haunted house — the Kid, pt. 2
My personal journey of finding my ethnic identity as a second generation Asian-American has been a turbulent one, to put it lightly.
It would take me a generous portion of distance and time for me to just understand the sheer magnitude of damage that was dealt to me as a child. Writing the Kid, pt. 1 was one of my best efforts at trying to decode and interpret my scars. (Read part one first! Don’t be that guy.)
While I am, by no means, at the end of this windy maze we call redemption, these past few months have been important. I have been jumping into difficult conversations with my family, particularly those of reconciliation and relational healing. Conversations I never imagined possible.
This past week, I talked to my parents. At last.
If you are not 2nd-gen Asian-American, this can be a pretty big deal.
I never thought I would be writing this, but here it is.
The Kid, part two.
We traded stories. And poorly-translated scripture.
He told me a story of a boy who was born into a culture that didn’t fit him. Born into the wrong culture. Turns out we have more in common than I thought.
He started last place.
Born last into a family of five other siblings, he had a lot to live up to. Competition for a game he never signed up for. And the cards were already stacked against him.
He started last place.
While his close friends seemed to have no difficulty playing this game, the boy thought more of how to keep up with them, rather than actually playing the game well. As the boy grew older, he realized he no longer wanted to play the game. Perhaps the game was not meant for him anyways.
Everyone else made it. They attended the prestigious universities and flaunted hopes of a future as bright as their titles and accomplishments. They did it the “right way”.
The boy never made it past high school.
Never passed a math class after elementary school.
The boy ended up on an assembly line at a manufacturing plant.
The boy left church, running away from a community that he thought could never fully accept him.
He was thrown on a path and expected to trace footsteps he could never follow. So he carved his own. His defiance was forced. He had no choice. They labeled it rebellion. Disappointment. Failure.
The boy was misunderstood.
Though he found his own way, remnants of his past life still stuck to him, like thick blood. He only wished better for his children.
Who was this boy?
Had his story become so lost that it was nothing but a faded memory? Had no one ever stopped and listened to the boy’s story that even the boy, himself, stopped believing it was worth telling?
Turns out we have more in common that I thought.
My heart softened.
She told me a story of a young girl who knew how to play the game.
Her mastery was near unparalleled. “Top of the class” was no unfamiliar phrase to her. It was as if she was meant to follow this path.
I don’t think I would have been friends with this girl.
She made it happen. She did it. She was accepted into the best university in the nation.
And yet, it turned out that even she, of all people, had her imperfections.
She seemed to be able to impress everyone with her academic prowess except for the person that mattered the most — her father.
“What is this? Why do you still have a C? Why are you so skinny?”
Despite her otherwise flawless report card, her stern father seemed unable to see past the one glaring C. Her accomplishments, he could not affirm her for. Or perhaps, he did not know how to.
It is striking how one person can change your world entirely and skew your vision forever — for better or for worse — if you let them.
“Wow. That sounds… awful. Did that not anger you?
What did the girl feel in the moment?”
“Oh, she was furious, alright.”
“But didn’t she do anything about it?”
“She wanted to… We all wanted to. But we were too scared of him. He would hit us if we forgot to do our homework. Or if we failed to meet his expectations.”
She told me how the girl used to help her unscholarly, less-than-studious little brother by doing his homework for him. The chilling sound of her father’s motorcycle rolling into the garage would send her into an episode of frenzy. She’d burst into her brother’s room and start filling out his empty homework sheets. Maybe this time, I can save him the beating.
One day, the girl was caught in her benevolent, clandestine activities.
Her father found her out. He struck her across the face.
“We were all scared of him”, she told me.
My heart melted.
Who was this girl?
Had her story become so diluted in a twisted effort to save face? Why is it that all we remember of her story is the picturesque, scholarly, and well-behaved daughter?
Had no one listened and validated her complete story, even the dark and messy parts?
Turns out we have more in common than I thought.
For the longest time, we were just ghostly figures floating lifelessly past each other in the hallways and dining rooms. We could only see the faded silhouettes of each other’s past selves. Our relationship was as blurry as our memories. Together, we shared a haunted house.
But something happened.
They met the Kid. And they had storytime.
For the first time in years, we shared this strange, yet oddly-familiar feeling together. One of being seen. Heard. Known. One of those songs that are so old that they are like new.
It was something like love.
I suppose the Lord, indeed, does perform miracles.
I forgive you, mom.
I forgive you, dad.
We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.