When I was a child, I was repulsed by my father’s smoking addiction. I can still smell the acrid scent of his clothes, laden with a residual stench that never quite went away. He used to carry an old handkerchief in his front shirt pocket. Even at a young age, I thought it was odd when he would blow his nose into it and then stuff it back. I found it even more disgusting when he would spit on it and then subsequently wipe my face with the same putrid handkerchief. I felt a sense of betrayal enter my body whenever he would do this. Maybe he thought of me as some sort of sick puppy, like how a dog licks the fur of it’s young as an act of compassion. Perhaps his dad did the same thing to him too? I guess I’ll never know.
Around the age of six or seven, I asked my father if he would quit smoking. He replied, “I will quit when you turn nine.”
Can you guess what happened when my ninth birthday came around?
This cycle of broken promises continued for the next few years until he and my mother divorced when I was 14. That same year he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease.
When I was 16, I visited him at my grandmother's house. I opened the front door and locked eyes with him. He was ecstatic to tell me a story about where he had recently traveled. I was confused because he wasn't allowed to go anywhere unsupervised by this point.
“Son... I have to take you to this place! We... we were traveling in a helicopter to this beautiful remote island. There were all types of dinosaurs there. From brontosaurus to pterodactyl... I even saw a T-Rex!!!”
It was such an absurd thing to say; it took me a while to process what he was telling me.
“Dad... are you talking about Jurassic Park??”
“You've been there already!” he replied with a sense of disappointment on his face.
After this instance, I rarely visited him. My mother had custody over me, so I watched him from afar as he slowly began to deteriorate. It was a confusing emotional time for me back then. Looking back now, I know I distanced myself as a defense mechanism. I was ashamed of what my father was going through. While other fathers seemed to be present in their children’s lives, mine was dwindling away, becoming a fragment of his former self. I didn't understand what he was going through then. How could I have?
I remember a few family members telling me I would regret not visiting him more before he passed away. But to be honest, I don't regret distancing myself. After his death, I learned about my father's checkered past. I'm still processing the things I found out about him—how he was a gambler, a womanizer, and a failed businessman. He lived his life in ways I disagree with. In many ways, I have tried to be the exact opposite of him.
The photos you see here were taken for several reasons. First, I find the graphics on these cigarette packages to be disturbing, hilarious, and problematic at the same time. The disclaimers are, for lack of a better term, utter bullshit. The cigarette companies don't care about the health of the people who purchase them. But I guess that's a symptom of living in a society that values predatory capitalism. Finally, these photos are for you, Dad. May you rest in peace. I'll see you in the next life so we can reconcile our differences. Hopefully.
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Yoshino is a multi-hyphenate artist and the host of Artist Decoded.
Yoshino’s essay “Cancer Sticks” can be read at Yoshino’s Diary on Substack.
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