Asian mothers are an interesting segment of Western society. While everyone is of course unique in her own way, the one thing that seems to unify all first-generation Asian mothers is that they all want to show their love for their children via food… LOTS of food. All the time. In every possible way and every possible minute. I recently learned of Chris’s friend’s mom, who is Cambodian, and how she loves to pack her daughters edible things that she claims they cannot get wherever they are, even if they are in major metropolitan areas with a plethora of very specific Asian groceries. The most ridiculous incident that I could not stop laughing about was when she packed an actual raw chicken on her flight from Melbourne up to Brisbane, claiming that the chicken in Brisbane would never be as good as the chicken in Melbourne. This got posted on Facebook. I saw it through Chris, and I thought, well, my mom’s pretty crazy about packing me food, but it’s never crossed that line.

My mom loves to marvel (and at times exaggerate) over how expensive food and groceries are in New York City vs. San Francisco. She clearly takes a lot of joy in telling me that she has to pack me everything from apricots and papayas to even freaking imported mochi and seaweed because, “It won’t be as good in New York as here.” Sometimes, what she says is true in this regard, but in most cases, it is not. But I love her for her effort anyway.

This time, she made sure to pack me a loaf of cha lua, also known as a Vietnamese pork roll, because she knows how much I love it and how rarely I get to eat it in New York, since the closest Vietnamese bakery I trust to buy it from is about 15 blocks outside of Brooklyn Chinatown, which I only get to at most twice a year. In addition to that, she packed me lots of other edibles. I always feel like I should resist given it’s always a lot of stuff and she probably spent too much time buying it all, but I see how much joy she takes in lining up all these things by my luggage on the day I leave that I feel like I will crush her soul if I say no. So I usually accept about 99 percent of it.

And this time, that beloved cha lua pork roll got scanned in the TSA pre-line security check multiple times and then swabbed because they probably thought it was a bomb or explosive. The TSA inspector kept looking at it, all neatly wrapped up in foil, with a puzzled look on his face, finally relented, and put it back in my backpack and handed me my bag.

I love my mom. I also love how ridiculous these airport security check machines are in scanning excessive food packed by Asian moms and mistaking them for explosives.

So the dinner with my parents, Chris’s parents, Chris, and even my aunt happened last night. From what Chris and his parents said, it was a “lovely” and “enjoyable” evening getting to know each other over some great food. Chris said all the predictable things happened in terms of topics of discussion and gift exchange, and I wondered what my mother would have to say about all this after I left work today.

So I called her, and one of the first things she says to me is, “Have you talked to Chris’s parents?” I told her that they texted me to say it was a fun evening. “Did they say anything? What did they say? Did they say anything about me or your father? Anything about how nice we are?” And so it goes. My mother is interrogating me because she was expecting Chris’s parents to write a full detailed report on the evening, how it played out, and most importantly, what they thought of my parents as people and as future parents-in-law to their precious first born. I felt tired hearing all the questions coming out of her mouth. No, they didn’t tell me lots of details. All they did was text me a simple line to let me know dinner was great! Why is this so hard to believe? I’m not withholding any information!

As Chris and I know, all of these questions and comments are coming out of my mom’s insecurity and lack of confidence. She is just so eager to be praised and to be told that she is, in fact, worthy.

So at the end of the conversation, my mom says that she thanks God that I am able to marry a boy who comes from such a good family. “It’s Jehovah’s blessing,” she said calmly.

She’s right. Well, sort of. It is a blessing from God. It’s a blessing from God that I am not marrying into a family anywhere in the universe of dysfunction as my own. It’s also a blessing that I am marrying a boy who is even willing to arrange a “meet the parents” dinner without my presence. As my friend told me the other day, “You’re really lucky with Chris because if that were me, I’d be outta there.” This boy of mine clearly has balls.

I am marrying a marketing and data geek. My baby is a data geek. He loves looking at data and numbers, and he hates it when people make anecdotal conclusions (well, unless they are his own, of course) unless they are backed up by numbers. Today, he pulled the entire history of my Twitter account and did a comparison of my Tweets before we began our relationship versus after. To be fair, I actually started Tweeting more after we got together because he loves Twitter and convinced me on how useful and fun it was. The comparison he did pulled out the most reoccurring themes/words that were used across posts.

Before Chris, some reoccurring words in my Tweets were “work,” “Thanksgiving,” “yum,” and “free.” After Chris, some of the most common words in my Tweets have been “love,” “surprise,” “homemade,” “happy,”and “Christmas.” So now, I indicate that I’m happy and that I love things more. Of course, the surprises are all his, since Chris loves to surprise me (but he doesn’t like them for himself… ever). I talk about Christmas more than Thanksgiving now because in a life with him, Christmas is always celebrated and loved in his family, whereas in my own, it was neglected unless Ed was there. Life has certainly changed since he’s been in the picture. My life has more surprises, unexpected fun, travel, and simply love.

Oh, and another word that has come up a bit in a world with Chris — “Bart.” That’s not necessarily a good thing because it’s indicative of the absence of Ed from my life now, but it shows a new phase of my life without him… and I guess the glimmer of hope that I still have the capacity to have a happy life despite losing my big brother the way I did.

I’m considering getting an ao dai, a traditional Vietnamese dress, made for our welcome dinner before our wedding next year. I’ve always imagined myself having a traditional western white dress and a Chinese qi pao, but I realized that would be slighting my mother, who is Vietnamese, which obviously makes me half Vietnamese. My mom’s always felt like her race was lesser since moving to the U.S. Her mother-in-law, my grandmother, thought that Vietnamese people were like the dirt of the earth and was so disappointed that my dad decided not to marry a Chinese girl and instead chose the filth that was my mother. My mother quickly learned English and Toisan, as useless of a language as it is, in order to communicate with her mother-in-law. She never taught Ed or me Vietnamese because my grandmother forbade it. And I think at some point, my mother actually believed after all my grandmother’s brainwashing that it was a useless language to learn, that Vietnamese culture didn’t matter as much as Chinese culture, and that we would grow up not knowing much about Vietnam other than the food.

I don’t want to contribute to the view that Vietnamese culture is less, though. I want my mom to know I’m proud to have her as my mother (as crazy as she drives me), that I’m happy that she has passed down this incredible culture to me. So I’d like to show it in the form of dress for the wedding period. I talked to her about it today, and she was so surprised. She said, “You want to wear an ao dai? But that is so old looking. It’s not stylish today.” I reminded her that I’m half Vietnamese, remember? She laughed and said, “Okay, if you want to, you can as long as it makes you happy. Just don’t spend too much money on it! You can get it for cheap in San Jose!” Always the practical one, my mom.

I continued my scanning insanity today and decided that today was the last day I’d be scanning anything on this trip. As I’m inspecting the photos I scanned to ensure that I didn’t cut anything off, I notice one photo in particular where our cousin, Ed, and I are posing with a candle-lit birthday cake downstairs in our dining room. I can’t be any older than 3-4, which means Ed must be around 10-11. I notice Ed’s desk in the background, with piles of books, papers, and likely school assignments awaiting him. And in the back of his desk, I see a tiny pink photo frame with a little picture inside. I zoom in on the photo on my screen, and I realized that the photo is actually of me, just a month or so after I was born. The photo is right under a picture he taped to the wall of a baseball player I cannot identify.

This immediately made my eyes fill with tears. I had an image in my head of my big brother, studying his grammar or history or doing his math drills, taking quick breaks to glance over at his admired baseball player and also of his little sister, who continued to annoy him to death with her screaming and crying throughout the day and night. I don’t think there’s anyone else I know who has a brother with a bigger heart than his.

I planned to spend just an hour or so scanning old family and friends photos tonight, but I became almost maniacal about it and spent over four hours going through and scanning pictures. I thought, I’m just going to take my favorite photos of Ed and me and scan those. Well, I guess almost all of our childhood photos have managed to become my “favorites,” and I became overwhelmed with how many of them gave me warm and fuzzy feelings that I ended up going a bit overboard.

All of our photos together when we were little are my favorites. Even before he passed away, whenever I’d come home, I’d always take a look at our childhood photos for at least a few minutes, just to try to remember a time when I knew Ed was genuinely happy. They are the biggest collection of photos of my brother smiling before the world broke him.

But one of my absolute favorite photos of just my brother, before I was even born, is this photo of him standing in front of Spreckles Lake in Golden Gate Park, with a remote-controlled car in front of him. His hands are holding the remote, and he has the most endearing smile on his little face. His eyes are big and wide, naive to all the pain that the world is going to offer him in his young life. Every time I look at that photo, I can feel my stomach unsettling, and my heart feels so hurt. When I see that photo, I think, “Damnit, why is this world so screwed up that it had to steal away your love of life and pure innocence?” I ended up using that photo in his funeral program.

I’ve become obsessive over his baby photos. I’ve scanned a great number of them tonight, and it’s been taking a long time given the way this old computer is configured. I don’t know what it is with me and these photos. When I come home, and I see that he’s no longer here and his clothing and papers and writing are no where to be seen, I feel like I have nothing left of him. The only things I have left are Bart and his baby photos, and that’s really it. I want to take whatever I can get.

Despite living away from home for over 10 years now, I’ve never had the pleasure of giving my parents a surprise visit home. Just once, I’ve wanted to secretly fly home and call them from outside their front door and say, “Guess where I am?” And tonight — mission accomplished.

I was sitting in an Uber X car going down 280 and chatting away with my driver, who is talking about what assholes most cab drivers are and how Uber and Lyft drivers aren’t like that. He asks me what I’m here in San Francisco for, and I said, work and visiting my parents… But they don’t know I’m coming to their house now. He laughs and says, wow, you’re such a sweet daughter. And then he gets to listen to me call my mother when we are just two minutes away from their house.

“Guess where I am?” I said.

“Where? You’re still not home?” My mom said, sounding tired. I can hear Vietnamese music in the background.

“I’m coming home now!” I exclaimed.

My mom is clearly confused, and she isn’t sure what I mean. “What do you mean?”

“I’m coming off of 19th avenue and I’ll be at home in two minutes!” I said.

“WHAT? Are you CRAZY?” Now she sounds half excited, half exasperated. “Why didn’t you ask your dad to pick you up? What kind of crazy driver is taking you here?”

I told her an Uber driver picked me up and I’m almost at the house. She then says she has to tell my dad now and we hang up.

I rang the doorbell and they let me in. My mom has the biggest smile on her face, and my dad is laughing. “Yvonne, you know there’s this thing called ‘advance notice’?”

“Well, if I did that, then this wouldn’t be a surprise anymore, would it?” I said.

“I’m so happy that you’re here, but don’t you ever do this again!” My mom said while grabbing me to hug me. “How was I supposed to know who this strange male driver was and what he could have done to you or where he would have taken you?!”

Most things will never change.