Speaking of confrontation, Chris’s brother confronted him about some things he was upset about during our car ride to the airport for our side New Year’s trip to Indonesia. Needless to say, it was an animated conversation en route to the airport, but what needed to be said was said, and some lingering issues were resolved. Yep, that’s what I call adults being adults and seeking resolution. More people need to do this. Seriously. 

Even though I enjoy coming to Australia to explore the country and see Chris’s family and friends, there’s certainly a point I reach when it gets to be a bit exhausting for me. This would be normal for anyone to get tired of hearing the bickering and bantering that tends to happen with siblings and parents who have obviously known each other all their lives. In my family when Chris is around, it’s more passive aggression than any real bickering or yelling for the most part; my parents always attempt (but usually fail) to try to act “normal” when Chris is around, but Chris can see through it and all the things they say and do that seep out without their even being aware of it. But in Chris’s family, it’s constant debates over everything such as local Australian politics (how similar is the current ruling party to Trump?), whether British royalty should still exist, or whether a photo should be submitted for the family Photo of the Year contest because someone in it is topless. It’s just the way they talk and banter. On the bright side, at least it’s meaningful conversation about important world topics (well, not the topless photo one). These conversations can get a little too colorful and loud at times. This is why I don’t really mind having distance from family on either side; it actually gives us some breathing room. 

In her book Dear Girls, Ali Wong strongly advises her daughters to marry someone from her own culture. A number of reasons are cited, but the ones that I would immediately get: You don’t have to explain things that you find second nature, whether it’s your customs, your language, your foods… YOUR FOODS. This is a big one. One of the worst things she’s experienced when dating white men is their reaction to different foods that she adores at dim sum on the weekends. “YOU ACTUALLY EAT CHICKEN FEET?” or “HOW CAN YOU EAT THAT?” These comments are not just ignorant, but they are outright offensive. Like Anthony Bourdain once said, “Don’t yuck my yum.” Because that statement is fully rooted in ignorance, bigotry, and whether you are aware of it or not, racism. She also notes that once, she took a white guy she was dating to a Korean restaurant, and he kept exclaiming over and over how much he loves kimchi when it was brought to the table with a number of other banchan dishes. This is one of the stupidest things she’s encountered. “Kimchi is a staple in the Korean kitchen,” she said. “A white guy exclaiming about how much he loves kimchi is like an Asian person going to a white person’s house, seeing white bread on the table, and exclaiming how much he loves white bread!” This was dead on true.

I don’t necessarily think I’ve made a very “different” decision being with Chris; he’s Indian Asian, and so he understands a lot about Asian culture in general: no shoes in the house, respect for parents/bringing them a gift the first time he meets them, food (because he’s not an idiot). While he has a strong preference for food from the Asian continent over any other region of the world, there are still many, many things I love and identify as “comfort food” that he will never quite love as much as me. This includes: noodle soup (pho, wonton noodle soup) — forget it. He will have a spoonful or two and then go back to his rice dish; then there’s things like Chinese seitan/kao fu — he’ll eat it, but he doesn’t get why I love this strangely textured sweet, savory, meatless blob. He doesn’t love East Asian desserts the way I do unless they have mango or coconut. He happily devours pretty much all things that have meat in them, and once there’s rice, he’s all over it. And for sure, one thing he happily eats is any Asian vegetable (other than bitter melon). I thought about this last night when I went out with a white guy friend, and he said he really did not like the water spinach/morning glory/kong qing cai. I glared at him — that’s one of my all time-favorite Asian vegetables!

One of my biggest fears once I reached adulthood was to marry someone who would tokenize me or had an Asian fetish, who would in front of me tell me that he loved me, but then tell his Asian colleague at work “to go back to where he came from” (yes, I know someone this has happened to). Yes, this is targeted specifically at white people. So, maybe it’s a bit of reverse racism, but I never had a desire to date or marry anyone who was white because of this. You never really know, do you? I don’t really have to think about this when I am with someone else who is Asian, so that’s the way I think about this.

My mom never experienced much affection at all from her mom. Her dad died when she was only six, and my mom was the youngest of ten kids in a country, culture, and household where girls were deemed to be useless. My maternal grandmother looked at my mom as the lowest of the low: not only was she a girl, she was also the youngest of ten, so she was of the least importance to her of all the kids. I think my mom took this to heart and instead as a mom to me, always made sure to hug and kiss me and to remind me constantly that she loved me. I don’t believe she did it as much with Ed because he was a boy and therefore less likely to reciprocate with any of the above.

But the one way she always showed love to both of us was trying to get us to eat as much as possible. It’s an Asian parent thing, I suppose, that even if words and actions fail that food will always succeed. No food consumed was ever enough. “Are you still hungry?” “Eat some more.” “Have more of this.” <Adds more stew/stir-fry/dumplings/whatever is on the table to your plate>. The more we would eat, the happier she would be. When I leave home to go back to New York or wherever I am going, during the last meal together, she always insists on my eating more and more and more. And then, if that were not enough, she tries to pack me as many things as possible, whether it’s lao po bing (these winter melon cakes I like that my dad just bought in Chinatown) or more bao “just in case you get hungry on the plane.” This time, I can’t carry as much since I’m heading to LA for the next few days, so she is dismayed that she cannot add much to my luggage. So she insists as she does each time that I a) stay for longer and b) bring a bigger suitcase so she can pack more food for me.

It’s a little crazy and overbearing in some ways (she has legitimately tried to get me to pack 5 pounds of oranges in my luggage to take back from San Francisco to New York!), but in other ways, it’s extremely endearing and an obvious sign of love and affection, so it’s hard for me to tell her that she can’t pack me food because that’s almost like telling her she cannot show me love. To my mom, food is love, and it’s how she communicates she loves me… and how she used to communicate that she loved Ed.

Since Ed’s passing, I have struggled on and off with feelings of anger towards pretty much very single member of our family, but especially our parents. However, I haven’t felt a lot of anger towards him, more frustration and sadness that he’d left me. But while at home earlier this week, and while I was dusting his dresser with his large, framed photo from his funeral and the koala stuffed animal I left beside it, I started feeling really, really angry towards him. It kind of crept up on me a little out of nowhere, and I started thinking to him, “Well, isn’t it nice that you aren’t here, and I have to deal with this cluttered, filthy house on my own! They have no one else to lean on except me! I’m here all alone!” I have to listen to her stories of alleged (and fake) victimization. I have to listen to his constant talking to himself. You don’t have to deal with any of this anymore. Well, isn’t that just convenient?!

Then, I caught myself. Why am I feeling angry towards my brother of all people? He was the one who suffered and was abused and misused. He only did what he thought was his last option. Surviving on earth was not an option to him because it prolonged his suffering. I’ve been able to experience a whole world of experiences and emotions and perspectives he’s never been privileged to. Of the two of us, I was always the lucky one. And then my guilt sank in and immediately replaced my anger. He’s gone, and I’m being a terrible sister.

As I thought that, my eyes welled up. Am I still a sister even though my one sibling is gone? Can I still call myself a sister?

While walking through Golden Gate Park this morning, my parents and I completely lucked out when we passed the California Academy of Sciences (which also includes the Planetarium and the Steinhart Aquarium) to find out that admission was free for us this weekend given our zip code (I still have my San Francisco driver’s license). It is normally about $40 for adults and $35 for seniors, so this was a pretty lucky and substantial savings for us today.

We wandered through the aquarium, and while my dad was getting oogly-eyed over all the beautiful colors of the fish, my mom was more focused on the size of the fish and whether they would be good to eat. “This would taste delicious!” she said, while pointing at a big fish that could easily be compared to a sea bass. “And this one,” she gestured towards, “this one would be good to cook!” I was smiling to myself and laughing on the inside, thinking, this is the shit that Asian parents say when going through an aquarium. “This one is a monster!” she exclaimed. “Would this be poisonous if we ate it?”

“WHAT?!” I said to her. “You’re not supposed to be looking at all these fish thinking they are tasty! These are for you to enjoy watching them!”

She laughed and patted my arm. She just wants to eat them all.

There exists a cocktail that is called the fuzzy navel. It’s a mixed drink made from peach schnapps and orange juice. Depending on the drinker’s taste, it could even have a stash of vodka or some added lemonade.

I’ve actually never had this cocktail myself, but I thought about it this morning when I woke up from the oddest stream of dreams. In the first dream, my mom is accusing of doing something I know I didn’t do (well, I guess that’s just a sad flashback to my years of living and being slightly mentally tortured at home). But in the second dream I can recall, Chris is telling me that my stomach is hairy and that I should consider waxing it. I have visible hair on my stomach? I thought. I have a fuzzy navel…? What happened to me overnight that this could be possible?

I arrived at my parents’ house this evening to my mom peering out the window. She had already buzzed the gate in anticipation of my arrival home. She has been under the weather, so she didn’t give me the usual hug and kiss, but instead kept walking around me as I unpacked my bags and gifts for her, asking me endless questions. She’s so excited to see me that she bombards me with questions, asking about everything from the food I ate on the plane to weather the flight attendants were nice to me. It’s the way she shows she cares and loves, I suppose.

Then, my dad poked his head out of his bedroom and greeted me from down the hallway. He asked how my flight was, if everything was smooth and on time. Then, he went back into his room and onto his computer. It’s the usual routine: a little small talk and a greeting, and then back to his usual hermit self.

I don’t really know if this behavior annoys me anymore. If anything, it’s more just a routine with the way my parents are. Their behavior at this point in my life is extremely predictable, as they always go through the same questions, the same motions, the same exhibition of their own foibles. Perhaps predictability isn’t necessarily a bad thing in this case.