8 — Family
I recently watched The Farewell with Crazy Rich Asians’ actress Awkwafina, and it was beyond all of my expectations. In fact, it shattered my expectations and built a whole new level of what a great movie should be. What’s more is, I was surprised by how relevant it is to my life right now.
The movie did an incredible job of depicting most Asian grandmas. It was all in the little details; from calling her grandchildren degrading, but endearing, names and patting Billi’s butt when she arrived to the house (my Ma Ma loves patting my butt) to the little red envelope with money that Nai Nai hands to Billi before she goes back to America and the way Nai Nai stood, waving goodbye as the car drove away… every little detail was so carefully conveyed. It was a sentimental movie that reminded me of the relationship that I have with my Ma Ma.
My favorite thing to do with my Ma Ma is drive her to Kohl’s and TJ Maxx whenever I visit Boston. I could see the excitement in her eyes when she makes the suggestion, raising her eyebrows to indicate that it’ll be a fun adventure. These days, she stays home to care for my younger cousins, two baby boys. But every time I visit, we’d spend hours wandering the shopping plaza, going from store to store, hand in hand, sometimes buying nothing at all. Then, whenever my time was up, she would always hand me an envelope with some cash inside, telling me to keep it just in case I don’t have any money. I’m always reluctant to take it, but I do it anyways because I know that’s her way of loving me. And I always accept her love.
But beyond the sentimental value and the memories of my Ma Ma, “The Farewell” reminded me of a very important family value that I often struggle with. There was a very specific part in the movie that resonated with me; that had me leaving the theater thinking about my role in the family unit. Do I belong to myself? Or am I just a small piece that belongs to a greater puzzle?
In the movie, Billi’s uncle explains the cultural difference between the east and the west when it comes to family and death. I don’t remember the exact quote but it’s something along the lines of this:
In the West, you want to tell the person they’re dying because you think their body is theirs. You don’t want that kind responsibility because you don’t want to feel guilty. But in the east, one’s body is a part of another whole; family, society. As a family, we take on that burden so that she (Nai Nai) doesn’t have to carry that on her own, so that she doesn’t have to live in fear. She’s so happy now. Why must we tell her she’s dying? You want to ruin her happy mood?
This sounds familiar. I’ve heard this before, the idea of carrying the burden for your family.
Family. Sacrifice. Parts of a whole. Responsibility. Family.
I’ve always been at war with myself; an eternal battle between following my dreams and supporting my family.
In America, we’re raised to believe in our dreams. We’re encouraged to follow our passion and take hold of the opportunities presented to us. But what if that means going against your family? What if that means leaving the unit and neglecting your responsibilities? In Western culture, and especially today, we’re told to put ourselves first, that we are our number one priority. There has also been a great emphasis on self-care and self-love, letting go of the things that don’t serve you. Yet, in Eastern culture, we’re supposed to put our family first. Period.
My parents never had the privilege of following their dreams. For them, family came first. Growing up, I’ve heard many stories of sacrifice. My father sacrificed his education and his future to take care of his family. When he immigrated to America, he attended vocational school and immediately started working. He saved every dollar and put his brother through college, working night and day, multiple shifts, to make sure my uncle can just focus on school, all the while sending money back to Vietnam, until eventually, he was able to bring his mother and father, my Ma Ma and Ye Ye, and his brothers and sisters to America.
My mother sacrificed her dreams to take care of me. My parents got divorced when I was six years old. My mom was 27. She took the only valuable thing she had, and we moved hundreds of miles away. At 27 years old, my mom had to figure out how to raise a child on her own. She had always put me first.
What a privilege it is to be able to have dreams and follow it, to know that your dreams can become a reality. And today, what a privilege it is to be able to put yourself first, to be able to think about the self-love and self-worth that has always been so foreign to the generations before us.
My father always said, “we have to consider the family first. There is no me or I, only we and us.” And he has always put his family first, carrying the burden for every single Phan.
I often feel guilty for being selfish, for putting my needs first. In Vietnamese culture, being a good daughter means I must be hiếu thảo, which is the ancient Chinese belief of filial piety, or simply having respect for one’s parents. But what does that truly mean? Well, in my family, it means more than having respect. It means buying them a house. It means living together and caring for them in their remaining days on Earth. My family always looked down on people who put their parents in nursing homes.
“How can they do that? Their parents raise them and now they put their parents in a nursing home for strangers to care for them. What ungrateful children,” my mom would say. “I hope you don’t ever do that to me. I would rather die.”
If I’m being honest, I’m still struggling. I’m struggling to find the balance between fulfilling my dreams and supporting my family, giving back to them what they gave to me. While my eyes are looking towards the future, while my hands are building a foundation for the next decade, while my heart is full of hope and ambition, there is a little voice inside my head that is constantly reminding me to come home, to buy that house, to move my mom in, to spend every moment I can with her because life is too short and I could lose her in an instant.
My mom always says, “What if I get into an accident and die while you’re away? You don’t care about me too much right now because you think I’m okay. Khi má bị bệnh rồi chết con mới biết thương má. Luc đó thì quá muộn rồi.”
“When I get sick and die, then you’ll love me. By then, it’s too late.”
She’s right. And no amount of calls or texts will ever compare to being by her side. This is the constant battle that lives within me. And while I’ve been proactive on my own personal development, I’m still figuring out how to fulfill my responsibilities to the greater puzzle.
