Mom’s Will
I
Personal identity is a lifelong pilgrimage. I have been fortunate to be surrounded by oxymorons, and ironically finding pieces of myself in them. My obsessive curiosity is borne from growing up with a Catholic mother and a Buddhist father. My mother would tell me stories of an all-loving Father above, yet my father would dispute the existence of God. I constantly asked myself, “Is Mom or Dad right?” The remembrance of our dinner table conversations prompted me to seek values that match who I am at the core. When I grow older, this question propels me. It is not whether I wonder if God exists, but why would God make me exist.
II
Like other children, my mom sends me to school most of the time due to her mostly working to raise us. As children, our biggest influencers are teachers. Eight hours a day, we spend within the enclosed walls of a classroom, learning to follow instructions. We were praised based on our performance. “She is smart because she is taking high school math in 8th grade.” “He is talented because he can throw a ball into the hoop.” As a shy kid, I sat on the back observing, and I would always doodle my observations for that day during lunch. Different from what my friends or teachers told me, my mom always reminds us that kindness is the most valuable achievement that someone could be remembered for. At the end of your life, people will associate “a great sister” or “a loving wife” or “a good friend” engraved on your tombstone rather than your IQ or GPA. Oftentimes, I wonder, what adjective would they associate me with?
III
In high school, my mom works at the school’s cafeteria, ensuring that my sister and I continue to go to the high school nearby our middle school, one of the best schools in my state. Too often, coworkers and students in the school shriek “Chinese” and scream “konnichiwa”. If words speak for actions, then their pronunciations, contempt with salt, strangled my mom and mold her into what they think we identified with. Not only did we, as her children, were too afraid to speak up for her but we stopped speaking with her in Vietnamese in fear of being mocked at.
IV
Captured during our Vietnamese New Year’s Festival, I drew my mom in her traditional gown. For her, it was the first time wearing it in America. For me, it was my first time seeing her wearing it here. Her bright smile shined as the light flares hit her beige dress, sparkling with glimpses of joy. It was the first time I saw her smile like this.
This drawing is the product of an identity lost. The loss of bombarded Saigon streets that once existed. The loss of a language. A motherly love that sacrificed her hometown and labor just to be close with her daughters.
This drawing speaks of the purpose of love. The staccato of kindness and “words matter”. When I grow older, I ask why I exist. Though I still do not have an answer, I want my existence to be a lyric of altruism and sympathy, chiseling into my future tombstone.