Taking Off the Mask
Anonymous
Growing up, I've always felt as if I was wearing a mask, a mask that hides one’s emotions and feelings in place of a stern, disciplined expression. I was never explicitly told or taught to wear it; instead, I learned to don one by observing my parents. They seemed immune to vulnerability: they rarely cried, stressed, asked for help, or discussed their feelings. Compared to the families I would watch on television, read in books, and even within my friend circles, my parents always felt emotionally distant from me. They were a brick wall, constantly on guard, refusing to reveal even the tiniest hint that they were people other than just "Mom" or "Dad."
These omnipresent masks created an unspoken rule within our household: If we won't reveal our emotions to you, best not to reveal yours. Of course, if I really wanted to, I could always walk into their room and get it off my chest— my school life, feelings of self-worth, or, God forbid, relationships. But what would that accomplish other than having us just stare at each other awkwardly, not knowing what to do or say? After all, my parents had lived a completely different life from me. They both grew up in small towns on the opposite side of the world, whereas I had the luxury of growing up in a suburban neighborhood in America. For years, I thought that these differences would be irreconcilable, that there would always be an unspoken veil in between my parents and me. How wrong I turned out to be.
When I was 16, I started volunteering alongside my mom. For ease of transportation, we'd always try to get into the same shifts. On the ten-minute car drives, our conversations would usually be short and cordial.
Until one day, her mask finally slipped.
We were talking about our extended family when I made the mistake of mentioning her recently deceased parents. I immediately realized I was entering a no-go zone, especially considering how close my mom was to them. Yet, my mom remained unfazed. Bit by bit, she started opening up about her relationship with her parents. She first talked about her father, recalling her decade long tradition of waking up every single day at the break of dawn just to have a five-minute conversation with him. The time zone difference between India and America meant that this was the only time they could really speak with each other. Although I had heard this story before, something about the sincerity of her voice seemed... different.
My mom started speaking slower, more solemnly, as she began talking about her mother, and how she looked up to her as a kind and altruistic woman who always put others before herself. So many people would try to take advantage of her compassionate nature. Yet she never changed her outlook on the world, never wavered from her principles and beliefs. So when she died— my mother's voice wavered. I looked up, only to see her shakily gripping the steering wheel with tears in her eyes. Was she... crying?
Over the next couple of minutes, my mother poured her heart out to me. She confessed how she felt worthless for not being by her parents' side when they died, for choosing to come to the United States instead of staying with them through their final years. She admitted how unhappy she had been up until I was born due to her leaving her old life. Her siblings, her parents, her friends, she had sacrificed it all to be here.
I looked out the window; we had finally arrived at our volunteering location. My mom, wiping her eyes, told me she needed a minute, and asked me to go ahead and enter the center without her. As I got up from the car, I hesitated for a moment, before turning back to my mom.
"You know, I just want to let you know that considering all the traits you described your mother with. I see a lot of her in you". My mom looked back at me with a rueful smile.
"Thank you."
On our way back, my mom seemed a lot more cheerful. We were back to the usual short cordial conversations when she mentioned,
"You know, you're one of the very few people I've opened up to." Surprised, I asked her why she decided to do it then. She smiled.
"Because I see a lot of me in you."
Ever since that moment in the car, my family has done a lot to open up with each other. My dad has slowly begun talking about his gripes and feelings. Although we still have a long way to go, we've finally started taking off our masks. I wanted to tell my story because many of my other Asian friends feel this disconnect when communicating with their parents. I understand that their childhood and backgrounds may be different from yours, but that does not mean that they haven't dealt with issues such as self-worth or stress before. It's just that many Asian cultural norms enforce masks of discipline that makes it very hard to communicate with one another. And with a pandemic raging on, I feel like we’re at a critical point when it comes to our mental and emotional health. We’ve come to a point where we have to wear a physical mask anytime we want to step out of our houses.