Daniel Gu

Who would have known a car accident would have led to my Chinese American dad telling me he felt depressed.

One night, my mom and I got a call from my dad. He said he was fine, but had gotten into a car accident at a busy intersection near my house. I wasn’t necessarily worried though. If my dad says he’s fine, I believe it. Though in Asian culture resisting against showing pain is common, I had assumed that all we would be doing is going to pick him up to give him a ride home.

Arriving at the intersection and seeing my dad standing on the sidewalk on his phone only reinforced the security I felt. He’s fine, I thought to myself in relief. Despite traffic being closed off, flares on the ground, the right side of my dad’s car caving in, and a firetruck and first responder vehicles with blaring lights parked on the street, he seemed calm, so I didn’t worry. After talking some more with the first responders, my dad’s car was towed away, and we headed home.

I continued to feel a false sense of security even as we drove home. Looking back, I ask myself, “Should I have been more worried? Should I have pestered him with more questions?” But at the moment, it wasn’t a big deal. He explained how some “dumbass” had run a red light and t-boned his car as he was turning. When first responders came, they asked him questions to find out more about the accident and how he was feeling. 

Most of it was pretty standard, but they had asked if he had hit his head. According to my dad, he had hit his head and he had been instructed to seek out a head trauma expert to make sure he was fine. In the coming days, he scheduled an appointment, and we found out he had gotten a concussion. As many of you may know, however, some Asian parents tend to not trust American doctors. I remember my dad always would joke about how bad the head trauma professionals were.

Before all of this, my dad was always positive, light-hearted and cracking jokes, and fun to be around. Of course, there were times when he had bad days, a joke didn’t sit well with him, or I was annoying and he got mad. But none of these instances were uncharacteristic of him. I knew his tendencies and how he expressed his personality.

To give you some context, my dad immigrated from China. Without getting a diploma in the states, no money, and having to pick up an entirely new language, my dad worked all kinds of jobs to be able to make a living. Even now, he works side jobs to provide for my family. Pride, confidence, and strength have always defined my dad. After going through what he’s experienced, it's no wonder he’s my perception of what hard work is and he’s the figure I look up to, and it's no wonder he is the person he is today.

But after the accident, things were different. He would often forget things due to the concussion. If my mom got annoyed he would forget, or if I was surprised he had forgotten something so recent, my tough-skinned dad would have normally brushed it off. Now, things like this seemed to get to him. He started to confide in me about his emotions, something I would have never expected him to do. It’s worth noting that in Asian culture, talking about mental health and emotions is not common, and gender roles/expectations sometimes make it even more difficult for men to do so. Furthermore, it doesn’t help that hierarchies of respect exist within families, so it’s pretty clear why this was unheard of for me.

So when he started talking to me about how he was feeling, these two implicit biases made me all the more shocked when my strong, steady, confident Chinese dad was willing to confide in me. 

A quick Google search reveals some depression symptoms include guilt, worthlessness, helplessness, and pessimism. After the concussion, my dad seemed to feel all these things. He would tell me he felt like he couldn’t do anything, and how he felt worthless to us. He often seemed down or sad whenever we did anything. Minor arguments and making small mistakes would leave him feeling defeated. 

Sure, it’s scary seeing someone change. I would have never expected my dad’s mental health to visibly worsen. Maybe it was the model minority myth in the back of my mind, or the implicit biases I’ve spent time trying to overcome, but it just didn’t seem possible to me. Furthermore, his mental health went completely unchecked. He never visited a professional and was never diagnosed to have clinical depression. To him and my mom, the possibility of him “actually” having mental health problems never crossed their mind- lack of mental health awareness in the Asian American community yet again showing its signs.

But what bothered me more was the fact that we didn’t get that clarity. With these signs being persistent, but just non-persistent enough for me to have a seed of doubt that they weren’t as bad as they were, I found myself affected more by the uncertainty of my dad’s mental health. 

I felt two ends of a train of thought, pulling me each day. One side made me try not to worry too much. It’s fine, don’t be annoying and overthink it, that side would say. In particular, I would think this when he was his normal self.

The other would leave me worried that I didn’t care enough, and that his mental health was indicative of a potentially larger problem I was being oblivious to. No one wants to see anyone feel mental distress, and above all, I hated to see my dad going through this and what it could potentially become.

And what did I do about it? Virtually nothing. My brief mentions of mental health were always brushed off with “It’s fine”, and language barriers made it difficult to get many of my points across. But in reality, I feel like these are just excuses to account for me not trying harder to break that Asian-specific stigma and lack of awareness in my household, and the larger cultural factors at play.

Luckily, everything turned out alright. Fast forward to today, my dad is much better. My dad never got an official diagnosis, but it’s pretty clear that his depressive symptoms were a result of the head trauma he faced. He’s back to his normal self, and we can talk openly about how he felt back then. He did however, not end up seeking professional mental health help.

Before writing with this, I sat down to talk with him to bring everything back up. Nowadays, my family avidly advocates for mental health. Time spent talking, discussing, and learning together (and probably the fact that I spend so much of my time working on Project Lotus) has, I believe, led to my family exemplifying the lotus symbol of growth and beauty even in “dirty waters.”

I explained more about what therapy was: how there are a ton of Chinese professionals in the area who could help if he was still feeling depressed, who would understand our culture and our people. My dad seemed ten times more open to the idea, and he openly reflected on how he felt after the accident. 

I don’t want to end this piece on a bad note. The reality is, this accident wasn’t the event that “changed my family forever”. However, looking back I regret not doing more. My dad is doing much better today, which I’m more than grateful for, but I can’t help but feel like I got lucky. I keep thinking about why I didn’t do more. Why didn’t I ask him if it was alright to sit down and talk about seeing a professional? Why didn’t I urge him to seek help? Why didn’t I try harder? I got lucky this time, but what if his mental health had taken a different turn? (It’s worth noting that I don’t say this to imply that other people’s mental health is your necessarily your responsibility, but emphasize the importance of a support system)

For many Asian Americans reading this, you may see the same lack of mental health awareness and acceptance in your household as I did in mine (or maybe even worse). I’ve always advocated for mental health, but I still couldn’t believe my dad of all people would face mental health problems. These implicit biases, the model minority myth, language barriers, culture, and many more factors are all things that make Asian American mental health such a unique situation.

After what happened with my dad, I promise to continue to fight stigma and shame behind mental health not only in the community through advocacy and educating, but to continue to change myself. Asian Americans aren’t immune to mental health problems, and I encourage all of you to take the initiative to make a change. Currently, our community isn’t the best place to support mental health. But, by taking even the smallest of steps to make a change, we can encourage our community to be ready to support someone when they need help. That may take the form of professional help, or even just being someone people can talk to. Dismantling shame, stigma, and all the other large-scale reasons behind Asian American mental health problems have to start somewhere.

Even if it’s something as small as checking in with your loved ones.

-Daniel Gu