I am getting older, mom

Dear mom,

After that discussion that day, I hope you understand now that I need you to let go of me. At least a little.

We joke about how you check my location all the time, how you have access to my bank account, how I give you reports on my grades and what I ate that day. But I think I have slowly realized over the past year or so that this grasp you have on me has an effect greater than the two of us understand.

You joke that I never had a rebellious stage as a kid. I think it’s good that it never happened. But I think that it meant that I always stuffed myself in that box labeled “good asian daughter” and never wondered what existed outside of it. You spoke nicely of my good grades and quiet temperament and rule-abiding nature. And so that’s what I made myself.

We once got into a small argument about how I never try cooking. And I was honest that one time when I said that the reason why I never try cooking at home is because I’m deathly afraid of making food that isn’t good in front of you. Or making something that isn’t edible at all. You said you would be okay with it, but I don’t want to show you anything that I messed up on. I’ve shown you more than ten years of good grades and good behavior, I don’t want to show you a bad dish. And so I’ve only started trying to cook recently, outside of the home.

The same goes for the clothes I wear. You and dad both want me wearing things that are more girly, but crop tops and exposed shoulders don’t add to my confidence but take away from it. I’ve had to convince you on more than one occasion to let me buy something that was labeled mens or unisex. That pair of uniqlo unisex cargo pants that you swore would be too big on me, that abercrombie mens XS jacket that you said looked like I stole from a nonexistent boyfriend, that unisex XXL bright yellow rain jacket that you said was far too big, but when I put it on, you finally admit that it looked cute. For as long as I remember, you’ve said that trench coats don’t look good on me because I’m too short. The trench coat I got from a yard sale by myself is one of my favorite pieces in my closet now. Thank you for buying me clothes, but I am being serious when I say that I am no longer a child, and that I want to at least try to show people who I am through what I wear, not who you wish me to be.

I’ve tried telling you about this art stuff that I love, but you still can’t seem to accept that I love art, and that sister loves art too. Sometimes I wonder if you look at us and see aliens, doing things you don’t understand for hours on end. When she had to pick choir or orchestra at the start of fourth grade, you asked me if she should pick orchestra, clearly hoping that she does. In your mind, instruments like the piano and violin are better than singing, and I wonder if it has to do with how I fell in love with theatre and you are afraid that she will too - that she will also become obsessed with musical theatre and end up a drama major who makes no money. Because the biggest crime is to be poor when you and dad worked so hard to get us here.

Mom, I understand that I need money to live. We didn’t grow up with much and I remember all of it- that’s why I’m working towards a job that pays the bills. But that doesn’t mean that you, that I, can’t love art. It doesn’t mean that I can’t dream a little, that I can’t imagine what life could be if I had a taste of what I loved. I feel that I’ve spent the past few years trying to slowly convince you that theatre can be cheap, that art isn’t only for the wealthy, that I love this stuff - that you already love it but you don’t know it - and I just feel so alive when I’m in the middle of it. You’d probably get mad at me, but I once stayed up until 4 am making linocut prints and I fell asleep so happy but woke up so heavy with guilt the next morning. And all I get back from you are regrets that our family doesn’t have the money to allow me to “do art.” I don’t think you ever got my point: I didn’t need your money to do art, I wanted your permission to love art. I wanted your approval, because maybe then a good asian daughter could also be someone who did art.

I don’t know if you could understand this, but sometimes I hate that I love this art stuff. Sometimes I wish that I could just be normal and cut the irregularity out of my brain. Out of all the things in the world - programming, math, history - I ended up loving something that is seemingly at odds with who you want me to be. Trust me, I’ve tried going without drawing, spending time at the library instead of the museum, foregoing the glance at the drama callboard, but it kills me every time I walk past the studio rooms and sneak a look at someone painting. I once stood there looking at that person and wondered why I was walking back from the library at 11pm for the third time that week instead.

Just leave me a bit of distance, mom. I know it hurts. It hurts me too. But after living [age] years being who you want me to be, I want to see if maybe there’s more to me that’s still been hiding all this time.

Do you ever wonder why every time I come home and you suggest eating out, I immediately say I want to stay home?

I want to have your cooking, mom. I’m so lucky to have been able to have your food for all these years, and I wish I could have it forever.

But one of these days, I’m going to have to learn to cook for myself.