on love that lasts lifetimes
a love letter to my parents, family, and intergenerational love
As I'm sitting on my couch writing this essay, my parents are on their way to the airport for a trip to celebrate their 32nd anniversary. In many ways, knowing that fills me with an immense sense of peace and gratitude. I am grateful that my parents, who have worked tirelessly day in and day out to take care of me and my siblings, are finally getting some time away to rest and relax. I am grateful that they have carved out this little tradition in recent years to celebrate their love. I am grateful that I have parents who get to celebrate their 32nd anniversary, whose love permeated every corner of our home growing up, who generously passed down their gifts to me, and taught me how to love and care for others fully and deeply. Perhaps for that, I am most grateful.
My dad is where I got my love of writing from. We have never said those exact words to each other, but I know. I know because my dad was always a man of few words growing up, and even less praise, but when I graduated high school, he quietly gave me a ten page letter about how proud he was of me and my accomplishments. He would do the same when I graduated college, and when my younger sister graduated high school as well. One year when I was in college, I got him one of those “fill in the blank” books in honor of Father’s Day, the type that you grab right as you’re about to checkout, and scribbled in a bunch of little memories I had of us while I rode the Amtrak train back home. I remember feeling a bit guilty that I hadn’t spent more time or energy on his gift, that I had very much phoned it in1, so I was surprised when a couple days later, he sent me an email about how much he loved and appreciated the gift. In many ways, I shouldn’t have been surprised - I can see now that my love for the written word was always shared, that it in fact came from my dad. So much of writing for me is the ability to capture a good story or conversation, and that’s what most of my time with my dad was like growing up. Whether it was on the road to piano lessons or soccer practice or to a friend’s house for a sleepover, we would talk about everything from astronomy and science to the state of world affairs. My dad was the first person in my life to truly talk to me like an equal, to show me that he was interested in my thoughts and the way that I see the world even as a child, and that has truly shaped how I move through the world, and especially how I write. And for that, I am forever grateful.
My mom is where I got my love of hosting and gathering people from. Growing up, I looked forward to every family party that my mom hosted. My heart would skip a beat every time the doorbell rang, nervous with excitement over who might be at the door. I loved watching rooms fill up with people, the atmosphere thick with love and laughter, and how at the heart of it all, was always my mom. Whether she was weaving through crowds making sure everyone had enough food or showering everyone with gifts as they left, my mom has always known how to make someone feel loved, seen, and cared for. It’s no wonder that so many people gravitate towards her, and that she is often the life of the party. In fact, my mom is the life of the party no matter where we go. When we travel, she is the first to befriend the receptionist at the hotel, or the waiter at the restaurant, or the street performer when we stumble upon a show. When we travel together, I often find myself getting annoyed -- can we please stop taking pictures? Can we please keep moving along? -- but when I look back, I realize that my mom was often the only one who was truly living in the moment. Instead of rushing through the motions of life as I often do, my mom pauses to savor each moment and the world around us, fully and deeply. Something that my mom very innately understands is that people are often what make life worth living for. Our loved ones, our community, those chance encounters that we have while traveling - these are all the little moments in our lives that color what it means to be human, what it means to live, and who we live for. I can see now that connecting with and bringing people together makes my mom feel alive in the same way that I do. And for that, I am forever grateful.
I am lucky that I got to grow up in a house filled with love.2 A lot of that love also came from my Grandma, who moved to the United States when I was only nine months old, and lived with and took care of us for the next twenty five years or so, only very recently moving back to China. Growing up, my Grandma would braid my hair every morning before school and make delicious home-cooked meals for us every night. She used to take me to the lake near our old house to teach me how to skip rocks across the water (I never quite figured it out). She was even my first personal trainer, teaching me how to do my first sit-up by sitting on my feet. My family jokes about my Grandma and I are so similar, especially in our stubbornness, because we are both oxen on the Chinese zodiac. They are right about our similarity and stubbornness - in many ways, I am the woman that I am today because of my Grandma. My mom's eyes well up with tears every time we talk about this. My mom is adamant that she would not be where she is in life, and our family would not have been able to grow in the way that it did, had it not been for my Grandma's sacrifice, for her decision to traverse time and space to take care of my mom and our family for so many years. I am grateful to Grandma for so many things, but especially for being able to experience this type of intergenerational love3, the sort that spans across generations and lasts for many lifetimes.
I often think about how my parents never had a proper wedding. I think about how my mom would’ve been the life of the party, and my dad would have had a field day writing his wedding vows. But in reality, they had recently immigrated to the United States, and were still getting their bearings in this foreign land. My dad tells me stories from his time as a PhD student, about how he used to work at a pizza shop to save up money for a flight back to China. I cry tears of laughter over the image of my dad covered in flour from flipping pizza dough, and then I cry real tears thinking about how homesick he must've been, not being able to afford to see his own family for years, let alone have a wedding. I think about how special it would’ve been for my grandparents to have witnessed my parents’ wedding, to have celebrated their love and the start to their new life in America. It makes me sad to think about all of the time that my parents lost with their own parents, and how much my grandparents must have missed them. To me, this is one of the greatest sacrifices that one can make - the sacrifice of time with loved ones of your past and present, in service of the loved ones of your future. In every way, I am the lucky one.
As my parents are boarding their flight, I think about how my mom tells me her favorite travel partner is my dad. My dad takes care of all of the logistics - he will route directions on his phone, he will research and compare hotel prices before booking, he will make sure to roll the suitcases and carry the heavier bags through the airport. I know because I witnessed him doing this on family vacations growing up, and find myself doing the same when we travel without him. I love that my dad is able to create a space full of security and stability for my mom to rest in, so that she is able to truly unwind, to take as many pictures to her heart's content, and to be able to live life fully and deeply. I know my mom helps my dad enjoy and experience life in this way too, that she adds color and vivacity in his life as she does with all of ours. I think about how lucky I am to get to witness my parents’ love, and how much of growing up is as much about coming home to yourself, as it is about understanding where you came from. I am grateful to my family for modeling a form of intergenerational love for me that I now strive to cultivate in my relationship, and hope to share with our own family someday. As their flight takes off, I think about how lucky we are to have love that lasts lifetimes.
To my dad when he reads this: I selfishly hope this essay is my redemption arc, and that you love it just as much as that little book, if not more
I know how much of a privilege it is to be able to say this, and how precious it is to have that sort of childhood. There is also a unique privilege in my parents being able to immigrate to the United States, and me being born a U.S. citizen, that I didn’t have the space to fully unravel in this essay. I want to write more about Asian-American cultural hybridity and my connection to my heritage(s) at some point, and will probably unpack that more then.
We talk a lot about intergenerational trauma, and rightfully so - for so many of us, there is so much pain to unravel, work that takes years if not decades, or even lifetimes. In the face of darkness and intergenerational trauma, I hope to offer us light in the form of intergenerational love.