Things I Wish Our Parents Taught Us

“Am I fucking crazy?” I ask myself, gas lighting my own emotions based on the implication that women who express their feelings are unstable.

My mouth is just and dry. It is unable to digest dishonesty or lack of truth, which are essentially the same thing. It has acquired a specific taste of decency and yet it is indigestible to the egos of our culture.

I am a loud, blunt, confrontational Hmong woman. I trust myself enough to never do something I think I’ll regret. I don’t allow anyone to tell me how I should feel or do or act. I am who I am, unapologetically. Not to confuse it with the idea that I am never wrong, because I am. I fail, a lot, but fear and flaw is not a good enough reason for me to discredit my truth.

I am defensive, not with my ego, but with my spirit, my self-love, my respect. I was not taught this; somehow, it was learned.

The most toxic people I have ever been in a relationship with are my parents. They’re flawed, complex and human. At a young age, I started to understand the cycles of pain we carry. It starts from the fear and shame we feel deep within ourselves given from those closest to us. I did not want my parents’ pain or shame or fear. I wanted to be fearless and free.

My parents divorced when I was five. My dad started an addiction to opium and when my mother left him, I wasn’t old enough to really feel loss. What I did see was how it affected my mother emotionally and mentally. I saw her stress about finding us a father figure we didn’t really need. I saw the sadness in her eyes unable to provide us with the life she thought we deserved. I saw how she endured for the sake of her children and how the burden she carried on her shoulders were not her own. I saw the Hmong culture instilling a purpose of being a wife and a mother in her and did not hold the men she loved to the same type of standard.

I saw how she wanted to instill the same purposes in me. This was the love she knew and accepted. It was enough for me to know the weight of trying your absolute best and still losing people you love — still not being enough. It confused me.

When I was younger I hated the expectation that girls are meant to cook and clean and watch the kids. I asked why men are deemed incapable of such tasks. They have hands and feet and bodies and minds that did not look too different from mine. I challenged these ideas. I needed to know why I should believe them.

My mother and I got into screaming matches. Tears would flow down my face as my frustrated voice rang throughout our home. It was unfathomable to me that I could believe and trust myself and my culture couldn’t see the same. As I shouted, she equally shut me down. “That’s just how things are.” And that was the end of the fight. I travelled to the comfort of my pillow and laid in darkness as doubt and insecurity sank into my heart. I asked my self quietly, “Am I not good enough? Is this my worth?”

My mother taught me that when you love something, like how they love their children, you want to protect them with all you have — even if it hurts. Hmong people carry pain in their hearts. Enduring it while it seeps into generations filled with shame and traditions that do not serve them. I too began to carry this weight.

As I stepped into adulthood I navigated through the confusing worlds of insecurity and responsibility. I was deciphering the code to letting go or holding on. I questioned when I was insane for trying too hard or stupid for not trying at all. I flipped through my memories and reflections, wondering when I could have worked harder or when I did enough.

Parents are meant to guide you, to love you, to teach you how to survive in this world.

When your most toxic people are your parents, it is difficult to know the difference between what is right for them, and what is right for you. It is difficult to admit that the two may not align. It was difficult for our parents too.

The summer of 2018 was the last time I saw my dad. Before that, it was almost nine years since I last saw him. I never received a phone call, a visit, or an apology. This conversation was more of my uncle convincing my brother to take in my dad. He no longer had a place to stay and had an expectation that he would be allowed back into our lives. My brother was the only son and this was tradition. My uncle, who was speaking for my dad, spent three hours only to hear that the answer was “no”. I sat and I listened. I was silent because as a girl, my opinion was not relevant to them. I stepped outside and I shattered. My chest was tight and I couldn’t believe that after fifteen years he had the audacity to ask us of anything, nor could he ask for it himself. I was upset for caring about him even after constant patterns of not showing up. I kept allowing him to hurt me over the course of my life and realized that inaction is also a choice. I was done.

I was emotionally exhausted and anxious. I was carrying his responsibility on my shoulders and I grew tired.

2018 was the first time I allowed myself to let go of him . I stopped shaming my heart for loving. I owed him nothing. I spent hours writing about how he hurt me and how much self love mattered more. The pain came in waves. I was learning to express it and be honest with it. I hoped to learn what it meant to have a healthy relationship with my thoughts and respect them.

I failed and cried and failed again, until I no longer needed his remorse. His choice was not my responsibility. The hole he carved in my life was filling with forgiveness. I was healing. I built clear boundaries and gave my love only to people who have earned it. I was freeing myself of his pain and shame and fear.

It changed me. This one aspect of finding ease blessed my career choices, my love life, my family, my friends. I was able to love deeper and live with more clarity. I allowed myself to risk and fail when I worked for what I wanted. I was able to be clear with my decisions. At the very least, I knew that growth was on the other side. It became easier to forgive and still enjoy living, knowing that my best was enough, for no one else but me.

And then I started to see how this pattern of pain affected every Hmong person I knew. How my voice was too blunt or honest for the Hmong men I loved and my opinions too radical for the people I called my family. How we built a culture based on obligation and expectation in order to survive and we resent ourselves for it. We carry our pain on our backs like our ancestors carried us through grueling mountains of war and bury it deep into the pit of our hearts. We bury secrets and infidelity and violence, masking it with tradition and the essence of Hmongness.

This pattern wasn’t just instilled in me. It was instilled in my father, mother, friends, family, men I loved, their parents, and everyone who identified as Hmong.

I love being Hmong. Our traditions are meaningful, and packed with richness. Our ancestors are warriors of fate. Our bloodlines have survived wars and oppression. My Hmong roots radiate through every aspect of my life.

I am grateful.

But when you love something, like my parents loved me, you want to protect it with all you have — even if it hurts. Even if it means pointing out every single thing that is wrong.

I love being Hmong, but I really fucking hate the patriarchy. Whether it is men, or women, it doesn’t help us be better people. It instills cycles of pain in our lives. It hurts all of us, deeply.

I wish our parents taught us to be better: to be independent and daring and courageous.

I wish Hmong women were taught to demand respect for themselves: to know that their passion, fearlessness, and freedom does not warrant the name bitch or crazy or dramatic.

I wish girls were taught that it is not their responsibility to take care of people who repeatedly harm them: a man’s insecurity is not a reflection of her worthiness or time or effort.

I wish men were taught to be honest: that truth is more important than the egos of their loved ones, that they can do so with kindness and love.

I wish they knew their feelings are necessary: how it is the only way we can hold each other accountable and move forward.

I wish boys were taught responsibility, especially for themselves: that it takes effort to receive things we want. Everything must be earned in some way. Whether it is love, or affection, or loyalty, it is never simply given.

I wish we were taught that we aren’t so different: that we, our parents, our loved ones, our families all experience pain.

I wish we realized how valuable our flaws are and how it is what makes each of us significant.

I wish we were taught to challenge what we could no longer stand so we can break the cycles of pain that were instilled in us.

I wish we didn’t fear the non-existent notion of failure so we could risk enough to create a life we are proud of.

I wish we were taught to heal.

Life will never be easy, but we can make it easier. It will always be work, but when you love something, like the way you are capable of loving yourself, you want to heal with all you have — because you are worth it, and that is the only reason you need.

If you receive anything from this piece of writing, I hope it is this: I hope you find glimmers of yourself in my experience. I hope you see the patterns of pain that hurt you over and over again. I hope you find the courage to change it. I hope you give this gift to yourself and see a vision of your life filled with happiness and growth. I give this to you. It is never too late to heal or love. It will only bless everything that you find worth while. Fail and fail again until that word no longer has a destructive meaning. Look deep into your shame and find your divine nature.

You are someone who blessed the world. We need your perspective and honesty and truth. We need you to stand up for those who cannot and especially for yourself.

We need you to break the cycles of pain instilled in you. Give the gift of healing to future generations. Give the gift of healing to you.

Let us love deeper, let us grow forward, let us be free.