early memory

This Sunday marked the end of my month and a half visit home. It has only been two days since I've left Fremont, yet I'm already incredibly homesick. I think I was already homesick before I'd even left. This winter was the first time I've gotten to stay at home for more than just a couple of weeks in four years, and it felt like pretty much the first time I've gotten to get somewhat "settled in" and live under the same roof as my family, as a young adult.

Yes, ladies and gents, this twenty-two year old has finally come to terms with her age-demographic identity. My physical fitness and mental prowess will soon peak, and it will all be downhill from there. However, I digress...

This visit was interesting because I think it was the first time I've truly come to appreciate my parents as, well, people. Not that I'd believed they were extraterrestrials or anything before, or that I hadn't respected them previous to this visit. It's more like: I now see my parents as being multi-dimensional beings? They aren't simply just "Mom" and "Dad." No, they possess personas that extend beyond such nuclear roles. My mother cares for the elderly; she brings hope and comfort to those who are unable to care for themselves, as well as bringing relief to their families by supplying their loved ones with something that they are unable to give. My father helps to create tools for science, as well as tools of destruction; the fruits of his labors could both serve to educate and to horrify. Both of my parents do remarkable things each day, yet, prior to this moment in my life, I'd only viewed these two people as being "Mom" and "Dad," whose only role (and purpose) in this world is to nurture my brother and me and to watch us grow into the people we are meant to be. A selfish way of thinking, I know, but I suspect everyone must go through a period in their life where they think something along similar lines...?

Anyway, during my most recent visit, I found myself sympathizing with and understanding my parents' means of reasoning and chosen actions, rather than simply rebelling against them or repugnantly questioning their motives as I had done before. Another thing that comes with my recent revelation is recognizing and accepting the fact that, as being only humans, my parents may occasionally "mess up" and succumb to moments of selfishness, and probably have had some moments that they aren't very proud of. As a fellow adult, I've learned to see that sure, some of their decisions might be disappointing, but that they, too, like me, are only figuring out how to wing this thing called Life and deserve to be cut some slack sometimes. They're growing through their current life experiences, just as I am with mine. We are all in the same boat.

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As I was walking around my neighborhood this past weekend, enjoying the fresh air and noticing how much taller the trees have grown since I'd last taken to a moment to really look at them, an early childhood memory came to mind. It is probably one of the first memories I have of my life in Fremont. I used to take a lot of walks when I was kid. I'd walk to the neighborhood playground with my mom and brother almost every day when I was in the first grade; I loved playing on the tire swing whereas my brother (then only 3) would always try to crawl up the playground slide. Once a week, I'd have my piano lesson. My teacher at the time lived in one of the houses along our usual walk route; a baby grand sat in the front window of her little blue house. My mom would walk me to the teacher's house every Wednesday, then come back an hour later to pick me up.

I wasn't feeling too well during one of my lessons, and found myself having a difficult time with a particular piece. The teacher, who was a "fresh off the boat" Asian and thus taught in a super "Asian" way, attempted to remedy my frustrated whimpers by yelling at me while pounding on the bench. This, however, only made me more nervous, and my six-year-old self began to cry. The lady's husband, who had been upstairs, heard me crying and came storming down the stairs. He lower his enraged face to face mine, grabbed onto my shoulders, and demanded for me to "SHUT UP!!!" This made me cry harder. He began to violently shake me, as he continued with his screaming. My teacher tried to get her husband away from me, but he shoved her away and continued to yell.

I was mortified. For a moment there, I was so frightened it felt like I'd forgotten how to cry.

But then my terror suddenly turned into fury. I began shrieking bloody murder. I grabbed onto one of his arms and dug my teeth into his hand. He stopped yelling. My teacher covered her mouth in shock. I mustered up all of the strength I could, and gave the man a solid kick to the groin. He lost his grip on me, and keeled forward, grabbing himself. He began yelling again. But, by then, I had bolted out the front door and began running as fast I could, never looking back.

I ran to the playground and hid in the tunnel slide, and cried and cried and cried. For some reason, I was ashamed of myself, and was scared that my mom would be mad at me for my behaviour. Exhaustion eventually set in, and I walked home and told her that my lesson had ended early. She couldn't believe that I'd walked all the way home by myself. I told her that the teacher's husband had yelled at me for crying, and that I wanted to quit my lessons. I didn't tell her the rest of the story, in case she'd get mad at me. Mom called the teacher, and asked why her husband had yelled at me. Apparently, the teacher was trying to defend her husband's behaviour, and said he was only trying to get me to be quiet but wasn't too great with kids and that it would never happen again. I told my mom I never wanted to go back to that house.

I never had to ever again!