Me, My Father's Son, and My Son's Father

Names are prejudicial. When you name a thing, you're describing it in a certain way. And when you call it, you're recalling a preconception because there are always parts of that thing you didn't know while naming or calling it.

I am beginning to be known by my son's name; Papa Sharif or some version of that. I am proud of this association, although now I fear that I must build a legacy of my name. I want to be the son of my father before I am the father of my son. It would have been simple if I can be both things, but “simple” is an underestimation of the unprepared.

A few months ago, a son of my dad's friend got inducted into the upper echelon of his profession. My dad was happy for his friend, how his son had made him proud. I could sense my dad's wishes to feel that pride too. We've made our dad proud I'm sure, but not in such a way that's recognisable by others. However, I'm not meant to live for my father.

To be my son's father is to be there for him as his protector, teacher, companion, and lovegiver. Would this mean making time to be with him at the expense of career and relationships or would this mean taking time away from him to go out there and secure opportunities for him? The thing is though, I'm not meant to live for my son either. I'm told that I'll figure out how to navigate these choices and that no one is certain of anything as far as these things go. That everyone is making decisions and taking actions based on the information and chances available to them at the time, then hope for the best.

My friend M has been publishing a lot of works lately and I'm super proud of him. I'm always overcome with blissful fulfillment whenever I find my name in his acknowledgements. I sent him a voice note the other day telling him how I'm vicariously living through him as I wasn't and still not writing much. But he isn't meant to live my life. He writes his truth beautifully and his truth will never be mine. In a peculiar penmanship of mine, mine must flow from within me. I barely follow the news lately, but sometimes some news catches up to me and I'd drown in survivor's guilt. Then I think I should be extroverted like my wife or siblings. I should not waste this privilege of life, peace, good health, good air, and kind weather. I should live more with all these privileges that I have. The thing is though, I'm not meant to live their lives.

It should count as living too, to recluse most times from societal things like attending events, to sit in silence, to love God in private, and not let the applause of people be the fan blowing your furnace. It has to count as living too.

For weeks, I kept imagining how my son would learn how to sit up by himself from a lying position. When it happened, it wasn't in any of the ways I imagined. If he's lying on his back, he'd turn to lie on his belly then fold his left leg and simply push himself backwards using his hands into sitting. We may look alike, but my boy isn't meant to live for me either.

This fear of acquiescence to live in service of others is valid because it comes from a deep place of love. It is easy to dissipate in the service of loved ones while privately missing yourself as whole.

Some people are assured that I'd be a good juggler and find harmony thriving through life as myself, my father's son, and my son's father.

And so I prepare myself, everyday or every chance I get, to find an overlap in all the persons I could be and then strive toward it. I'm learning to be conscious of what I sacrifice in time, strength, and wealth. I'm also learning to recognise and act when the opportunity to compensate for my sacrifices arise.

I've tried to picture what this overlap would look like. I'm not a doctor, lawyer, engineer or any of such professionals. I feel more like myself when I write. Writing could be my profession. An upper echelon of the writing profession is the Nobel, Pulitzer, Oscar, Emmy and their likes. Any of these ought to make my dad proud. To be my son's father at the same time would mean not being a tortured writer who becomes depressed and avoidant in the process.

So the dream is to be, say, a Nobel Laureate with the award sitting in my dad's living room, while I, my son's best friend, my wife's favourite person, a fulfilled writer, would still find the time to sit in silence. And my parents' friends would tell them “You've raised a wonderful boy” and my son's friends would tell him “Your dad is a Nobel winner and he's still so cool!” The thing is though, Stephen King has warned upcoming writers about this. Yet my plan is still to aim for this and if I fall short, let it be some low budget version of this picture.