I hate how miserable my parents make me.
Their sad wistfulness dangling on this string of hope that is me. I wonder if all Asian kids feel the same, potent ambivalence about their parents; tugged hard by the thought of their incessant sacrifice but also, both absolutely livid and in awe at their complete lack of sensitivity in boundaries and word vomit.
From a young age, I've always liked to imagine that out of the people I know, only I have this kind of relationship with my parents. Of this really romanticized, fucked-up fantasy land of self-pity and victimization. Truly, a sign of my privilege, given how many real kids there are who have experienced real animosity, and for things they had no control over. I, at least, didn't have a physically or psychologically negative environment-- but simply a meager one, soaked in inappropriate (but so appropriate) anger, and driven by desperation to live how other, more affluent and joyful families do. But it made me feel better to be part of The Sad Story. I get why you victimize yourself. Through self-degradation, you feel slightly more important. It's damaging but at least you get some attention.
So we went to church, prayed, etc., which either silenced our unanswered question of "Why us?", or enabled us to deeply understand just how unfair this world is.
What drew me to pursuing higher education after high school was not led by any type of personal dream or aspiration that I had for myself. It was simply to make my parents happy. It was for me to please them, and any personal satisfaction I got from it was just the cherry on top. The ironic thing is that it was the basis for their happiness that made me sad-- that all I needed was to graduate on time. Not get into some mysterious medicinal or legal pursuit, or even attend a brand name school. The request was as meager as was expected from our history. Even though it was tragic, I couldn't help but be angry that this was the pressure that was put on me. And it continues to pile on year after year.
My pessimistic perception of parent-child relationship exacerbated when I got to college and was able to observe other peers and their parent relationships, evident when I came to New York for the first time in my life (alone), and moving out and starting new for the first time in my life (alone). To this day, my mom still thinks I was sad and lonely on my first day in Syracuse (which to some degree, I was), but mostly, I was just angry for being alone without my parents when others weren't. I wished I was as loving to my parents as my peers were to their parents. I wished to express the great love I had in ways other than anger.
Anger has driven so many different aspects of my life: my music, my style, my writing, my passions, my opinions, (even my college application essay). And easily, I blame it on my parents. It slightly surprises me then, why I keep trying to make family something of a priority (something I never did before). It surprises me that I consistently get tearful thinking about my parents (both out of the ambiguity of our current relationship and out of the sacrificial life they lived for such an ungrateful but dutiful daughter). And now I'm getting older and they look older every time, and it kills me to know that our roles are slowly but surely reversing. They will be like children one day. Stubborn, angry, reaching for independence. Like something that once-was is no longer. Someone you aspired to be, who taught you everything good and bad now amounting to safety grab bars and Depends. I mean, is it sad that it's this grim future that helps me bite my tongue and breathe in what little patience I know how to use?
A couple months ago, I got in a massive argument with my mom over the phone. It was mostly me yelling over tears. I haven't done that in years. A few hours after we abruptly hung up, she sent me a photo of herself she took right then. It was slightly blurry, indicating the spur-of-the-moment decision to take the photo and send it to me. A tight smile, eyes small-- the kind that always makes me laugh when I see her doing it. And she wrote underneath, I love you.
