DNA testing

Chris and I are undergoing DNA testing via a DNA kit we are using from 23andMe. I was a bit skeptical about it at first, but I realized that it may actually be helpful and interesting to know for our future children and things they could potentially be at risk of. I’m already aware of things that they may be at risk of based on our family histories: heart disease, high blood pressure, prostate cancer, crooked and ingrown teeth, gum disease,near-sightedness, and potential depression and mental illness. That’s a long list of negative things to be at risk of and covers quite a variety of health areas.

The more I think about future children, the more terrified I become of all the things I hope they don’t have to deal with. I think about the mental breakdown my dad’s mother had when she was in her late thirties and how she was hospitalized for over a year when my dad was a little boy. I think about my mother’s traumatic experiences in Vietnam, and Ed’s initially gradual and then quickly escalated decline and eventual death. Maybe there’s even something dormant lingering in me somewhere, and it’s just waiting to unleash itself with a given external event that needs to happen. All of the mental illness that has been exhibited in my family stares at me grimly in the face when I think of having babies. No one wishes that their child inherits anything like this, but we have zero control over it. And while nurture has a strong role in shaping a child, nature does, as well, and the strength of nurture versus nature in a child’s upbringing in determining how healthy and happy and functioning he becomes is still quite hazy. So, it’s scary to do this testing because at some point I will be reading these results right on a computer screen. But it’s probably better to know than to remain ignorant.

Aftermath

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.

Questions

My mother is clearly on edge because she knows she will be meeting Chris’s parents tonight. I can tell she feels pressured to make a good impression… because she thinks that if she and my dad do anything to offend Chris’s parents, Chris’s parents will then inform Chris that they don’t think this is a good match and force him to end the engagement. That sounds a bit antiquated given that we are in the year 2015, but hey, that’s what my mother thinks. We have to let her think what she thinks.

When I called her after work yesterday, she asked me so many questions that I had to keep a straight face and try to answer all of them patiently so that she wouldn’t yell at me. It went something like this:

Mom: So… is there anything you want to tell me?

Me: No, not really. Everything is fine. Nothing’s new.

Mom: Oh, well, I mean about Chris’s parents.

Me: Oh. What do you want to know?

Mom: Um… who talks more, the mom or the dad?

Me: Dad definitely talks more, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? They both talk! He just talks a lot more than she does!

Mom: Well, I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking. What do they not eat?

Me: They eat pretty much everything. Tony doesn’t really like to eat with his hands, but he can be forced.

Mom: Does that mean he won’t eat crab or lobster?

Me: He’ll eat it if Chris is there.

Mom: What does that mean? Why will he eat it only if Chris is there?

Me: Ugh… He’s just like that! (Note to self: stop telling her things that are too complex and have too much of a silly story behind them).

Mom: I will invite them to come over to the house after dinner. Is that okay?

Me: That’s fine, but it might be a bit late after dinner, and they will be tired and will want to go back to their hotel. It’s out near the airport, remember?

Mom: Well, it’s rude if we don’t invite them to our house. You have to show respect and invite. They came all the way over here. We must at least ask.

Me: I never told you not to invite them! I just mean that if they decline, you shouldn’t be offended.

Mom (voice sounds shrill now): They told you they don’t want to come to our house?

Me: MOM! I never said that!

And so we begin a night of Cantonese dining on the edge of the Richmond district in the lovely City by the Bay tonight, without me.

 

 

The Fault in Our Stars

I just finished reading John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars tonight. I will be honest and say that I was skeptical about the book when I first heard about it and after it became a movie. I originally thought what most adults might think — why do I want to read some teenage angst/tragedy book? What I’ve realized, though, after reading it to the end, is that it’s so much more than a teen tragedy or a “cancer book,” since as Hazel Grace, the protagonist says, “cancer books suck.” It’s a book that fairly accurately depicts young people who are so unlucky to be forced into a terminal illness, which also pushes them into a world of thinking about their own mortality far sooner than the rest of us do. When we are forced to grapple with our own mortality, we are also required to mature quicker, which makes us unlike the rest of our peers. We ask questions that others may never think to ask. We are also hurt by statements that other people wouldn’t think twice about. I was really moved by the depth of the writing and the development of these characters. They exhibit a maturity and understanding of the world at their age that only someone with a terminal illness would have.

When Augustus dies, Hazel reads through messages that friends and family write to him. She is very upset by one comment, where the friend writes something like, “Your memory lives on with us, dude.” Why would she be so offended by this? But then before she explained why, I already knew. Augustus had to die, but the assumption this friend has made is, you had to die, but I will live my life forever and ever in this world without you here. Don’t worry, though, you’ll be with me in spirit!” It takes a certain level of experience with death to be able to relate to this sentiment.

In the book, Green writes, “Grief does not change you. It reveals you.” It was a very emotive moment in the book. Grief reveals many parts of a person that may be unknown to others. It reveals strengths and weaknesses and areas of vulnerability that may have been hidden for a long time. I didn’t tear up when Augustus died. I teared up as I was reading Hazel’s reactions of anger and sorrow to those responding to Augustus’s death, to her anger around people who wanted to write for the sake of showing they were writing to him after his death, but who had never bothered seeing him in the months leading up to his death — not even once. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you, man,” one boy wrote. Hazel was pissed. And I was, too. Well, he’s dead now, so I guess you don’t have to worry about going to see him… or at least, saying you had the fake intention of seeing him!

As sad as it is, whenever I think about death and terminal illnesses, I always think about Ed. I think about how I prematurely lost him, how he prematurely lost to the world. The grief really never goes away. With cancer, you can say you died of a terminal illness. It’s “acceptable” in society’s eyes. If someone hears you died because you had a mental illness and committed suicide, it’s not acceptable and stigmatized. I’ll be long gone from this world when the day comes that suicide and mental illness are no longer denounced.

Regular banter

It’s been an interesting last few days with Chris’s parents. I got to witness a pretty heated debate on our way to Montauk yesterday between Chris and his mother, as they debated “welfare” and who “welfare” really benefits in society, the rich or the poor. I was amused by Chris’s dad’s assumption about my dad regarding his experience being drafted for the Vietnam War. He suggested that because my dad had traveled to Vietnam for the war that perhaps it would have peaked his interest in international travel. The funniest thing about this comment is that it probably did the opposite and only furthered the American superiority complex that so many Americans have. America is so great, right, so why do we need to travel outside of it? Actually, if we had to be more accurate about this, people really think, “my neighborhood/city is so great, so why do I have to leave it?” It’s why Chris and I have been labeled freaks while trying to visit every state in the country.

The greatest thing about being around Chris’s parents is that you can have regular banter about really odd things and opinions, but also have heated debates, and in the end, no grudges are held. This may seem normal to you, but this is not normal to me. I come from a family that is the king of grudges. If you started arguing about politics with my uncle or aunt or anyone in my family, it would likely end in a swearing, name calling shouting match, and people would likely not be on speaking terms after because both sides would think the opposite side was just an uneducated, uninformed moron. People in my family aren’t capable of having healthy debates where once the debate is over, so is all of the potential yelling or arguing; they only end in sourness and insults. I’m still getting used to this, and this family still isn’t real to me. It’s like I’m waiting for something scary and ugly to come out, but it never comes out. I try to embrace it while I continue to pinch myself and convince myself that it’s all real.

Tangra

We ended our long day trip out to Long Island today with a stop at Tangra Masala, one of my all-time favorite restaurants that specializes in Indian Chinese food in my old neighborhood in Queens, Elmhurst. As we are ordering and eating, I am remembering how I wanted to take Ed to eat here when he came to New York, but there was no way that my mom or dad would have been able to eat it. My mom would have been annoyed it was Indian anything, and my dad would have passed out from how hot and spicy the food was. So in the end, I never got to take him. Ed loved hot and spicy food. He and I both got our mother’s pretty considerable heat tolerance. He also loved Indian food, but as a family we never ate it together unless it was just the two of us.

I thought a lot this evening about Ed and all the things he never had a chance to do, things he was pretty much robbed of because of our parents and how they prevented him from evolving and growing into a true adult. Something as basic as eating at this restaurant, or as frustrating as not being allowed to go to a cousin’s wedding because he would, in their opinion, shame the family, or as terrible as not being allowed to drive the family car into his thirties — the stories just get more and more ludicrous as I remember them and write them all down. Some of these things have been forced on me as well — I rarely got to drive despite being licensed to drive. My mom praised other people my age for driving and being independent, yet she refused to give that opportunity to Ed or me. Without being aware of it, they just didn’t want us to become adults, even though they thought they did everything they could to make us into adults. “Just be an adult! Can’t you do that?!” My mom would scream at Ed a few times a year in his 20s and into his 30s. Most of the time, Ed never yelled back. He knew he was powerless. Neither of them would ever empower or imbue him with the confidence and self-respect he needed to have a fair chance at life. My life at home is full of painful memories, all of which end in Ed’s premature and untimely and unfair death. These memories always seem to creep into my head at the most random times.

Walk

We had a long day with Chris’s parents today, which began with breakfast at the apartment. I prepared artichoke gratin toasts with some of our Korean leftovers, and Chris made bellinis. We walked through Central Park, to the northernmost areas, and walked west to the Upper West Side, taking the train down to Chinatown, where we had a late lunch of dim sum. We continued walking around the Lower East Side, Alphabet City, East Village, stopped by a wine bar near Union Square for some South African wine, and then walked along the High Line to Midtown West, where we had a quick Japanese meal at our theater night staple Tabata before going to our Agatha Christie show.

Every time I am around his parents, I’m always a bit amazed at exactly how willing they are to do pretty much anything we want them to do, within reason. It doesn’t seem to matter how much walking or wandering or uncertainty there is in our plans. In the way they move with us, they really define the idea of “go with the flow.” As we are wandering around East Village and Central Park and the Lower East Side today, not once did they complain about being tired, or wanting to stop or go home or just sit down. I was reminded of the walks we did in Vancouver with my parents, where my mom was constantly asking where we were heading to, saying she was tired and didn’t want to walk anymore even when we were in the middle of Stanley Park, and there would literally have been no other way to get out other than to walk. When we took them to a major lookout point in Queen Elizabeth Park where you can see the entire Vancouver skyline, five minutes hadn’t even passed until my dad said, “Okay, where are we going next?” I snapped at him and said we took them up there for the view of the skyline, so go look at it. And dad said sheepishly, “Oh,” and then moved towards the view. My parents can’t seem to appreciate a walk for what it is — a walk just to have an experience, to take in one’s surroundings and the beauty that exists. Who goes up to a lookout point and within minutes wants to leave?
Chris’s parents aren’t like that, though. They appreciate a flower just for what it is, or a walk as a walk. It doesn’t have to have a destination in mind. They enjoy the walk for what it is as an experience. They enjoy a flower just for its beauty and little else. They don’t make comments about how that bud probably would cost $5 if you bought it, or how much one market might rip you off for it versus another. They appreciate the bits of life for what it is.

Parent-child dysfunction

Last night, Chris’s parents gave Ben, Chris’s younger brother, a call to see how he was doing. He’s still living at their house in Melbourne while he continues his job search, and for lack of better words, he has a pretty simple, easy life right now. He’s bickered quite a bit to me about how overbearing their mother can be, as every child does at some point, but generally I cut him off by reminding him that he doesn’t even know what the meaning of “overbearing” is. How does Ben define “overbearing?” It actually played out quite illustratively last night. This is how the conversation went after his parents were able to get through via dialing their land line:

Mum: “Ben? Can you hear me? Yes? Hi! Hi! How are you going?”

Ben: “Yeah! Everything’s fine! Nothing’s wrong! What do you want?!” (Proceeds to ramble a few other cutting comments to his mother that I can’t quite hear clearly)

Mum: “Oi! Ben!”

I never realized that saying hello and asking how one’s son is doing was overbearing and excessive. Ben says something else rude to his mother, which his mother responds with the same “Oi!” as she raises her eyebrows. They needed him to do something on his end in their dad’s office, and so when their dad got on the line, Ben barked impatiently, “What do you want me to do?! Just tell me!”

Wow. So I texted him via Whatsapp afterwards and said, “Just FYI that you sounded like a dick on the phone to your mum.” Ben, the ultimate mobile device addict who is on his phone even during meals, didn’t respond.

I thought about this for a bit, as I remembered mumbling something to my therapist about how someone really needed to see a therapist. She smiled when I said this and responded, “Everyone needs a therapist. Everyone needs someone they can talk to.” And to add to this, as I’m sure she thought this, too, perhaps everyone needs someone in their life, voluntarily or involuntarily, calling people out on things that they could improve on, or terrible habits or behaviors that are not conducive to real maturity or development. And I realized I couldn’t figure this guy out.

It makes sense to have this sort of fussy, irritable, even childish attitude as a teen full of angst, or even as an adult if you have a poor relationship with your parents as a result of years and years of dysfunction and mistreatment. But Ben’s had a pretty good life because of his parents. He’s had worldly indulgences at ages that the rest of us have never even dreamed of… because at those ages, we were so young that we didn’t have the awareness that a world outside of our house or neighborhood even existed! He gets love and attention and money from them, even when he doesn’t want it and avoids it. He even gets a roof over his head while he’s unemployed, doesn’t have to pay rent, and doesn’t even do his own laundry. He barely even has to wash a dish at home because his mother will take care of it or load it into the dishwasher. So why does he have to act the way he does with his parents? It’s as though he’s been wronged in life by them, and I can’t understand it. Maybe only a therapist if he were to ever get one (and he probably won’t) could break it down. Or perhaps a smart woman who may consider him as a potential life partner may call it out for him or even dump him because of this bad attitude. No sane, self-respecting woman wants to marry a guy who treats his mother poorly. I’m a strong believer in the idea that men will end up treating their wives just like they treat their mothers, perhaps not during the courtship phase of the relationship, but many years down the line when things aren’t so romantic and snuggly anymore.

As someone who’s come from a family of generations of dysfunction, I am always extremely cognizant and observant of how people interact with their parents — in public, in private, whenever I have the opportunity to observe it. It’s very telling when you see how people treat their own family members, particularly the two people who have given them life. And as someone who has dysfunction with her parents, I still treat my parents very well despite that because I recognize that they gave me life, a roof over my head, the education I’ve had the privilege to go through, among many other life gifts. There are sacrifices they have made to raise me and terrible things they’ve had to endure to make sure I had a decent life. I didn’t grow up in luxury, but I grew up with far more creature comforts than either of my parents could have ever fathomed. So as a result of all this, I get this visceral anger when I see people like Ben treating their parents as though he’s some ungrateful teenager as opposed to a nearly 30-year-old grown man. I can’t empathize with his constant impatience, annoyance, and attitude. It’s like attitude for the sake of attitude, which is immature and almost painful to observe. If anyone here really wanted to act out against their parents, it should be me or Ed, not Ben.

Don’t get me wrong. He and I get along really well. I look at him like a brother (younger brother to be honest, even though he’s technically four months older), and I talk to him like we’re siblings. But as with all siblings, we disagree. And with his treatment of his mum, I disagree the most and have no issue voicing it.

“Why do you like your in-laws?”

This question was asked to me yesterday by my therapist during our session. Why do I like them? Well, that’s an easy question to answer. The very plain and quick answer is, they are good, happy people who only have the best intentions and want to see the best in everyone else. I’m not full of shit when I say that. I really mean it. The longer answer to that question is that what makes up these very good, happy people are interests and passions that also interest me: food, culture, travel, politics, daily observations of the world that are actually valid and insightful. It’s true, though. I’m not going to like or get along with everyone who says they have these things as interests. One person could say he’s into food and cooking. A colleague I don’t like is like that. When I realized what kind of food and cooking he’s into (just food that originated in Europe? You just make chili and enchiladas?), I realized… we have nothing in common. You’re not as exploratory as I was hoping.

So I like my parents-in-law as actual people. This is why. I could go on all day about everything interesting that we’ve discussed that feels like a substantial conversation. “Do you like your parents?” she asked me. I responded, “Do you mean, if they were not my parents, would I want to be friends with them?” She nodded. “No, no way.”

Feeling

Today, I met with my therapist, and I was describing to her why I was annoyed about my mom’s reaction to Chris’s parents coming last night. As I’m telling her what transpired, she cuts me off at some point and says that she’s made the observation about me that when I discuss something that is very emotional or sensitive that I laugh. That’s true, I said. In fact, Chris has pointed this out about me relatively recently. Why do you think you do it? She asked. My initial response was for external reasons, that it was to make other people feel more comfortable about a topic that was not comfortable at all. She breaks into a little smile and says, Do you think you need to make me feel comfortable? Hm. Well, that’s a good point.

Why do you laugh? She asked. And I said that in 99% of these situations, I just think the overall thing that happened is ridiculous or just plain stupid. Why would she just predict that Chris’s parents would not be nice? Or why would she get so mad and hold a grudge because one isolated time, someone asked her if she wanted to remove her hat when entering someone else’s house? These things are not a big deal at all to normal people. My therapist responded, yes, that may be the case and is usually the case, but can I say that I think you do this because it’s your way of expressing your anger, and instead of allowing yourself to feel, you try to skip the anger feeling and go immediately into the “that’s ridiculous!” laugh feeling?

Yes, it’s probably true. Now I need to stop laughing at myself as much when I describe these situations to outsiders.

I guess I’m never going to fully get over my anger toward my parents. It’s just a fact that I need to deal with for the rest of my life. But I think so far, I’m doing a pretty decent job considering how much I talk to them proactively and how often I go home and do my good-daughter duties.