Eulogy Final Draft

My dad, Kendyl Ko, passed away on the night of September 12, 2009. During his memorial, I came to realize what he had meant to me by listening to the remembrances that people close to him had prepared. Their stories cemented the lessons he’d taught me into my consciousness. Dad taught me how to lead by example but still respect others, how to stand up for what I believe, and to always be grateful for what we have. He inspired me to try to be the best human being I could be.
Many of the lessons were taught through sports. My dad loved sports. No matter what it was, he loved it. I know this because he was always there on the sidelines, cheering either my brother or me on, in any sport we did: baseball, basketball, soccer, swimming, volleyball, even bowling. Yes, bowling is a sport. And while supporting us in athletic endeavors, he taught us how to lead. Whether by taking charge of the team to get through a tough game, or by showing other teammates how to respect others, Dad taught us how to do it. But, what I didn’t know was where he learned how to lead. The answer? He was born with it. My uncle told us that he was always the quarterback, he was always the catcher, and he was always the point guard; not only born with the confidence and strength to command, he also had the cool, level head under pressure that these leadership positions required. His leadership and respect flowed into the other aspects of his life as well: his job, his friends, and his family. He knew when to step up and grab the reins to guide people to success, but he also knew how to step back and let others lead.
Listening to all the old stories, it seems that Dad had a reputation among his peers back in the day. He was big, strong, and never backed down. You wouldn’t want to get in a fight with him. But people told me that my dad didn’t pick fights just to pick fights; he fought only when people did something that went against his morals. I remember one story that my auntie told me. My dad was on his high school basketball team and throughout one game one of his friends was getting unnecessary heat from the other team because he was smaller than them. Fed up, my dad grabbed the other player, threw him to the floor, and just walked off the court, knowing that he would get ejected from the game anyway. I guess he felt that if you’re going to pick on somebody, pick on somebody your own size. I won’t lie; when I heard that story, I was surprised, yet proud. I never knew my dad as hot-tempered. He was always calm, never raising his voice unless there was no other resort. And, while he certainly didn’t teach his sons how to fight, he did teach my brother and me how to stand up for ourselves and what we believe in. He taught us that fighting wasn’t the way to go about it, but to use other means to get our point across: our voice, our actions, and sometimes, simply walking away-- not giving in, but instead taking the better road.
But unfortunately, I wasn’t around to witness these stories of leadership or moral character firsthand. I did, however, get to see how much my dad loved us. He never missed a moment to let us know that he loved us. I remember a fight my Dad and I had. It was about something trivial, but it had got heated pretty fast. We’re Korean; we can’t help it. But I remember how even when he was mad, he took the time and said, “I’m only getting mad at you because I love you.” I always regret fighting with my Dad as much as I did. To me, it happened too often. As it got closer to the end, I told him that I was sorry for all the fights we had, and that I wished that I could take them back. He laughed at me: one, because I was crying, and two he said, “If we didn’t fight about anything, it would mean that I didn’t care about you. The only reason I yell at you or scold you is because I don’t want you to get hurt. I love you, you know that.” I did know, and will never forget that he loved me.
Thank you was never missing from my dad’s vocabulary. He made sure he always thanked people for the things that they had done for him, even the smallest of things. Nurses, doctors, friends, and random people who would hold the door, everyone got a thank you from my dad. While talking with my dad one day, he told me why he told everyone he cared about thank you every day that he could. He said that he was afraid that he would never get the chance to say it again.
This past year, I found it difficult to say thank you to my dad, because it felt as if I was saying goodbye to him, and I wasn’t ready at the time. It was just so hard to think that he wasn’t going to be around forever, but it tore me up that I might not get a chance to let him know what I felt. When I finally got the courage to tell him, he looked at me and told me that I didn’t have to tell him how I felt; that he knew from my actions how I felt about him. Sometimes I don’t think he realized that we felt the same about him; that he didn’t have to say “thank you” or “I love you” every day. His actions, his love for all of us spoke volumes of words that cannot be dictated. Every hug was “Thank you.” Every kiss was “I love you.” Every wordless car ride was “I enjoy just being around you.”
My dad is an inspiration to me through his words, actions, and love. I strive to be the leader that he was, the brother that was always there, the friend that always stood up for the people he cared about, and that caring human being that didn’t judge any person without giving them a chance. But most of all, when I have kids, I want to be the dad he was to me.