MYour father is a smart man. He is meticulous, attentive, intuitive, dedicated and every other possible synonym under the sun. He does so much for our family, takes pride in self-study and accomplishing tedious tasks. He is our family’s handyman, our electrician, gardener, mechanic, engineer and so on. Although my father struggled to learn English, he worked hard to acquire skills that most people hone throughout their lives. As a child, I remember the hours we would spend in antique shops, where my father would examine pictures in manuals because he couldn’t read the instructions. Sometimes we would drive around the neighborhood and my father would stop at construction sites to see what the workers were doing; If his confidence allowed, he would overcome language barriers and ask for help in his broken English. I used to dread these detours from home, mostly because they meant my nap time would be cut short or lunch would get cold. Looking back, however, I developed an admiration for my father: his creative thinking and efficient problem-solving skills are the result of hard work and determination to learn. I often wonder at times what heights his potential could have taken him to had he had the opportunity to go to college and graduate instead of spending years earning a living. Most of the time, that impending sadness at such a realization turns into a kind of guilt.
As a child, I remember the hours we would spend in antique shops, where my father would examine pictures in manuals because he couldn’t read the instructions. Sometimes we would drive around the neighborhood and my father would stop at construction sites to see what the workers were doing; If his confidence allowed, he would overcome language barriers and ask for help in his broken English.
These guilt-ridden feelings seep and permeate the fibers of my daily life, invading my happiest moments: my peaceful walks around campus, my experiences of sheer high school excitement at finally being seated in a university lecture hall, my long, meaningful conversations over coffee with new friends, my explorations of the quaint, always-touristy destination of a now-familiar San Francisco, and even the luxury of merrymaking in comfortable dining room fares—those seemingly trivial yet passionately bare realizations of college being.
Throughout my education, my father never forgot to remind me of his lifelong desire to go to college. Most of the time, I took these comments with a grain of salt, knowing it was just a tactic used by immigrants and parents to ensure I maintained a hardworking attitude. However, since beginning college, my father’s desire for higher education has become more opaque at moments when I realize I’m living his dream. My nose tightens, as it does to signal the start of a gentle stream. In those moments I always feel strangely childish; As a child, my first refuge from overwhelming emotions was crying. But these days, a certain grown-up mentality keeps my eyes from completely flooding. In the same mature capacity, I take a deep breath and continue to free myself from this wondering haze.
As much as I don’t want to admit it – knowing that my parents don’t want me to think about these things – I remember that my parents never had to go to college full-time. The guilt of having that privileged education while also reflecting on what my mother and father sacrificed to get me here. Moments when I feel like I’ve left them behind to follow dreams I’m not sure I’ll finally achieve, the fear of wondering if a degree in English is really the is the path I want to take. But most of all, I feel guilty for the wasted potential of my parents. I fully understand that this loss is not my fault, but moments when I’m here remind me of the sacrifice my parents constantly make to get me to college. I imagine the moments I saw my mother at work in her food service restaurant, constantly on her feet and struggling to tame an ever-growing line out the door; or times I’ve seen my father, body buried deep in dirt, repairing water pipes, or climbing tall ladders to paint rusted windows, remodeling used homes so a new occupant could comfortably live in them. All my life, their victim has always made it home wrapped in stained, torn shirts, calloused hands and aching eyes.
All my life, their victim would always come home wrapped in stained, torn shirts, calloused hands, and aching eyes.
Although my parents pursue their respective professions with determination and honesty, my guilt is fueled by sad realities.
I will always feel deeply the immeasurable pride of my parents that their sacrifice has borne fruit. Knowing that their years of hard work have come to a certain end: the supreme desire of immigrant parents’ dream to send their children to higher education. Although this can be defined as an extension of the so-called American Dream, there are some suppressed, some stolen aspirations. The phantasms that we as children take for an imaginary being – doctors, scientists, teachers, astronauts. While these childhood fantasies often remain, I have been given the space to imagine such lofty dreams, to daydream without the knowledge or childhood memory of sacrificial struggles taking place behind the scenes. My ability to sustain these aspirations continues in college, where I have been given the choice not of whether to go to college, but to choose which one. I was given opportunities to pursue my own dreams – something my parents never got to explore, only to consider. But this guilt is inexplicable. It doesn’t explain pride or gratitude, but the ever-present feeling of stealing something that doesn’t belong to me, knowing I have something in my pocket that I never paid for.
The phantasms that we as children take for an imaginary being – doctors, scientists, teachers, astronauts. While these childhood fantasies often remain, I have been given the space to imagine such lofty dreams, to daydream without the knowledge or childhood memory of sacrificial struggles taking place behind the scenes.
Sometimes I create montages in my head, like those in movies, that do a good job of depicting how the character’s life is going to unfold. Mine aren’t that good. I vaguely imagine what shoes my parents might walk in one day, what paths they might take, what true dreams they would pursue. But the details are often left out. It’s hard to imagine something that will never be.
These alternate universes that I envision remind me that this is all they will ever be. My parents often say that I “wonder” too much. I know they don’t want me to burden myself with these thoughts, but it’s difficult when that kind of reflective thinking is part of my nature. As I sit here in my college dorm, I ask myself: Will I ever be able to atone for my guilt? Is it selfish to even feel something like this, let alone write about it?
I know that you would do it again for me Mother And ba, but I’m sorry. I can’t help but wonder.
