Sharing Feelings With Mama and Papa Fung

My parents don't pressure me about getting married and settling down, and have respected the choices I've made in my life. Still, they're not immune to the worry that I may end up alone, and they would like to see me loved, supported, and taken care of. I'm not immune to that worry, either. In spite of preferring to take care of myself, of knowing that I will always have the love and support of friends and family, of being capable of creating a fulfilling life with or without sharing it with someone, I'm still, at the end of the day, a romantic who still hopes that that someone exists.

My parents and I don't talk much about our fears and our hopes, though. We've never had that kind of dynamic. In my family, we manage to avoid topics that involve feelings, love included. So when my parents check in on my love life, they usually talk around it, posing questions like, "Do you do anything other than work and practice taekwondo?" and "Have you made any new friends lately?" Because assuring them that, yes, I do make time to maintain a relatively active dating life would make for a super awkward conversation, and because they probably don't actually want to know the details of my "activities" anyway, I'm kind of okay with letting them believe that I write books by day and kick people by night.

I admit that there's a part of me that wants to commiserate with my parents at a more intimate level. I love them, and I like them as people. I'm also constantly learning from them, so why not ask them for advice on love as well?

Here's why:

In a recent conversation with my parents, I explained to them that the reason I was single didn't have to do with my lack of trying to meet men, or even getting dates with them, but that, quite simply, it's hard for me to meet men with whom I share common interests. When you're a 30-something-year-old woman with a PhD, whose idea of a fun time is to sing songs from RENT at karaoke, make costumes even when it's not Halloween, and point out things that are racist, you're probably not compatible with too many people.

My mother's response: "Who told you you had to be so weird?"

My father's: "Who needs common interests? Your mom and I don't have anything in common and we get along okay."

Sharing feelings is going to take some practice.

Mom and Daughter Take to the Streets

Over and over again, I have to remind myself to never underestimate my parents. When I decided to join a march for justice for Trayvon Martin today, I expected that my parents would try to convince me not to go.  I braced myself for potential frustrating dialogue. As immigrants, my parents know full well the violence of racism, the injustice of a legal system that doesn't work equally for all, the fear of the police. However, precisely because of the violence, injustice, and fear that they have experienced as immigrants, they don't feel entitled to the right to protest. It doesn't accomplish much, they say. Who listens to us anyway, they ask. The world is as it is. Your energy is better spent making money to take care of yourself and your family.

Nonetheless, in spite of never knowing quite what to make of their American-born, loud-mouthed daughter who chose to study English and teach Ethnic Studies, they have always listened to my rants and raves with appreciation and patience. And over bowls of noodle soup, we had an extended conversation about the case, the verdict, and racial injustice. As I had expected, they expressed ambivalent views and betrayed their own prejudices. But in the end, they agreed that the legal system is unfair, that Zimmerman's verdict is unjust, and that the public needs to pressure the federal government to file a civil rights case. To my surprise, Mama Fung decided to join me in the march, not only because she supported me, but also because she supported the cause. After I fashioned a "NO Justice NO Peace" sign out of cardboard, she wrote on the back her translation: 没有正义，没有和平. 

My heart swelled with pride as I linked arms with my mom and marched through the streets of San Francisco. I nearly cried when I heard her shout, in her accented English, "Justice for Trayvon Martin!" I chuckled when she shied away when the reporter from her favorite newspaper, World Journal, wanted to ask her questions about our sign. 

After the march, we had dinner together. She asked me about how I developed my commitment to social justice, how my community work relates to my scholarly work and professional life, whether I ever feel that I should have taken an easier road in life. She shared with me her own feelings about her place in America, her experiences in the 35 years she's lived here, her hopes for me and my future. As we refilled our cups of tea and worked through our jook and noodles, we spilled one story after another, as if we were confessing fears and hopes we had each longed to say to each other. 


The day was full of great one-liners from Mama Fung. Here are some of my favorites:

"I hate the police."

"Maybe you picked the wrong career. You should have been a lawyer. After tenure, you can still get a law degree. But then you'll be so scary, no man will want to marry you." 

"Of course I will support you when what you are doing is right."

"Your dad thinks that you get your spirit from him. He's not even here! Obviously, you get it from me."

"We are the only Chinese people here!"

"That guy over there is kind of weird. Let's walk the other way."

 "Stop telling all your friends about me!"  

"Will you get fired for this?"

"Of course I'm a special kind of mother. I would have to be to produce a daughter like you." 

"Can you ask the police where we can find a bathroom?"