Embarrassment

I think everyone, once we become adults, has at some point felt embarrassed publicly by their parents. It’s inevitable, right, that they will do something, anything, that will annoy you and make you feel awkward to be seen with them in public. Well for me, that happens almost any time I’m in a place with my parents where something is “all you can eat” or “all you can grab,” and they make sure to take advantage of that to no end.

Yesterday, I took them to the hotel lounge at the Marriott Marquis in San Francisco, where Chris and I will be staying this week, and they were wide-eyed when they saw all the snacks, full dinner spread, and fresh cut up fruit neatly laid out for guests to take. Needless to say, they wanted to take advantage of it, even if that meant stuffing a few bags of potato chips and a handful of apples into my mom’s reusable shopping bag. My dad took the liberty of filling a plate of food with pork loin, Israeli couscous, and sautéed spinach, and eating it, even though we had dinner plans at a Vietnamese restaurant just an hour later with Chris. “Why are we going out to eat if there’s free food to eat here?” my dad mumbled between bites.

I feel bad about my embarrassment. Really, I do. I was reminded countless times growing up (and still occasionally, now) that my dad grew up in a Chinatown ghetto with barely enough food to eat, which meant he oftentimes ate leftover spoiled food and got sick. My mom grew up in rural, poor central Vietnam with mostly rice and only rice to eat — not many vegetables, and meat was a luxury item rarely seen or even smelled. I’ve never had to worry about having enough food to eat, or a variety of dishes to eat, and now, I get to stay at hotels where the food and variety overfloweth, and my parents only get to experience this when they’re with Chris and me. I get why they would want to take as much as they’d like. To them, the world could end any second, all their life savings could diminish tomorrow (that’s what happens when you don’t trust the world at all), and so they want to take as much as they can and save everything “just in case.” Granted, my parents are financially comfortable enough to travel at their leisure; they just have zero desire to do so and find travel and enjoying life’s pleasures wasteful. They live like paupers, and when they see a lot to take, they will take as much as they can get.

My mom is aware of my feelings of embarrassment. That’s why she scolded my dad when he suggested getting a few more bags of potato chips. I overheard her say, “Don’t do that. Yvonne doesn’t like it.” I feel conflicted about it, but I guess this is probably what will happen with every subsequent generation to some degree. Maybe we’ll just never understand each other, or worse, maybe they’ll never really know me the way I wish they could. I just don’t think they have the capacity to know me and what I’m really about.

And that makes me sad because then I think: what if my future kids end up feeling the exact same way about me? 

“Home”

“Have so much fun at home!” a few of my colleagues exclaimed as I was heading out on Friday. “It will be so nice for you to spend time with your parents and family!”

Home means different things to different people. Oftentimes when you tell others you are going home, it conjures up the idea of going back to the familiar, to the house or neighborhood in which you were raised in all of its relative sheltered glory. It can mean getting pampered by your parents with all of your favorite home-cooked meals, getting your mom to do your laundry for you since you’re a “special” temporary guest at the house for a finite period of time, and having whatever errands you don’t like doing done for you by your parents or siblings. It means seeing all your family and friends you grew up with again.

Usually, these feelings that “home” conjures up are happy. Colleagues think it must be happy. Friends from where you currently live think it must be relaxing for you. Well, “happy” or “relaxing” are not necessarily the first words that come to mind when I think of going back home. In fact, better adjectives to describe my feelings about going home include “conflicted,” “stressed,” “anxious,” and “torn.”

I love San Francisco. I love it even with how increasingly expensive it is becoming, despite the increasing homelessness problem that the city refuses to acknowledge or take care of, despite that neighborhoods I used to walk through look completely different today than what they were twenty years ago. What I do not love are all the unnecessary and completely made up conflicts of my family, immediate and not immediate, the senseless arguments I know will happen within days of arriving because of my mother’s twisted, negative way of looking at the world and assuming everyone is out to get her (and me, for that matter), and the awareness that every single time I go home, I know I will never see my brother again. It is a constant and inevitable reminder that he is dead, gone from this world by his own hand, and likely to get the hell away from all the undeserved, incessant criticism and torture he endured in that house on the hill we grew up in. Every moment I am there, I feel like I am waiting to get accused of doing something wrong or not doing something I should have done, or getting criticized for something about Chris or his family or both. I try to deal with it for a few blows by not saying anything, by being silent, but I’m not weak, so I cannot just sit there and take it. So of course inevitably, I will yell back and let her know I’m not going to take her made up lies and perceived hate.  I know most people say that all other (Asian) parents are kind of like this. After speaking with different families and therapists for most of my life, I know that what I face, and what my brother used to face, is quite a bit different.

What is scary, though, is that oftentimes when kids feel this way about their parents, their parents have no clue they have these feelings. Mine are included here. They think we must be excited to come home. They’re temporarily excited to have us home for the first few days. They don’t have the awareness that their excitement is temporary, though. They cannot imagine why we would not want to visit. I mean, they raised us and brought us into this world, right? We owe them. How could we not want to visit? That’s… being ungrateful. The least we could do is visit, especially since in my case, we’re not… supporting them. Maybe it’s the immigrant Asian thing. Immigrant Asians think they gave their kids a “better life” by immigrating to a Western country with supposedly better opportunities and privileges. Because they made these sacrifices, they think their kids owe them. I’ve had to think about this almost my whole life, and I still cannot quite wrap my head around these two generations reconciling this conflict fully. It doesn’t seem like it has a resolution. It’s one of those things that just goes with you to the grave.

So, all of the above is why the concept of “home” is so conflicting for me. It’s why when other colleagues who live away from home tell me they are going home, I don’t immediately make comments like, “That’s so great!” or “That’s so exciting!” or “It will be so relaxing for you!” I don’t really mind hearing comments like this directed to me because they’re just generic, and I don’t expect everyone to be aware of my dysfunctional home, nor do I expect others to be sensitive to the fact that “home” is not a happy place for everyone. When others tell me they are going home, I usually respond with a comment like, “Are you looking forward to it?” Funnily enough, a lot of times, I don’t get a positive response to that.

There are more unhappy families out there than people realize. Or, maybe people just want to live in their tiny ignorant bubbles and believe that most families are happy and seemingly functional.

Smile!

I’m sitting at home watching the Democratic National Convention tonight, listening to Hillary’s acceptance speech while trying to anticipate all the things she’s going to get criticized for. The very first thing that comes to mind: that she’s not smiling enough.

It’s a woman’s traditional role, right, to be pleasant and agreeable, and therefore we’re expected to smile and to serve. She certainly has served the American people quite well in her lifetime, but I know for a fact that tomorrow, when I start reading articles or scroll my Twitter feed to see comments on her speech, her lack of smiling (except at the end) will be commented on negatively by a bunch of idiot men out there. While it’s exciting to have the glass ceiling broken in having the first woman being nominated for a major political party in this country, it makes me want to grind my teeth thinking about how even more intensely scrutinized she will be for being the first.

Car accident

After watching President Obama address the Democratic National Convention tonight, we received the sad news that my mother-in-law’s cousin’s son had suddenly died in a car accident in Nashville. It’s hard to imagine the shock and anguish that his family must be going through right now.

When my brother died, I used to wonder what could make me feel worse about his death, if there were any other cause that would have made me feel more useless. The only thing that came to mind was if he were murdered by someone or killed in some reckless accident that someone else caused. But it’s hard to imagine how I would have reacted if he died in this way. Grief is grief at the end of the day, but some things have the capacity to haunt you for far longer, if not forever.

Father’s Day

Father’s Day. It’s one of those holidays that has never really meant much in our family because the act of giving gifts isn’t something that either of my parents really care about. They expect gifts, yes, but more just the thought than the actual gift. One time, my mom just assumed (wrongly) that I hadn’t sent anything to my dad, so she preemptively decided to lecture me about everything my dad has done for me and how I should be grateful. I told her to zip the lip and stop babbling because we were still days away from actual Father’s Day.

I still remember one year, I got my dad a healthy cooking recipes book, and the store offered free gift wrapping, so I had it wrapped. I presented it to my dad on Father’s Day, and he said thanks… then didn’t open the gift until eight months later.

I used to call for Father’s Day, but I realized my dad didn’t really appreciate it. Whenever I send him any gift, instead of calling me to thank me, he emails me a single one liner email: “Hi Yvonne, Thank you for the (fill in the blank). -Daddy.” Calling is hard for someone who is anti social, even when it’s your own daughter.

Series of unfortunate (fake) events

I’m pretty certain that no matter what I do, no matter how satisfied or unsatisfied I am with the state of my life, I will always be plagued with really bad dreams. Unfortunately, they usually come in a string, so I will be annoyed waking up many many mornings in my future forever. Maybe this is just a sign that my subconscious needs to be cleared and that I need to see some medium who can clear my head completely.

In one dream over the weekend, someone was plotting to kill my brother. Ed knew this, so to prevent this man from killing him, he beat him to the punch and jumped off the bridge. This didn’t really make me happy.

In another dream, two of my best friends are gossiping about me, and I am overhearing their bad words about me when I’m not supposed to. I’m conflicted about what to say, so instead, I pretend I hear nothing and come meet them. I want to gauge their eyes out, though.

Then last night, I dreamt that Chris bought an old fixer-upper house that I did not approve of without letting me know, and he hoped that it would be our primary residence. The house is a three-story, one family home, and there’s no other way I could describe it other than that it looked eerie and seemed like the classic haunted house. Oh, and when I opened the front door, my parents were there. Somehow, they found out Chris had purchased this property and decided they would move right in and make themselves right at home. We’re living with my parents?!

Tomorrow night: what’s it gonna be?

 

On being a manager

For over three years at my last job, I managed at times up to five direct reports, and it was both rewarding and absolutely exhausting. Being responsible to hire and fully train employees who know nothing about your industry and your work is more than a full time job, but that was what I did. And for the first over 2.5 years at this current job, I was relieved of this responsibility as an individual contributor to my team. Once I got promoted, the management responsibilities began again.

The best part of being a manager is being a mentor to direct reports who welcome your help and want to learn from your expertise. They want to get better, and they take it on themselves to become better employees, better people. The worst part about being a manager? Managing people who don’t want you as a manager, don’t want a manager period, and want to do whatever they want, whenever they want, even if that means coming into the office only 40 percent of the time and feeling like she doesn’t need to justify it to you “or anyone else.”

Boy, is this fun.

Hate

My mom is wallowing in the post wedding period, grieving the fact that her daughter is now officially married off and part of another family. That sounds very gendered to say that the daughter gets “married off,” but hey, wouldn’t you want to be married off into another family if your family were as dysfunctional as mine? I’d say that for a guy or a gal.

She finally launched in a tirade against my mum-in-law, stating that she’s a cheap, ill-mannered “statue” who has no emotions and doesn’t want to spend a dime on me, and apparently wants to take me for everything I’m worth every time I see her. The assumption here is that every time I see my in-laws that they “force” me to pay for everything. This really couldn’t be any further from the truth. She’s angry that the last two times she’s had meals with my in-laws that they didn’t pay the bill. Well, they never had the chance to because my mom instructed my dad to secretly pre-pay the bill while pretending to go to the restroom. No one even gets to see the bill. So, she’s angry she’s paid, yet she never gave them the chance to pay. She created a no-win situation and has made herself out to be a “victim.”

There are a lot of stupid things about Chinese culture, but one of the dumbest and most frustrating ‘traditions’ is fighting over the bill at the end of a meal. My mom is short-sighted and has no knowledge of any culture outside of her own and my dad’s, but she doesn’t realize that people do not do this in every other culture; it looks embarrassing for people on the outside, and it’s just a ridiculous act. If you want to pay the bill, pay the bill. If you don’t want to pay the bill, then don’t. It’s really that simple. Don’t pay the bill and then get angry about paying it later. Also, don’t pay the bill and just “expect” the other person to pay the bill the next time. You’ll probably be disappointed. None of this does anyone any good. She made herself into a ‘victim’ when there’s no victims in this situation.

This reminds me of the time when years ago, my mom made a black friend in her JW congregation. She gave this friend a gift. The friend was happy and said thank you, then proceeded to open the gift in front of her. My mom was angrier than angry. She came home and yelled about it, saying this person had no manners and embarrassed her. I explained to her that in Asian culture, you typically don’t open the gift in front of the giver, but in Western culture, many people do this. She ignored me, insisted I was defending this friend, and said I was wrong. Well, the same thing happened in this case with my mother-in-law. She’s always right. Everyone else is always wrong.

I don’t know how anyone gets enough energy to have so much hate against everyone. I just cannot fathom it.

Purse organizers

In addition to following a handful of food blogs, I also follow a couple of fashion blogs for inspiration. One of these blogs specializes in fashion for petite women like myself, so I’ve actually gotten a lot of good tips regarding petite-friendly brands, how to wear certain pieces I never thought a small person could wear, etc. One of the latest posts from this blog was about purse organizers for large totes. Most large totes, if you are lucky, have the main compartment, maybe one zip compartment, and two pockets.. at most. This has always been a huge gripe of mine regarding hand bags and purses; why do they make it so difficult for you to organize all of the belongings that you need to carry with you? Why won’t they just factor these compartments into the overall design, especially given how expensive women’s purses can be?  And the bigger the bag, the more pockets and compartments you’d typically need, but no, these handbag companies do not care. They are sticking with their one-main-compartment schtick, and they don’t care what you want. Because of that, all these companies are coming out with “hand bag organizers” like this in an effort to cash in on the areas that these hand bag companies won’t help you with. Yes, I can see that these things are necessary, but my point is that it is frustrating that the handbag companies don’t take care of this on their own and require external companies to charge us even more money for dumb organizers like this.

Elon

I just started reading Elon Musk’s book, and it really pained me to learn how he was bullied through his school years. The worst incident happened when he was sitting on a stairway, and some kid who decided he didn’t like him pushed him down the stairs and smashed his face repeatedly into the ground. Elon ended up needing to be hospitalized for over a week, and in the end, he required plastic surgery to repair his nose.

It’s hard for me to understand bullying of that severity, or the type of bullying that makes children scared of going to school. I was bullied for minor things like my then tall height, my name, and of course, being terrible at kickball in elementary school, but it was never to a point where I feared for my security or my life. What is so stunning is how people like Elon move forward in their lives in spite of these setbacks and horrible life experiences with other people; it’s inspiring, but at the same time it infuriates me that this type of treatment of others is condoned and tolerated in schools around the world. And it also reminds me of how my own brother was bullied and got to a point where he just didn’t want to go to school anymore. Unfortunately, Ed wasn’t as strong or persevering as Elon.