and full of tough love. Love so tough that even a bulldozer couldn’t break through it, but I digress.
It took me a long time to realize that my dad loves me. While he may not say it, he’s always tried to show it. Last year, when I was living back home in Nashville, is when I truly realized my father cared for me. He bought me groceries every week, cooked my favorite meals every Saturday night, dangled my favorite white wine in front of my face any chance he got. He’d text me to go shopping or buy random treats for Daisy. Even now, when I’m twenty hours away in Maine, he sends me care packages filled with snacks every couple of months. We even place bets while playing iMessage games, and the winner gets all the money.
Until now, I never thought I would have a good long-term relationship with my father, but here we are. Maybe he doesn’t say he loves me, but every time he calls me “IKA,” I know that’s what he’s saying. In that moment, I go back to being a little girl—one who desperately loves her dad.