When does the heart forget? When does the heart forgive?

I woke up one day. Sitting on the bed that was not my bed. My own room. And I realized that something was missing from my life? Throwing caution to the wind, I left my parent's home, angry, full of angst, wanting to escape the perceived controlling force of Mother and Father.

In the middle of the night, I packed all of my belongings and headed to live at Aunt C.'s house. Single and someone who used to be my role model, I was glad she decided to let me live in her home. Of course, she laid down the rules, you must pay me rent (about $600/month - she had just refinanced her home) and help with the utilities too. Excited that I would be "on my own," I verily agreed and despite Father's curse that I not succeed in life, I left without looking back.

The honeymoon period started. I had my own room. My own space (sort of). I could come and go without being questioned. Yet, it was lonely sometimes. And soon, I hated living there. Soon Aunt C. asked me to move out. Sorry, she said, I want to expand the business (which I told her I didn't want to pursue anymore) and need to turn your room into an office space. Shocked, I could only nod. You have until September, she said, and I'll need you to go.

I was between jobs then, unhappy with my receptionish job at a major bank downtown, I quit in the hopes of finding something new, more challenging. Being told to move out only heightened my sense of loss. I couldn't figure out why this woman, whom I had idolized, suddenly appeared petty, selfish to me. Of course, looking back, I realize perhaps she was having identity crisis issues of her own. But her declaration that I must move and pay her back my 2-months of rent (which I couldn't pay because I had no job), struck me in the oddest since. The words my parents said to me came back, rushing, unwanted. Only your parents will love you more than anyone else. More than even your siblings. More than even the people who claim to love you.

I didn't want to return home. It would mean defeat. That my parents were right. That Father's curse came true. That I had failed. That I would not succeed. So I engaged Monica in conversations - what can I do? As the older sister, she was supposed to protect me. Unbeknownst to me, while she invited me to live in her home - a home she shared with her husband of almost a decade, a husband whom I did not like very much, nor respect very much, and who was supposedly a God-fearing man - she had already invited Eliza to live with her. Eliza was younger than me by 1 and 1/2 years. We were as opposite as sun and moon. I don't recall not ever having been in a good relationship with her.

To my surprise, when I was moved in, they jointly announced that Eliza was also going to move in. Since Monica only had a single spare room, we would have to share the room. Horrified (as years past demonstrated we were not a good fit), I firmly disagreed with them. But I was overruled. And Eliza made plans to move from our parents' home to Monica's house. Angry and feeling betrayed, I turned to God. I asked God, is this what happens when I disobey my parents? When I purposely make them angry? And as bird suddenly flew to hit the side passenger door (causing a small dent in the new car - barely 1 years old), I realized it was a sign. A sign that I needed to apologize and ask forgiveness from Mother and Father. And so, the very next morning, I woke up and headed straight to my home. I cried. I was incoherent. But my parents understood and forgave me. Father took back the curse he had angrily shouted at me. All was well. Almost.

Unhappily, I confided in Mother and Father about the troubles brewing among the trio of sisters. As parents, they sought to bring their daughters together to resolve the problem, but Monica was outraged that I had involved the parents. You are such a baby, she sneered. Always going to Mom and Dad to help solve your problems. She told Mother and Father she didn't want me. So, I moved back into my home, while Eliza moved into Monica's despite my parents' vehement objections.

People talk. People gossip. And that is why Mother and Father didn't want me to live with Aunt C. and why they didn't want us to live with Monica and her husband. The community is unforgiving. Why can't they take care of their own children? They whisper at the local market. Why, it's a shame that their unmarried daughter is living with their married daughter and her husband. The leaves continue to weave its way in the wind. There is no stopping it unless one crushes it. And even then, the tiny fragments of the leaves seep into the ground and join the million secrets that abound around us. And it spreads, whether we want it to or not.

Not long after the move, there were several fiascos. I'm not the best person - not patient, hot headed, short tempered, and honey does not flow from my lips. Funny. I don't recally exactly what caused Monica to be so angry, at me, at Mother and Father. What caused her husband to hate us so. To tell Mother that everything was my fault - that he and Monica could never forgive me. And for what? I do not recall. How petty. How pitiful that they have chosen this path. Especially since they are the virtuous ones in their Baptist church. He's a pastor and yet his heart lies, his lips lies, his words lie, and he cannot forgive. Funny - it's always those who are most eager to spread the love of God who cannot see beyond the fabrication of lies they've woven around themselves, who cannot see their own faults and who places blame on others.

I no longer wish to be their sister anymore. I used to cry about it. The fact that Eliza also took Monica's side. The fact that Bibo does not stand up for me. It hurted. It hurts. And I have decided that I should not care anymore. That I should not cry. They are not worth tears that are better served to cry for those who deserve my tears and anguish.

How do people change? How can people come to an understanding?

I am oftentimes embarrassed by the fact that I am now the black sheep of the family. It's just me, Mother and Father. I don't yet know where Bibo and Baby stand. Perhaps they too will say I am a bad sister. They too will hate me? I wonder, would they cry at my funeral? I don't even know if I'd want them there. I'd only want the people who cared about me in my later life to be there to see me off to my next life.

There is nothing but me and this blog. I cannot confide completely and with utter abandonment with even my best friend. I don't know if she'd understand my situation. She has a wonderful family - it seems. I've seen them and heard them interact, and it differs vastly from my broken family - full of lies, deceit, backstabbing, and conceitedness.

How can I change for the better? I want to be more patient. I want to laugh more. I want to learn to speak like Mother. I want to be more kind. I want to be more than anyone ever expected of me. I want to accompish great things. I want to move the world. I want to place my stamp on the lives of normal men and women. I want....

Yet I am here. Typing away on my laptop. Wishing and dreaming. Lamenting and saddened by a hope of a happy, loving family. I laugh too, because I remember lying to my ex-date. I'm no longer going out because I have no time (which is partly true). But the truth is, I cannot be completely truthful with them. I want ... need to protect my family and I cannot give away even a part of me that needs to be there for Mother, Father, Bibo, and Baby. And so I cannot image a life of matrimony with someone else. Someone else, who I would need to give a part of myself away to, too. So it's better if I remain single, with Mother and Father. I'm the only one to care for them now. If I leave, what would happen to them? It would forever brandish me with guilt, should I leave to find that they're no longer here anymore. Like Grandmother. I never told her I loved her. I never told my parents I loved them. I hope to one day.

What Matters To You?

Every day I come home to my little one-story house. I look up above the moldy-green colored roof tiles and see Grandmother and Grandfather tree looming protectively over my humble home. I tell Grandmother and Grandfather tree to continue watching over my home and my family and thank them for theirs years of watching over us. Before I enter my home I stop before the three-steps that lead up the deck. I breathed in deeply. I look at the door in front of me. And in my heart I whisper that I hope today will be a better day.

I never quite know what to expect once I cross the threshold from the outside to the inside. Some days are quiet. Mother is asleep, Baby is watching television, and Father is opening that day’s letters. Other days I come home to a shouting match between Mother and Father, or to Mother’s tirade about Baby’s lack of help with household chores, or to silence that is oftentimes worse than any noise could be. Silence that means something is really wrong.

In those moments I wonder why I am still here. While my siblings have decided to leave my parents to care for themselves – neither calling nor visiting to see how Mother and Father are doing, I remain, because I cannot bear to leave my parents to an uncertain fate. Perhaps I am doing what my friend calls, “babying” my parents. But how can I not when I am the one thing that is holding my shrinking family together?

Mainly, most importantly, it is because my family matters most to me. If I did not believe that family was important, I would not have declined the chance to pursue my goal of a Capitol Hill career. Though I was selected for a prestigious fellowship and was ecstatic about it, and even when my parents said I could go, after a heated internal debate, I firmly declined that opportunity. When weighing all of the factors, I could not leave my parents and 2 younger siblings. I had left them for 4 years already (for college) and throughout that time, my parents had tried to shelter me from the reality of their lives back home.

I did not hear about the bills that accumulated over months and months and only with income tax refunds, were part of the bills paid off. There was the empty fridge, the tiny frames of my brother and sister, the meals of rice, bread, eggs, and ramen. For some reason, and I was thoughtless then, I thought they were doing okay. Only later, when I returned home, did I hear the stories. Stories of their living with my brother and his wife in their 2-story duplex home (because my older brother thought he would “save” Mother and Father from poverty). Stories that horrified me – my older brother dragging Baby brother (then 7 or 8 years old) into a cold shower in the middle of February because his wife was upset that all of the hot water had been used up (the little one liked to take long, warm showers – and my parents were out for the evening) – he cried, he shivered, and Bibo (13) cried with him, both of them huddled in a cold room until Mother and Father returned. There was also the story of the spilling of the noodles all over my brother’s kitchen floor (because my brother’s wife did not want to invite my parents for dinner). The eventual “kicking the parents out of their house” episode, where my brother’s wife called my Dad a “dog”, my family “paupers”, and with dignity informed my parents she was kicking them out of the house, “just like you kicked us out of your house” though it wasn’t true. At the time, my parents thought it was best to ask the two newlyweds to move out of our small house. It was crowded (the four younger siblings still lived at home) and my brother’s wife would, stealthily, injure my baby brother (then 2 years old) while we weren’t observing or at home. Father caught her doing that several times, so did I, and rather than break their marriage, Father and Mother had to let their oldest son go.

Family matters most to me because without family I have nothing. My family is now Mother, Father, Bibo, and Baby. And though we argue sometimes (I have a short temper and my tongue is not particularly well versed in the art of delicate conversations), we still act like a family. We still are a family. And that is why I persist in my endeavor to make a better life for my family. For Mother and Father. For my younger siblings. And for me. That is what matters most to me. And even now, I wonder how I will be able to make my Father and Mother’s worries go away. How can I take care of them, how can I love them enough so they don't despair that they are bad parents (because their other children don’t love them anymore). I don’t know, but all I can do is keep trying and continue to pray for a better life. Pray that I will be able to make Mother and Father happy. Comfortable. And worry-less.

Unknown Roads

Father! I want to cry out his name and shake him out of this stupor that seems to hold him enthralled. I don’t think he is a prisoner. Or if he is, then certainly a voluntary one. I have little patience for Father’s lack of motivation. Though I try to understand his reasons for ceasing to want to live a fulfilling life with us, I am perplexed. Why not just leave? Why not just recreate, reinvent a new life for yourself? Why live day to day with no thought of the future in mind? His therapist told Mother he didn’t understand Father. Why is it that your sessions are vastly different? He asked Mother. When I ask your husband to talk about his problems, he says everything is fine. But you, when I ask you to speak, the words flow, the anguish is apparent. I do not know what to believe.

Mother says that’s how Father has always been. Ever since I’ve been married to your Father, he has changed very little. When asked to defend himself, Father makes a half-hearted attempt and fails to tell us his side of the story.

As their only daughter left to care for them, I feel deeply concerned about the apathy I see daily. I feel burdened by something I do not know about. Something I feel I cannot fix. Marriages are between two people. And children, especially, should not have to be the decision maker. I find it extremely frustrating when Mother delegates the role of disciplining my younger brother to me. They’re your kids, Mom. You’re the Mom, they should learn to respect you and you should be doing the disciplining. But she waves my concerns and arguments away. How did I suddenly inherit a role I did not want? A role that Mother and Father should rightfully have? And yet, at the end of the day, they want the kids to answer to them. So why tell them I am the disciplinarian? Aren’t we just then sending them mixed messages?

I ache to talk to someone about these issues that occupy my mind daily. I long to unburden some of the responsibilities on someone else’s shoulders. And yet I cannot. To speak ill of my parents would be ungrateful. It would hurt them much. My siblings no longer care. And I cannot leave my parents alone. Uncared for. Though no matter how much energy it may seem to seep from me, I love them and honor them above all and so I cannot leave them to an uncertain fate. What do you do when you are bound by cultural ties that seem to have no rhyme or reason? Mother cannot leave Father because he would certainly be shamed before his male peers. And Father doesn’t want to leave Mother, I think. She is the rock that has always been there, solid and waiting. Something he could always rest on, lean on, to shoulder his troubles, his life, his children.

Is it too much to want more than is prescribed in the stars? Can we really change our fortunes? I hope so. Father wrote a letter of acknowledgment, that he would change for the better. He made a deal with my cousin’s spirits. I hope he is able to keep his promise. I fear the endless repeat of a life that has served to only drag his name in the mud. I only want him to be reborn, in the next life, as someone who has earned the right to live happily.

I want Mother and Father to be happy. I want to be happy. But the path towards happiness is filled with hurdles and I do not know where to begin to unfurl the puzzles that lay before me. To solve them before it’s too late. Before the dream is nothing but a dream.

Endless Waiting

Every day Father wakes up. He heads into our tiny kitchen and turns on the water faucet. He lets the water run to get as much of the orange colored rust escape from the pipe. As soon as he feels it’s ready, he fills the electronic white water heater carafe with water and sets it on. It works on getting the water boiling and Father gets dressed. He hurriedly goes to his black Toyota and makes a quick run to the local Vietnamese-owned French bakery down the street. He gets his usual: 3 dollars’ worth of the short baguettes. Father says it’s not the best – not like in France, but as a substitution, it’s better than not having any “pain”. When he returns home, Mother ascends from the basement, where she’s been laboring over her clothes. Mother is the most hardworking person I’ve ever known – and I admire her greatly for it – it is one of her many skills and attributes I hope to learn from and to emulate. Mother prepares the coffee Father likes, while Father sets on top of the dining table the brown paper bag containing our the baguettes. Father watches as Mother finishes making the drinks, bringing the drinks to the dining table. Sometimes he helps Mother, and brings out the plates for the bread. Sometimes, he just sits and waits. Mother brings out the plates, the Nutella, the French butter, the knives, and they soon eat breakfast.

I don’t know what Father does everyday. A man of few words, he comes and goes as he pleases. “I don’t have to answer to anyone,” he once told Mother. He used to love his children very much. Perhaps too much. Their betrayal of his love has caused his descent into oblivion. He said he couldn’t go back to school because he needed to earn money for his children, to send them to school, to pick them up to school. He didn’t want them to join the gangs prevalent then. Still. He uses his children as a shield. But for what? The $9/hr job couldn’t really support all of his 6 children. Even when there were only 2 children left at home, his small increase to $10/hr was barely enough to pay for the mortgage and bills that came in monthly. There were days when the four of them would subsist on bread, ramen noodles, and eggs. Father didn’t seem to care that he was writing checks that continually pulled from this credit line at the bank. Mother and Father would always argue about that – “What do you want me to do?” He’d shout at Mother. “You’re no help to me at all! You can’t work and everyone expects me to take care of them!” Mother is horrified by the words laced with meanness. She works hard – but for reasons unknown to her, her work has no value to him. She once told me that perhaps he was waiting. Wanting to make another life with someone else. That he wanted to escape the family he had created. I cried back then. I told Mother I didn’t want to see them separated. But Mother scolded me, and said if it was meant to be, that nothing on earth could prevent Father from leaving. “It’s better that he’s still alive and you can still have someone to call Father,” she comforted me.

They live together as though embattled in a chess game. Each waiting to see the other’s move. Who’s going to call it quits? Who’s going to have the upper hand? And we are but pawns in their game? I can’t wait any longer, I tell Mother. Someone needs to make a decision so that we can all move on with our lives. We are sitting in a fishbowl. Swimming around in circles all day. The landscape remains the same and Father is holding us back. Mother tells me we have to wait. That it’s his move next. We can do nothing but wait. I don’t cry. I say okay. But inside, I am tired of waiting. I am ready to move on and I don’t know how long I can wait. Mother has waited all her life. But I am not her.

Unspoken

I woke up in the middle of the night. Breathing hard. Palms sweaty. I had been calling for Mother, but she never came. In my dreams I was running. Running away because I was scared. Scared of what. Scared of whom. I do not know. But I was running as fast as my short, little legs could carry my weight. In my dream I only saw the darkness that sought to pull me into its abyss. I could not hear anything other than the sound of my shoes against the soft ground and the sound of each breath I took. I lay in bed, breath slowly calming. I pull my blanket tight against my chest and up to my chin. I’m cold inside and yet I know it’s a warm night. How long do I lay there? I do not know. But before I can even count to 100, I am once again in a deep slumber. I am looking for Mother. Looking for Father. Looking for Grandmother. Looking for Grandfather. And then, I am no longer looking. I have begun the deep sleep cycle and my dreams are memories away. Memories that I will not be able to retrieve when I awaken once again.

It’s the typical routine. Wake up. Head to work. Come home. Sleep. There’s no change in the horizon. I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it is. The world seems to be moving, changing, evolving. And I remain here. The same. In the same place. Doing the same thing. I want to scream someday. Loud. Across the ocean so that its waves can carry my frustration with it so that I may no longer be frustrated. Mother once told me I shouldn’t cry. Crying is a privilege, she said. Something only I should be doing. Something I have earned the right to. Why? I asked. But she had tears in her eyes, and told me of the sadness that she has encountered in her path towards righteousness. Dear God, I prayed. I don’t want to cry anymore. Don’t make me cry anymore. It only makes Mother and Father sad. I don’t want the tears to form anymore. Make me not cry anymore. I wonder if God heard my prayer?

I want to dance sometimes. Dance until my legs hurt. My head light. So that I forget what it is I am supposed to do. To be. I want to laugh so hard sometimes. So that my stomach aches and I feel like rolling down on the floor like a dog. I want to sing sometimes. Sing until I can no longer voice any more disgust over my state. But sometimes, I only want to dream. To sleep and dream forever.

But then I hear the voices around me. I see the sad faces, the faces that no longer have the will to live, to make a life. And I am saddened. And I am reminded that it’s okay to just live and be normal. That leaving would not make anyone’s life easier, happier. That joining the ranks of the elite would not change the fact that I am still me. A me that yearns for more than just mere existence. I want to revolutionize the world – my world. But it is written in my life book that I am here by mistake. And so, I am here to do penance and good so that I may return in the next life and live my real life.