Parents Just Don’t Understand
The year is 1995, Monday morning and I am already late for school. It was the first day of first grade and I could not find a comb to brush my frizzy tangled black hair. Yes, first grade I remember like it was yesterday. My parents were not there to dress me up, pour milk in my cereal or give me a ride to school. They were working two jobs to provide for my brother Carlos and I. Both mom and dad came to the states illegally, but thanks to Ronald Reagan Immigration Reform Act in 1986, they were able to apply for citizenship. Once they received citizenship, my parents were too proud to accept any government assistance, such as food stamps. I wished I tasted the good government cheddar cheese other kids in our low-income neighborhood used to rave about.
Even though they weren’t home much, they were able to maintain strict house rules. My mother worked cleaning houses and my father worked overtime at Citrus World in Fullerton as a stocker and packer. Goodbye sleepovers, after school activities and classmate birthday parties. I was expected to have the house cleaned by the time my parents arrived. I cleaned so much I learned to enjoy it as a hobby and a stress reliever. After being alone, I missed having my parents kiss me goodbye before heading out to school.
My older brother who was six years older took care of me. However, he wasn’t the one that should of been taking care of me. Yes, I loved my brother and yes he walked me to school, but that wasn’t enough. I understood my parents’ struggle and why they worked so hard. Even though I can count in one hand how many times we spent time together, they had thier own way of showing how much they cared. For example my mother made sure we always had a home cooked meal at home and my father made sure my brother and I were tucked in bed by 9 o’clock. They also made sure are school work was done on time. As a result, my brother and I attended California State University, Fullerton and they saved enough money to purchase a four- bedroom home in a nice cul-de-sac neighborhood. However looking back during my childhood years I envied other kids’
relationships with their parents. I never had a relationship where I could just go up to my parents, hug them and tell them I love you. The words I love you did not exist in my household. I tried putting the pieces together to find out why. My mother lost both of her parents when she was 19. She also shared with me that my grandma never celebrated birthdays and was a serious and strict woman. This might explain it, but wouldn’t she want a different relationship with her own daughter?
This also explained why my parents never celebrated our birthdays other than our first or second. As for my father’s dad, he was the provider and was part of the Bracero Program. Which meant he was never home when my father was a child. Back and fourth, my grandfather would work in the states and head back home to Mexico and get my grandmother pregnant. My grandma had to raise 13 kids on her own. So maybe this explained the lack of attention they received. Maybe this is why it was hard for them to show compassion to their own children.
A couple years passed and at 26 years I announced to my parents I was moving out and everything changed. I saw a tear roll down my father’s wrinkled tan cheek. My mother’s eyes turned red, however being a strong woman she was resisting a tear to burst out of her brown almond shaped eyes. I have never seen my parents cry, it made me feel uncomfortable. What was normal to other families was unusual to me. Are my parents actually crying? It took 26 years for them to show me they love me? Once I left I cried so much my eyes swelled up. I wasn’t crying because I made my parents sad, I was crying, because I wanted them to cry for me for so long. Tears of sadness, laughter and anything for them to show me they cared was all I ever wanted.
Now that I no longer live with them, I hear the words I LOVE YOU from them. I say it back, but it doesn’t feel natural. I get nervous; we both do. I hear the tone of their voices over the phone when they say it. Why is it so hard for them to say it? When we reach for a hug it feels forceful sometimes. I think to myself should I be happy that my parents are trying to be affectionate towards me or should I be mad that it took them this long? Now that I am older I see myself as the parent. I’m teaching myself to be patient and appreciate our slow transition for a better loving relationship. I try to be optimistic and let our relationship naturally unfold. Maybe looking back is not the way to solve this problem, looking forward and hoping for a better future with my parents is what really matters the most.
With this experience, I will shower my own children with love and kisses. I will show them that hugging and kissing is not an unpleasant and awkward feeling. I will show them that I can instill thier grandparents strong personality and be affectionate as well. They will be proud to have parents they can go up to at any time for anything. I will always be there for them no matter what.
