another discursive entry
mother's day came and gone. my birth mother's absence is still quite raw. subconsciously, maybe that explains why i checked out a book called How I Learned To Cook (& other writings on complex mother-daughter relationships) last week at the libary. i love the libary–even the tiny, musty bernal heights branch. on the other hand, this is something i'd read anyway, and it just happened to catch my eye.
over breakfast on april 28th, the day of my departure from taipei, my dad courageously gave us a little talk. he's a man of few words, and when those words come out they are chosen carefully and meaningfully. i liked our long breakfasts at the hotel. we noshed slowly and chatted. he acknowledged with empathy anne and i's tumultuous last few years, followed by 3 deaths in the last 9 months. he gave examples of inequality/favoritism exhibited by my uncles against their children. dad ensures us that he tries to make everything equal for anne and i, and if we ever think he's being unjust to speak up. the truth is nothing can be 50/50 but they try to get close. then. . [translated] now, the closest family you have is just me and ah-yi (my stepmom). if i happen to die first, then ah-yi will be your closest family. make sure you don't leave her out, and you can talk to her about anything. ah-yi will divide everything equally. we've already discussed things and made plans in case. and if ah-yi passes away first, then i will do the same. [the conversation was making me really sad. i was actually surprised at my dad's improved communication skills. yes, this is reality though. we have to talk about things like this sooner or later. death can be so unpredictable. dad mistakenly assumed that he'd go first, but ah-yi interrupted and said you never know. .she might go first. look at grandma. .who would have suspected!] point taken.
there were a lot of things my parents would never talk about. my mom (and dad too) carried a heavy onus around, which i think she tried to shed through meditation. i wish i had known what it contained. one of the stories i read in the How I Learned to Cook said: "My parents taught my sister and me how to keep things hidden in silence. . . During the stable periods my parents got along, my sister and I got involved with school, with our friends, with life in general. But it's the silence that kills you; it muffles, suffocates, and distorts your confusion and pain." thought the story dealt with the domestic violence against the author's mother, much of the emotional cycles and circumstances fit. silence characterized my teens.
by the time i thought i was starting to understand my mother and why she did the things she did, it was already too late. i wish i had asked more detailed questions and relieved some of the burden she took with her. with death, new relationships open up with the remaining close family members. i think my dad was partly trying to articulate this. maybe he also fears being shut out by our grieving. it was a way to reach out to us and let us know what we can be cohesive again.
i don't know what this all means, but it makes my mind churn. and i like to think and churn, even if it keeps me up at night.
over breakfast on april 28th, the day of my departure from taipei, my dad courageously gave us a little talk. he's a man of few words, and when those words come out they are chosen carefully and meaningfully. i liked our long breakfasts at the hotel. we noshed slowly and chatted. he acknowledged with empathy anne and i's tumultuous last few years, followed by 3 deaths in the last 9 months. he gave examples of inequality/favoritism exhibited by my uncles against their children. dad ensures us that he tries to make everything equal for anne and i, and if we ever think he's being unjust to speak up. the truth is nothing can be 50/50 but they try to get close. then. . [translated] now, the closest family you have is just me and ah-yi (my stepmom). if i happen to die first, then ah-yi will be your closest family. make sure you don't leave her out, and you can talk to her about anything. ah-yi will divide everything equally. we've already discussed things and made plans in case. and if ah-yi passes away first, then i will do the same. [the conversation was making me really sad. i was actually surprised at my dad's improved communication skills. yes, this is reality though. we have to talk about things like this sooner or later. death can be so unpredictable. dad mistakenly assumed that he'd go first, but ah-yi interrupted and said you never know. .she might go first. look at grandma. .who would have suspected!] point taken.
there were a lot of things my parents would never talk about. my mom (and dad too) carried a heavy onus around, which i think she tried to shed through meditation. i wish i had known what it contained. one of the stories i read in the How I Learned to Cook said: "My parents taught my sister and me how to keep things hidden in silence. . . During the stable periods my parents got along, my sister and I got involved with school, with our friends, with life in general. But it's the silence that kills you; it muffles, suffocates, and distorts your confusion and pain." thought the story dealt with the domestic violence against the author's mother, much of the emotional cycles and circumstances fit. silence characterized my teens.
by the time i thought i was starting to understand my mother and why she did the things she did, it was already too late. i wish i had asked more detailed questions and relieved some of the burden she took with her. with death, new relationships open up with the remaining close family members. i think my dad was partly trying to articulate this. maybe he also fears being shut out by our grieving. it was a way to reach out to us and let us know what we can be cohesive again.
i don't know what this all means, but it makes my mind churn. and i like to think and churn, even if it keeps me up at night.
posted by plátano at 00:36
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