homesickness in a foreign country
In Asian culture, it’s not uncommon to ignore and shrug their shoulders at certain topics, especially when it comes to vulnerability.
Such was the case for me. I have never seen my dad cry or show any emotion. He had the same stoic, solemn mannerism for what seemed like forever. But that same quietness, his hands on the wheel, driving me back home or to school in the freezing cold winter mornings, that same silence served as a lullaby for long hours on the road. He never complained. He gave and gave, and I took and took.
When I was a little kid, my dad came home one day, with iPhone 4 in one hand, and one in his pocket, and as he handed the box to me, he was shaking and pacing around in his summer dress shoes. This was mid-December in my country, as cold as it can be.
Or that one time my mom gave me her favorite cashmere hat and she was wearing cheap ones. And a million other times when she would be physically in pain, with throbbing headaches, and kidney diseases, she would still get up to make me breakfast or lunch.
We never said “I love you” to each other. But this was how we expressed each other “love.” That is the case for many other Asian families. Words were meaningless. Actions were priceless. I have witnessed a million sacrifices they have made, proving over and over how much they cherished and treasured me.
When I left for college in the United States, 20-hour plane ride away from my hometown, my dad gave me one last hug and kiss, as my mom whispered in my ear “Sometimes, it’s a good thing to be selfish, make sure to take care of yourself dearly.” Now that I think back, this might’ve been the inkling of their regret. Or this might’ve been a small reminder of how my going away is the true embodiment of their dreams and hopes stacked on top of each other.
In Asian culture, there is no such thing as individuality. In many western cultures, especially here in America, owning your life is very important. This is my life, I will live the way I want to live. While such a mindset might be freeing, I also think of it as a way to take less responsibility, and less judgment. What an easy thing to say! But my family’s dreams and hopes are interconnected, mingled, and braided in such a way that there’s no way to take one string out. In a way, it’s an amazing concept — I have your back forever, and you will have my back too.
That is our version of love. That is my version of love and will forever be. I will look for someone who would see me carrying a heavy burden on my shoulders and say, “I see how heavy that must’ve been. While I may not be able to tell you what to do, I will share that with you. And I hope you will do the same for me.”
I don’t need Mahmoud Darwish in my life. I don’t need beautiful words, amazing flowers, and love letters that swoop beautiful girls off their feet and give them wings. But I do need someone to share my culture, to share my identity, to share my love language when I’m alone in the middle of the night, continents away from home. To drive in the middle of the night, sharing calmness and quietness, when there’s nothing to see but the road in front of us.
