I’m luckier than my mother, because I’d worked and made adjustments to myself, after work, I was more than willing to listen to my son, rant about his day at school…
The steps of time had just gone past the last part of May, the weather in Michigan had just gotten rid of the coldness of spring altogether, and the weather started warming back up, the skies started turning bluer, and the land finally got rid of the layers of snow on top of it, like a woman, taking off her makeup, showing her soft true skin. The concrete in the suburbs like the lines of a chessboard, crossed at the set places; the oncoming traffic made different endings as they’d gone through the passages of the board.
He’d Liked to March to the Beats of His Own Drums
I’d dodged the traffic, and drove along the winding passages that circled around the hills, and the small lake, in the end, my double-door Buick found its way to my son’s elementary school parking lot.
Maybe because of how quiet it was, I saw the scenes from before when I counseled high school students: using English and Chinese, with great passion, I’d lectured on the tenth grade novel of “To Kill a Mockingbird,” trying to get the immigrated students quickly into the background of the story—the south decades ago, in Alabama, where the issues of prejudice and racism is most apparent, a white attorney who symbolized morality, faced up to the society’s reprimands, and still defended his black client………
As the bell started ringing, the students of various heights ran from the doors, most are white, and, the Asians are minorities, I saw my son, with a black head of hair from ways in, with his lunch box, his workout cap, strolled along, behind the crowd. He didn’t like rushing to squeeze into the busses, like how he doesn’t go after the basketball in the courts, or anything for that matter, he’d like it more, to march to the beats of his own drums; looking at the other American children who’d hollered, and rushed onboard their separate busses. Not long thereafter, the busses, with all the noises, sped off into the distance.
I knew that my son who’s shy and sensitive must hide out in my sedan for so many more years, before he finally made his adaptations to the outside world.
I drove the car into the garage, took up my son’s chubby hands, passed through the living room, entered the bright kitchen, pulled back the curtains, the light expanded to the lamps outside, the stones, and the trees in the yard, and my yard showed of how I missed my home.
Trapped Between Family and the Self
When the ins and outs of life, and taking care of my son no longer took up my entire life, the once grueling household chores that took up too much of my time had a hint of artistry to them, and became more elegant. At which time, I’d recalled what my mother said when she’d had heart burns, “My life is ruined because of you runts,” and as she spoke, her displeasures overflowed, and it would not end.
When I was in elementary school, I’d usually gone up as representative of the school, to compete in speeches, and my school teacher would often looked at my wrinkled up uniform, and asked Ying who sat next to me, to switch her shirt with me. Ying’s uniform was soaked and ironed, her skirts are folded, and, it’d wreaked of the scent of how she loved, and how I wasn’t.
My mother’s needlelike emotions had managed to scraped my young mind; until I’d finished my master’s program, for the sake of my son, I’d stayed at home for five years, I’d understood, firsthand, how my mother felt, and how she’d longed to read books and write poetry and the sadness and sorrows of how she couldn’t that stemmed from that. I’m so sad, that in her entire life, she couldn’t manage to get out of the kitchens.
I’m way luckier than my mother, because I worked away from home, I was able to get adjustments for my emotions, and when I’d returned home, I’d listened to my son, ranted on about his day at school willingly. I’d focused my attention on his words, and softened my gaze, to record everything about my son, his voice, his gaze, along with everything else.
The honeysuckle setting sun was spread all over my yard now, move a bit in, through the long windows, the sun had projected the instance of me, gazing into my son’s eyes onto the walls temporarily.
When I was younger, I’d often longed for being able to, look in the eyes of a gentle mother, like how we were like two peas in a pod, with so much connectedness between us.
But you never had that, and now, you’re doing that to your son, and this, is quite normal, for parents to overcompensate what they lacked in their own childhoods, and give it to their offspring, and in this particular case, the mother did well, and there are many cases where this kind of overcompensation backfired, like in my own case.