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.
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.
posted by Lishtar at
2:48 PM
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