Life Under the Microscope

by Christina Nguyen

Over the years it has gotten harder to talk with them. Blank spaces fill in between us and there is no door to exit in, or button to stop this never-ending ride. For so long have we been drifting apart and going on autopilot with its nose diving deeper into the ground while we’ve done nothing to stop it. And this is where we continue to be now for seventeen years. For seventeen long years, I have stood in front of them and still I feel as though I am invisible in their presence.  They can hear the words that flow out of my mouth, but they don’t listen to what I have to say. And without these words, I am nothing but flesh and bones. As every second passes, my voice weakens into nothing more than a whisper which no one but I can hear.

It isn’t as though I haven’t tried to talk to them before. This isn’t the first time nor is it the second time that I have attempted to draw these lines of communication with them.  Every inch of my skin screams to tell them the stories of my life, but I had to learn the hard way to quiet the screams, and to ignore what my heart desires. They claim to want to know everything about my life, but that is a lie. They don’t want to hear about little stories I cherish of my high school experience and most definitely not about boys. In their dictionary, the male species don’t exist. Well, at least, not until marriage. To them only books, pens, paper and occasional social events exist. And I failed to mention that these “social events” strictly mean study sessions. Although they tell me to not be afraid of life, their actions say quite the opposite. Their contradictory statements are only half of their ridiculous habits. I would be more than happy to share, but there simple are too many to choose from and my patience is running thin.

Am I over-exaggerating? Maybe a bit, but this is the only life that I know. Once in a while I catch a glimpse of other relationships that thrive from trust and truth. Ironically both of these two elements lack in my own bond with my parents. They do not trust that I will make responsible decisions.  They do not trust that I will find my way back home. And in turn, I doubt myself because for so long I have eaten their words and lost my sense of independence and self-confidence. They simply have no trust in me because in their eyes I am and will always be incompetent. I know the times are different from the way that they once knew, from the way they once grew up. But even after having made a home out of this country, my parents find this culture so different, so strange, and so foreign that accepting the life that I embrace here in America is out of the question. As a result, the constant feeling that fear surround me seeps into my defenseless skin unannounced. I am consumed by thoughts of fear that I cannot erase. In my head, I can hear the horror that lingers in my mother’s voice and see the worries in my father’s eyes. From their discomfort of unfamiliarity they have become captive to this fear that they let in. While this fear whispered in their ears with her seductive voice, they listened to her every word without question.  Neither physical nor tangible, she has got my parents in a chokehold and won’t let them free.  

The thing is my parents weren’t always like this. They were Vietnamese refugees, who spent weeks, even months of being lost at sea and hopping through various camps. They escaped from their home that had become a melting pot of death, leaving behind family, friends and childhood memories. But unlike me, my parents could not hide behind their fears and insecurities. They could not hesitate in the face of fear because their survival depended on it. Standing in over-crowed wooden boats, my parents were knee deep in mixture of ocean water, urine, and vomit. When they came to America, they hoped for a better future where their scars could heal. But here, they were labeled as “outsiders,” and were forced to prove they were as American as any other and that their roots ran as deep as their neighbors. In front of others, my parents hid who they were, not out of shame, but of fear of being casted out of a society they hoped would one day become their home. They changed how they acted in public, and refused to eat a fish sauce when guests were over because of its unique smell. While they struggled to maintain the delicate balance of their culture to the tune of mainstream America, both of my parents sewed together a foundation for my future; a foundation built on self-disciple, respect, faith, and most importantly, family. And with these deep seeded principles as a basis in raising my sisters and me, my parents have taught me that fighting for what is right is not wrong and the value in standing up for what I believe. These core values are what I carry everyday like my JanSport backpack I bear on my shoulders and will never leave behind.      

There is not denying that the traumatizing experience in which my parents endured shaped and changed their life. They are no longer the naive Vietnamese kids they once were before the war that devastated their homeland. My parents had seen death, even tasted it in their mouth. Villages were destroyed and diminished form existence in front of their eyes.  And it is this constant fear which haunts them. Being captive of this fear, my parents have deducted I would only be safe if my freedom was to be restricted. Their logic is that if I am away from everything, I would be safe from harm’s way. So they seek out to micromanage every detail of my life and I am kept from leaving the nest they have created from chains and locks. I have yet to sleep at any of my friend’s houses, even friends whom I’ve known since grade school.  There is no reason or explanation that they offer that comes with their decision. All they offer is a simple “no,” and that’s the end of the one-way discussion. Because to them, even the thought of my staying at someone else’s house would make them cringe at night and toes curl underneath their blankets.  

I know that I am not a bad kid. I don’t go out and make stupid decisions that I would later regret or anything that could be potentially life threatening to others or myself. But to them I am. To them, I am just a bad kid because I am not as they once were when they were raised in their native land. It is true that the American individualistic culture is a part of who I am as is the customs of my parents. But the cultural clash between the two is so extreme that my parents are prevented from moving forward. They guilt me into misery with their judging words when they reminisce the suffering they had to go through, the sacrifices that were made.  I see it in their eyes how they look at me with a tint of disdain when I appear to “leave” my family behind while choosing to do things that take me away from my family. Their eyes are blackened with bitterness, darkened with disappointment. And when they say nothing I feel as though I have failed, even though I know the truth; no matter what I do, it is never enough. What I do is expected of me, and what I don’t do is criticized. I don’t want to disappoint them, but I do not know what else they want from me. My parents have raised me, groomed me to understand the values of our tradition, and of our actions. And make no mistake that I live my life with the wisdom they have offered me. So why does my eagerness to taste life surprise them, especially since, it was them who taught me to do so in the first place?

Although I am bound to this cage and can not take flight, I yearn to fly away. I dream of soaring into the limitless sky that rests above me, but the weight of my fear always brings my head back down from the clouds. Having been constantly beaten over the head with my parents’ worries, I have absorbed their feelings of insecurities and I, too, am afraid to live. Having been alone all this time, I have forgotten how to interact. My awkwardness eludes from my pores and I am uncomfortable in my skin I call my own. Sometimes I am lost in who I am. Am I Vietnamese? Am I American? Am I both? When they were in Vietnam, they were with people who looked like them, spoke in the same tongue as them. My parents identified with being Vietnamese as everyone else also shared their ethnicity. But here in America, I am a handful among a sea of races and I am lost. It is harder to make sense of my life, harder to grow into who they want me to be in this massive ocean. And in the end, I have realized trying to be this ideal Asian girl is something I can never accomplish because it will never be enough for them. I will never satisfy their high standards. I will never understand what they had to go through for our worlds are of great differences.

            As I am preparing for college, decisions of where I will go must be made. Already I know that my desire to go far will be tested. My parents want me to stay close to home. Berkeley is the only option. It is the only school that seems to exist in their mind. The hour and a half drive to Davis is too far and any school in southern California is already out of the question. Often times I wonder what will happen in the future if I continue following my parents’ wishes rather than my own aspirations. Am I truly too afraid to reject what my parents want because I would be rocking the boat and jeopardizing future relations with my parents? Is it worth my sanity and happiness to subdue my desires? Already I can not hold back the tears and I can’t imagine what it would be like if this was to continue. All of my other friend’s parents want their kids to go where they want as long as they would be happy. But it seems like my happiness is of little importance.

I am the last of three children and yet no changes have been made. I speak of the same issues my oldest sister spoke of seven years ago when she was preparing for college. When she go the acceptance letter to Berkeley, she had not choice. Her path was already being paved even before she took her first step. She never even really had to pack her bags. She never even really left the house. Being impatient people, I know my parents don’t like repetition and yet here I am doing just that. I guess that is why I decided to put my words, my thoughts, on to paper. If I hadn’t our conversations would end the same way they always seem to- the yelling, the screaming of incoherent words, tears streaming down faces. We would just be three steps back from where we first started, never even departing from square one. I know it isn’t like my parents are trying to make life harder on purpose. I know they only want the best for me. But they can not see the pain and frustration that they cause as a result of their mission. Maybe as time passes they will come to see what I see. Perhaps one day we will come to some sort of understanding. I hope that day will soon come because I am uncertain as to how much longer my sanity can withstand. But I am not ready to give up just yet.