My Mom and Dad

I tell people that I've never been close to my parents, as if my parents consisted of foreign members, so-called guardians that had me, raised me, clothed me, and produced my livelihood even to this very day. I often tell people that I am distant towards my parents and that I share a household with them while emotionally adrift and physically constant. It has come to my attention that my family consists of me and my two parents: my mother and my father. They are all I have besides my aunt and uncle who are even so distant and estranged from us. My mom and my dad are my shelter from the world and I yearn to let myself free from them, and to take care of myself, without being under their radar. But all these years of building me up and I end up forgetting their bare existence until I see Mom and Dad at the dining room table. All these years of effort are not in vain, I don't want to think this. But how dare I refer to my parents as incredibly thin and vaporlike? Why do I not think about them at times when I should? I rarely trade words with Mom and Dad. If I do, I would talk about my day and express to them my concerns, my sorrows, my complaints, my grievances. But when Mom or Dad serves up an anecdote or one of their problems, I seem to tune out and ensconce myself in my room and isolate myself from them. I don't understand how I could ever be so cold and stone faced to my parents.

It is a memory lapse, a gap in memory between my grade school days of childhood and perhaps high school. I know that I am heavy when it comes to defense mechanisms: I prefer to deny and to simply push things past me and these memories tend to atrophy with time. It has occurred to me that I do not remember more than bits and pieces of flashbulb memories with my parents. I recall faintly the many early mornings that Dad would take me to school from our medium-sized shelter at 2030 Bath Avenue in Brooklyn. Our Bay 25th apartment was a rather efficient setting with a cramped staircase that aerated into a three family building. I remember visiting the landlord who was half blind and moved rather slowly. My Dad had an enmity towards him because he would be irresponsible with our maintenance issues and water pipes. I recall visiting the landlord who lived across from Benson Elementary; my Dad and I would ring his doorbell and his wife and daughter would answer the door bearing candy. I would gladly accept this candy. At this time I did not understand girls, but I do say if I saw her daughter again I would ask her out. During these five tumultous years, my father sent me to school and wore my bookbag on his arms. He would cradle me in his arms and raise me onto his back and I would piggyback-ride my way to school, to and fro. These were the days of pampering. I would be picked up from school through the secondary set of doors and my Dad would be there, waiting patiently and kindly waving to the school officers and staff members.

I vaguely remember my first birthday celebration. It would be my only birthday celebration and it was prepared by my parents. My Mom and Dad prepared a birthday celebration for me in first grade, Ms. Denise Love's class. Ms Love was my first grade teacher's euphonious name. I have to admit that this was the first time I realized something about women, especially Ms. Love. She had pretty trimmed legs. Whenever she crossed her legs during calendar and counting time, I noticed her double jointed knees. Back to the birthday celebration: my parents entered the room and handed everyone a piece of cake, though I don't recall if every student got a piece. They also poured each of us cups of fruit punch if I'm not mistaken. Since then I took a liking for fruit punch in paper cartons. I also recall the day I threw up all over myself. I had started to throw up a puddle in the classroom closet. Then I felt the urge to vomit so I asked for permission to use the bathroom. Half way there I started to vomit and I could feel the lunch I had land on my hands. I used my palms to cup my vomit, but I failed and ended up reaching the bathroom with a mess on my hands and on my sweaters. I made a trail of vomit from the long hallway to the bathroom. I was so embarrassed. When I made my way to see my Dad I had visible stains on my neck and sweater. The scent overcame some of the security officers. Another memory was when I shat my pants in second grade. I had finished lunch and felt an urge in my seat. Then I got up and entered the bathroom and my shit exploded from my anus and engorged the empty spaces of my pants. I ended up throwing away my underwear and stepping out into the lunchroom with shit in my pants. I don't remember how I was able to escape embarrassment. Regarding my Dad, I had written a short composition in first grade about someone who I admire. I wrote about my Dad. Just last week my Dad reminded me that I wrote about him, and this nearly brought me to tears. I faintly remember him as my hero or my role model, but for some reason I feel incredibly guilt-tripped to agree that he was my role model all along.

My Mom is a strong woman who remains tethered to my Dad. After all the loud, vociferous arguments my parents had on and off during my grade school and junior high school days I would have expected my parents to take the same route my fellow Asian friends's parents did. But they stuck it out for me, so that I can get through school without emotional wreckage. The faintest memory of Mom was the days she took me to the Chinatown Kung-Doo Dai Har (apt complex) Confucius Building park and took me on the swings. I don't know why she took me there because we never lived in that apt complex. I also remember spending time with Mom and Dad every Sunday. We would travel to Macy's, windowshop at The Manhattan Mall when it had seven stories and a bundle of eateries and food court. But Mom would always depart at around 5 or 6 to work and I would have to say goodbye to her; I waved to her and cried almost every time she departed into a glass building. Almost every time she left me. This is responsible for my sensitive when it comes to attachment/detachment issues. I also remember spending time with Mom on the steps of our second abode at 537 79th Street. On the front stoop steps Mom and I had just returned from purchasing two ice cream cones from Mister Softee twenty feet away. I had dropped my cone, and Mom gave me hers. I can't help but cry when I think about this memory. It was akin to something that a sibling would do. But I never had a sibling to call my brother or sister; I never had a brother or sister to call my own. It is safe and comforting to agree that my Mom had her fair share of cradling me in her arms as much as Dad claims he had cradled me in his arms. I have fainter memories of mom for some odd reason. My memories of Mom seem to be incredibly muddy and blurry while memories with Dad are harshly tainted with some clarity. Oh wait! I do remember going to the laundromat every Sunday evening with Mom when we lived in 79th Street. I would visit the deli after we finished packing up the laundry bag. I would purchase a Matchbox car from this Pakistani man who reached into the upper box of small die-cast cars. That began my love for small collectible Matchbox, Hotwheels cars, and cars in general!

I think that when I read Bone by Fae Myenne Ng two years ago (suggested by Karen), I reached a level of alertness concerning my parents. The main character's stepfather Leon echoed to me the existence of my parents. The character of Mah also reverberated my mother's existence because both these women were seamstresses locked to their Singers. Ona was the character who had comforted Dad and made sure he got through life ok; sometimes I feel like I used to be that kind of person who consoled Dad and spent time with Dad. Reading this novel made me remember these moments with my parents and it awoken me to all the tears I shed when I confronted my parents, when I fell onto the broad chest of my Dad who comforted me and my mother's presence when I wanted a Power Rangers Megazord from Toys'R'Us or a Big Bad Beetleborgs set from Ceasar's Bay in 1999. For all those Saturday mornings that I got up so damn early just to catch Power Rangers and to tape every episode (resulting in more than 100 VHS tapes that got thrown out during my third move), I remember my anxious parents who prodded me back to sleep. I remember Dad groaning for me to hit the hay and Mom waving goodbye and heading off to another tiresome day of work.