Family.

In my culture, they say, “Dinner’s ready” instead of “I love you”; they say, “I did the laundry for you” instead of “I am so proud of you”; they say, “Wear a jacket when you go out” instead of “I care about you”. They are sometimes annoying, controlling, even overbearing, but ALWAYS loving. Yes, let’s talk about “family”.

Family. Familia. Famille. 家 [Pronunciation: Ga (Cantonese)/Jia (Mandarin)].

It was Mid-Autumn Festival (中秋節) just a week ago. It is a tradition of Chinese people which you can interpret as the Chinese Thanksgiving. On that day, families usually meet and have dinner together. We play lanterns, eat mooncakes (月餅, a kind of Chinese pastry) and rice dumplings (湯圓), and share our joys and sorrows. My family value this traditional custom because it has been passed on by our ancestors since day one. However, these few years, they have to celebrate Mid-Autumn without my presence. Family was never my priority, and I never realized the importance of family until I came to the US.

Although I am the only child, I dare say I never really had a close relationship with my family. By “close,” I do not only mean it physically but also the understanding we have for each other. I grew up in a stereotypical Chinese household. Dad never smiles in front of me, not to mention showing affection to us; Mom is a good cook and housekeeper, but she never asks us how we feel. Growing up in such an environment, I was taught that showing our emotions is a kind of weakness— a taboo, almost. How are we supposed to learn about each other when we do not show how we feel? I could not fathom this, and I used to put all the blame on my family.

I had always thought of my parents as over-protective and manipulating. When I was a child, I used to cover my feet with paint and made “footprints” all over that shiny white floor of my childhood place. My parents would scold me every single time I did this, and I would cry so loudly that I was sure all my neighbors could hear me. Later on, when I was in high school, I always blamed my parents for not letting me hang out with friends, sleep-over, and go home after the curfew of 10:00 pm. All these led to big arguments filled with teenage anger (I’m still a teen though, haha) that could explode and burn the whole house down. As a college freshman, I had to ask for their permission if I wanted to go to concerts or go on a trip to France, which they replied to me with an expected solid “N-O.”

I then decided not to tell them anything or involve them in any of my decisions because I knew they were going to reject them. Even that time when I got run over by a car, I didn’t tell them because I knew they were going to be worried about me and become even more protective.

But don’t get me wrong. You are not sitting here wasting time on reading how much I hate my family or how poorly we communicate. Let’s get this right: instead of talking behind their back, I am here to acknowledge their effort of raising me and being who they are.

I thank them for being my not-so-good-but-still-okay role model, my haven, and, of course, my parents.

No one was born having known how to raise a child, especially when your child is that “special snowflake” whom their classmates would make fun of in 5th Grade. No one was born having known how to take care of a child with asthma. No one was born having known how to understand a child who is queer and trans. No one— not even one single person on earth, is perfect.

My mom is a clumsy, timid middle-aged housewife. She would fall down the stairs if she walks too fast; she breaks things easily because she cannot even hold things tight. This woman who I call Mom is scared of almost every four-legged animal and would scream if she sees a teeny-tiny bug on the floor. So one day I was sitting on the couch, and I asked her, “Ah-Ma (呀媽/Mom in Cantonese), how did you teach me how to walk when you fall all the time?” She replied, “I don’t know. I guess I just did.” From her voice, I heard not only uncertainty, but also a sense of joy and pride. That pride can never be taken away by anyone. I now understand that they learn during the process of teaching, even though they don’t know how to teach.

When I went back to Hong Kong for the summer, I suddenly realized that they had more wrinkles and grey hair than I imagined. How much have they gone through before they reach this stage in life? How much have they sacrificed because of me? When I think back, no matter how messed up I am, I always get a warm bowl of soup when I get home. That time when my dad and I had a huge argument that I almost left home in the middle of the night, he brought me to yum-cha (basically means having dim-sum) the next morning. They never ask us to repay them anything, not a single penny. This is called love, and this love is unconditional. Perhaps they’re not using the best method to express their love, but I know they have already done their best.

Dear Mom and Dad, you don’t need to say “I care about you” because I know you do. You don’t need to say “I am proud of you” because I don’t deserve it. I suck at expressing my feelings, and I know you must be feeling the same. Ever since I was a child, I never really communicated with you about how I feel. I understand where you’re coming from, so I don’t blame you for this. However, from now on, I have the responsibility to at least inform you about my decisions. You may not agree with all of them, but what’s the point of being family without disagreeing with each other?!

You don’t have to say, “I love you,” really. I just need a bowl of rice and my favorite carrot soup.