Warm bedroom

It’s rare to wake up in my parents’ house and feel warm. Because the house is old and has no insulation, it’s constantly at least 10 degrees below what we consider “room temperature,” if even that. My parents have gotten so used to it that when a room actually is 68 degrees, they think it’s hot. But what has changed over the last year is that my mom has actually felt more and more cold, so they’ve finally been taking advantage of the central heat they installed years ago. I’ve been waking up the last two days feeling warm and cozy, even after I remove my bed covers and expose my arms to the world outside my bed. This felt very unusual and not “normal” for this house.

This momentarily made me angry this morning, though, as I remember Ed used to complain constantly about how cold the house was. Ed’s needs were never taken seriously, so our dad would reject it when Ed would say he wanted to turn the heat on. “Go put on a sweater!” our dad would yell. Then there would be the passive aggressive turn-on, turn-off battle between Ed and my dad. It really was so childish that it was embarrassing to witness. Ed would turn the heat on. Dad would complain and say no heat was needed (mainly because he didn’t want to spend the money on the heat. Isn’t money the main reason to not do most things in life?) and flip the switch off. Ed would go back and turn it on. The battle would ensue for as long as the two of them were home together. Or, occasionally I would insist the heat should be on, as I usually tried to side with Ed, and our dad would begrudgingly leave it on until he felt the house was warm enough, and then switch it off. Unfortunately, that never worked out because this house refuses to retain heat, so the house would just get cold again.

If you cannot be warm and comfortable in your own home, where are you supposed to be comfortable? Or in this case, Ed was never treated like he was a true, worthy part of this house, so his comfort was disregarded and ignored. And now because he’s dead, he’s never coming back to enjoy this warmth that I now have a chance to wake up to here.

Normalcy

In the late morning today, I sat in the Intercontinental hotel lounge while working, waiting for my parents to pick me up. My mom was hell bent on taking me to one of her favorite Vietnamese restaurants in the Tenderloin, which I admit is good, but is on the dodgiest street and has questionable sanitation based on the latest San Francisco health violations report. Then, we’d eventually go home to that cold house on the hill in the Richmond which I have so many negative associations with; “home sweet home,” as some would call it.

This is what I am used to now, as my friend marveled yesterday, a life of four- to five-star hotels, travel, and most importantly… freedom; freedom from having every action I do get scrutinized and criticized, freedom from being told that my showers are too long or that I’m using too much toilet paper or that the brownies I made are too sweet and bad for my parents’ health (even when they asked me to make them). Life now is a strong contrast to what it used to be while living under their roof and their senseless, suffocating, and irrational rules. My “normal” now is vastly different from my “normal” as a child growing up in this house.

That’s why it’s always so frustrating and embarrassing every time I come home and get reminded endlessly of all the insipid things that happen in this house: the constant food waste because they both insist on cooking enough food for 6-8 people when it’s just the two of them; the shower head that won’t adjust to pull down because my dad is too cheap to get a removable shower head installed, the kitchen that was technically expanded but never fully finished because he decided to put the project on hold.. for the last seven years; the piles of junk he’s accumulated from ex-tenants who never cleared out their apartments (that he insists on bringing home) and the hoarding from Craigslist; the constant sorting of “compost waste” from paper from plastic as what appears to be a daily hobby, or in my eyes, a complete and stupid waste of time; my parents eating dinner “together” while my father sits at his computer like a child and watches YouTube videos while my mother actually sits at the table eating by herself. Other than the carpet that my mother had installed 17 years ago and some cheap plastic “dressers” in the two bedrooms, this house is almost exactly like what it was when my dad was a teenager; slightly dilapidated, completely free from renovation, and freezing as hell. He never moved out of his parents’ house. This house is pretty much exactly the same as then.

But this is what is “normal” to them. It’s “normal” for them to sit like that at the dinner table. It’s normal to have a peeling kitchen counter when they could afford to have it replaced. It’s normal for them to hoard junk so that beds and chairs are no longer places where you can sit or lie down without clearing everything off them for five minutes.

My version of “normal” was once that, but even as a young child, I knew so many things here were not normal. I know that the “normal” I have in my mind now will never, ever be achievable in this house with them. Ed tried to believe he could somehow get there, and he realized at the end of his life it was impossible. The only way to have a “normal” life is to separate myself from all this as much as possible.

Thank God Chris comes here for work, otherwise I’d have zero buffer and zero normalcy.

 

First of many fights

Every time I come home, I can always anticipate at least one fight for every three days I am here with my mom. They are usually about stupid, inane things that she gets upset about, and here was today’s.

I’m working in downtown today, and Chris picked a restaurant for us to eat at tonight with my parents and aunt. I can’t get through the land line to my parents, and the cell phone is shut off (because they love to keep it off), so I called my aunt to tell her the restaurant address and time to meet, and asked her to tell my parents all this information. She agreed and we hung up.

I called my mom just now, and she’s obviously angry and speaking in an icy tone. “Why didn’t you just leave a message? Why did you have to tell your aunt that we didn’t answer and that you couldn’t get a hold of us and get her all in our personal business? You’re causing all kinds of trouble. All I want is peace. Don’t you realize I’m in pain? I’m in pain!”

She’s always in pain. That’s her excuse for everything.

I never realized that asking my aunt to give my parents a simple message would cause so much anger and resentment in my mom. She yelled and said she only invited my aunt to dinner tonight because my aunt offered to take the whole family out to eat this Saturday. Yep, that’s typical my-mom behavior for you; she feels guilty when someone else does something nice for her or me, so right away (literally, RIGHT AWAY) she has to do something to “pay back” that person. Otherwise, she says she has a “guilty conscience.” That makes a lot of sense. It’s the most unhealthy mindset when someone does something nice for you. Then again, she gets mad about everything, so this just adds to the list.

Back to a reality of being blamed

I called my parents for the first time since coming back to New York this evening, and my mom immediately brings up the spicy food order I sent them and says that it has now caused my dad a prostate infection. She said she didn’t want to blame me, but she wanted me to know the facts. Umm… what? That was weeks ago now, and what does a spicy food order from over two weeks ago have to do with some supposed prostate infection of today? I told her I had no idea what she was talking about and to put my dad on the phone. He was awkward, but he would tell this to me straight.

“The food has nothing to do with the infection,” my dad said in an annoyed tone. “Don’t listen to anything she says. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. And also, we’re still waiting for the test results, so we don’t even know if I actually have a prostate infection yet. Prostate infections cannot be caused by food. She just loves to connect two unrelated things and say one caused the other.”

Oh, really? Are you just realizing that now, Dad?

 

Bad gifts

I sent my parents a dinner gift a couple days before Christmas to acknowledge the holiday indirectly since my mom cannot celebrate Christmas. If I sent her a gift on the day of Christmas, she’d be really mad at me and feel guilty to Jehovah. But December 23? Bring it.

I didn’t realize how spicy the food would be since the restaurant was labeled “Beijing cuisine” until I talked to my parents on the phone. My mom started her sentence with, “I’m grateful for the thought and appreciate you thinking about us, but…” That’s never a good way to start a sentence. She proceeded to go on for about a whole two minutes, telling me that the food was so spicy that it was nearly inedible, that my dad got worried his blood pressure would go up and something bad would happen to his heart. He got so paranoid about it that he kept checking his blood pressure with his at-home monitor. Ever since the heart surgery two years ago, the blood pressure and heart have been an easy method for both of them to use to try to make me feel guilty for anything.

This is always why Ed dreaded giving my parents gifts even though he always wanted to give them gifts – well, more our mom. He sporadically gave our dad gifts out of guilt but never really wanted to after he became an adult because he knew he was never grateful for them, and at times, he’d never even open them until literally years later. They’d always show their annoyance about something about the gift that would eventually cause us to get frustrated. Sometimes, our mom would make us return the gift (Ed fumed over that one). And for me, sometimes, the gifts I’d give would not be enough, as she’d expect more. I’ve never heard of any other culture other than Asian cultures acting this way when receiving gifts, even from their own families.

Dead battery

At the end of yesterday’s engagement party in a suburban Melbourne park, Chris and I got into the car to find that the car would not start. Even the side-view mirrors, which usually turned all the way out when you unlocked the doors, only turned out half way when I pressed the button. Fortunately, we weren’t too far away from home, and Chris’s parents hadn’t taken off yet and called for roadside support. We found out that the battery had died, which we suspected, and that while typical batteries for this type of car last only four years, Chris’s mother (who owns this vehicle) had this battery for going on seven years now. So, it was just lucky for all of us that this happened near home and with the family present, and not at a critical time for transportation needs. This morning, Chris’s dad called Lexus to come to the house to replace the battery, and everything now is as good as new.

As Chris’s dad explained all of this to me, he spoke with a smile, saying how happy he was that it happened yesterday with everyone present, that this was a blessing in disguise and how fortunate the car was to have had a battery that lasted seven years and not just four. The entire time as he is speaking, I am standing there slightly in awe, again wondering what would have happened if the same situation happened in my own family. It’s hard to get away from it, but I always have these “what if that happened in my family?” thoughts when things go slightly awry in Chris’s family.

In my own family, I could imagine how the scene would have been very different. Even in the calmest situations, my family manages to create tension and stress where it doesn’t even exist. So when real problems arise, it’s literally like hell breaking loose.

If it were me driving my dad’s car (I got shudders thinking about that), I’d be asked… did you make sure to shut off the headlights or running lights (well, that’s irrelevant in this case because with this model, the lights shut off automatically when you shut off the engine)? Did you have the AC going too much? What other bad things could you possibly have done to have caused this to happen? Why did you not see this coming? Did you have anything plugged into the car that could have drained the battery? All of this would be yelled in an accusatory tone. In other words, all of this is your fault, and you caused this to happen. In my family, someone is always to be blamed, and it’s never my parents. It’s always Ed or me. And now that Ed is gone, it’s pretty much always me.

 

Thanksgiving vs. “friendsgiving”

Today, we’re departing for our now annual European Thanksgiving week trip, and this year, we’re headed to Spain. This is our fourth European Thanksgiving trip together: in 2013, we were in Germany; in 2014, we went to Vienna, Austria, and Budapest, Hungary; in 2015, we trekked throughout Switzerland. In our two Thanksgivings before that, we were in Ocean City, Maryland in 2011, and Puerto Rico in 2012. It’s been a trip that we both look forward to and is a new tradition we have as a family of 2.

Despite being away for the actual Thanksgiving week, I love Thanksgiving and still try to have a Thanksgiving feast with friends in the week or two before we leave. I have a lot of fond memories of having Thanksgiving dinners growing up with my family, when we were more or less altogether and somewhat cohesive. The last Thanksgiving I was home for was in November 2003, which is now over 13 years ago. It was the Thanksgiving of my last year of high school, and little did I know that I’d never come back home for Thanksgiving ever again. I’d never have a reason to. Why would you come home for Thanksgiving when your mother and your aunt are Jehovah’s Witnesses, your dad doesn’t want to participate when your mom doesn’t, your cousins and their wives don’t even want to all be in the same room together, your uncle would rather work overtime and get paid time and a half than spend a traditional family meal together, and your brother is dead because he committed suicide? Thanksgiving with family is special and matters only when the family you are going back to matters and cares about the holiday and you. If they don’t care about the holiday or you, then it’s not special and it doesn’t matter. It’s just another day on the calendar, and here in the U.S., you get at least a random Thursday off for it.

That’s why I don’t like it when people call Thanksgiving meals with friends “friendsgiving.” I completely understand why people feel a need to differentiate it; Thanksgiving is *supposed* to be with family, so you need a marker to denote that your modified Thanksgiving meal was with friends. But what if you don’t have a family, or your family doesn’t care about having a Thanksgiving meal with you either because they don’t care about Thanksgiving, you, or both, and all you have are your friends? What if you choose to have your Thanksgiving celebration with friends? Why should that be denigrated to a “friendsgiving” as opposed to a Thanksgiving? My Thanksgiving meal the last several years has been with friends; I’m not calling it “friendsgiving.” And I correct people when they say, “Oh, you had friendsgiving early.” It’s insensitive without them even realizing it.

 

New baby

Chris’s cousin and his wife have just had their third baby boy. We received the news via email two days ago, and some photos have been shared over email and our secret family Facebook group. The outpouring of congratulations and happy sentiments were quick to be shared.

It’s always amusing to think of how family news is shared in Chris’s family vs. my family. In Chris’s family, people literally scream, shout, and burst into happy dances. In my family, people either have no reaction or when they do have some reaction, it tends to either be indifferent or negative. When I got engaged, there was very little reaction outside of my aunts and uncle – even that was quite muted. My parents barely even reacted, and my mom asked me later, “Are you sure?” Two out of four cousins didn’t even respond to my email because they didn’t care. When my cousin’s first and only baby was born four years ago, his own brother didn’t even text, call, or email to congratulate him. When confronted about it two weeks later, he said he was “busy.”

I wonder what it would be like when I get pregnant and share the news. Maybe I won’t even share it with my extended family at all and just let them know after the baby is born. It’s not like they truly care anyway, so what difference would it make?

Thanksgiving gatherings at a difficult time

Since the election, I’ve heard so many stories from colleagues regarding their Thanksgiving plans. A lot of their plans or their friends’/partners’ plans are being revised because they do not want to spend them with their families for Thanksgiving. These are people who come from politically divided families where they don’t believe the same things as the majority of their families do, and they know if they go home, the topic of the election will come up, and they will get attacked.

I honestly don’t know when it became the “right” thing to do to support a presidential candidate with no actual policies and who is constantly spewing lies, but like so many news commentators have been saying lately, we now live in a world where facts no longer matter to the average American – we’re so smart. Well, “lies” only matter in this case when we are scrutinizing a woman, since as during biblical times, Eve was supposedly responsible for conning Adam. In this world we live in now, we have to penalize dishonesty in women but admire it in men. Oh, progress.

I’m saddened to hear the news of these families, though. I really am. People are cancelling plane and train trips and just not spending family holidays with families. “It’s not that I cannot disagree,” my colleague said to me, nearly in tears while we caught up during our one-on-one. “It’s that they don’t even want to listen to anything I have to say and immediately say I am stupid and I am supporting a crook. They won’t even listen!” I jokingly asked if she was referring to Trump as a crook (since that’s what he is), and she laughed in response.

I mentioned this during our early Thanksgiving meal at home this past weekend, and my friend’s boyfriend said he thought it was so “lame” (I guess it’s easy to say that when you have no connection to your family at all and your parents are dead, though). I don’t think it is at all. If you fundamentally have different opinions from the family and “friends” you think you are closest to and love most, how can you actually “look forward” to spending time together? In your heart of hearts, if you believe that Asians or Muslims or brown-skinned or black-skinned people are lesser than white people, if you believe that women are inherently less intelligent and capable than men, if you believe that your heterosexual identity gives you the right to oppress the lives of people who do not identify as you do, then I don’t believe that we can have a functional relationship. I mean, I already struggle with this in my own family: my uncle thinks all the black people getting shot and killed by police officers are better off dead than alive, that the “Black Lives Matter” movement is ridiculous and anti-police. “The world can always use one less thug,” he said. I was so shocked when he said this to me over dinner one night that I didn’t even respond and changed the subject. Then, there’s my parents, who basically think everyone who is not white or Chinese is bad in some way. My mom blamed the recession in 2008 and my 2009 layoff on “that black president.” Funny how she forgot that the recession actually happened during a white man’s presidency, but she, like so many other people, forget the things they want to forget and only remember what they want to remember that is convenient for their deluded story.

It’s hard to have political debates with people who don’t want to listen just as my colleague said. But when I say “listen,” I mean actually listen to people who have substantive arguments and views, not ideas that are based on lies like “Obama was born in Kenya” or racist desires like “America would be better off with less black people.” I think I’ve spent enough time “listening” to those people.

Gullible

So, I just spent the last couple of days pondering how stupid people can be to believe headlines and articles like the ones I posted about yesterday. Now, I’m finding out that my parents are the ones who actually believe these things.

Granted, I had a feeling my dad may not have been on the Hillary band wagon in this election, but I also knew he thought Trump was “insane” as he said himself this past September. Why did I have this feeling? Well, when he was taking a break from his computer when I was home in September, I saw several open tabs on his web browser that had the label “Killary.” Gee, I wonder what positive things those videos were discussing and factually reporting.

Today, my mom says to me on the phone: “You know, if you want to know why Hillary didn’t win the election, I’m sure if you go on the internet or YouTube, you can find out all the awful things she has done.” She goes on to insinuate that the Clintons have murdered hundreds of people.

I insisted to her that she cannot believe everything she reads, and it’s important to have sources when citing things. I don’t know why I even bothered saying this to my mother, who has no idea what that statement even means. She got frustrated and said I don’t believe these bad things about her because I lack wisdom (yep), and it’s not like the government does anything for her, anyway, so why should she care about them?

I told her that if she really felt that way, that she gets zero benefit out of the government, maybe she should just leave this country. I mean, hey, the government doesn’t do anything for her here, right, doesn’t provide her Medicare, doesn’t give her social security benefits that she is happy to collect every single month until she dies, didn’t enforce her disability payments all those years? The government also didn’t give her two children free education from preschool through 12th grade, right? If I recall correctly, she had zero years of formal schooling in Vietnam, and if she did have it, her mother would have had to pay for it. And because my maternal grandmother was cheap and sexist, she refused to send my mom to school.

Sometimes, it’s like my mother has completely forgotten what she fled to come here for, and now, she’s just one of these same ungrateful Americans who thinks that government is all bad and doesn’t benefit people like her. She didn’t respond very well to what I said, but I don’t really care. She really shouldn’t try to act like she can have a conversation about politics when she knows zero about our political system or any political system for that matter.