It’s been almost two years since I left my home and came to Japan to “seek my fortune.” So far, this has been the adventure of a lifetime. I’ve been incredibly fortunate in spite of my brash decision to leave behind a nice, comfortable life and set out on my own as a stranger in a strange land. Nevertheless, there is one thing that saddens me about what I’ve done. In being so stubborn and selfish about this decision two years ago, I made my parents cry.
In the car, on the way to the airport, my mother cried. It was noisy, slimy, and devoid of all poise and pride. There was only pain, pain, and more pain. I was stunned.
My mother is not the crying kind. In our family, she has always been the stalwart and formidable pillar that holds everything upright when all else is about to fall apart. Never in all my life did I think she’d cry just because I was leaving. The daughter who had caused her innumerable disappointments, who had betrayed her in countless ways, was leaving everything behind to do her own selfish thing. My mother would be free of me at last, I thought. She’d be relieved and happy, I thought. Man, was I ever wrong.
And then one day, while I was home for a vacation, my father admitted to us that sometimes he cried for me, too. He’d cry when he thought of me all alone, with no one to look after me. What if I got sick? What if I needed help? Here, I had no family and no friends. It’s just me.
My father is the most sublimely confident man I’ve ever known. He is candid and honest, never shy of speaking his mind, but knows exactly when to keep silent. And in my eyes he is the strongest of men because he is never afraid of owning up to his weaknesses. He made the great sacrifice of leaving his family for work so he could provide them a more comfortable lifestyle, and he accomplished exactly what he set out to do. A man of faith and purpose, with an iron will like my father, was the last person I’d thought would cry over the idea that his spoiled silly daughter might be lonely. Again, I could not have been more mistaken.
Two years hence, they’ve gotten used to it. Nowadays, they still worry a lot, but I don’t think they cry anymore. And I can only hope that in some little way they feel a bit of pride in me for having been brave enough to test my own limits and see how far I could go. In spite of the worry and pain they had to endure, they let me do what I wanted, and let me make a dream come true. It is because of this that I now know I can go anywhere, do anything, if I so wanted.
When I left home, I told myself that I was doing it to gain that mysterious, elusive thing called “freedom.” And gain it I most certainly did. Only, I realize clearly now that I never gained it for myself. It was my parents who had gifted me with it all along. My freedom is my most precious possession, because my parents paid for it with their tears.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot that I’ve had my little adventure, and that I ought to be heading back home soon. My life in Japan has been a grand escapade. I’ve made many good friends, seen spectacular sights, and learned so many lessons that I’d have never learned had I not dared challenge myself. But I also have a long list of things to go home to, and first on that list are my parents.
I want to return to that feeling of being whole again. Our family has been scattered for such a long time. Now my parents are home again, and I want to be part of their lives. I don’t want to be just someone they talk to on the telephone every now and then anymore. I want them to see my face, hear my voice, and feel my presence as part of their surroundings. I want to be part of their memories. And I don’t want to wait until we all grow too old and time gets to be too late, and there’d be nothing more that can be done but regret.
There are no words that can describe the agony I feel when I see my parents’ grief. It paralyzes me and makes me feel utterly wretched and unworthy. So I never want to see my parents’ tears again. But if I come home to the sight of them crying because they are proud of me or because they are happy, perhaps then I won’t mind catching a little teardrop or two.
(posted elsewhere 2 Jul 2009)
In the car, on the way to the airport, my mother cried. It was noisy, slimy, and devoid of all poise and pride. There was only pain, pain, and more pain. I was stunned.
My mother is not the crying kind. In our family, she has always been the stalwart and formidable pillar that holds everything upright when all else is about to fall apart. Never in all my life did I think she’d cry just because I was leaving. The daughter who had caused her innumerable disappointments, who had betrayed her in countless ways, was leaving everything behind to do her own selfish thing. My mother would be free of me at last, I thought. She’d be relieved and happy, I thought. Man, was I ever wrong.
And then one day, while I was home for a vacation, my father admitted to us that sometimes he cried for me, too. He’d cry when he thought of me all alone, with no one to look after me. What if I got sick? What if I needed help? Here, I had no family and no friends. It’s just me.
My father is the most sublimely confident man I’ve ever known. He is candid and honest, never shy of speaking his mind, but knows exactly when to keep silent. And in my eyes he is the strongest of men because he is never afraid of owning up to his weaknesses. He made the great sacrifice of leaving his family for work so he could provide them a more comfortable lifestyle, and he accomplished exactly what he set out to do. A man of faith and purpose, with an iron will like my father, was the last person I’d thought would cry over the idea that his spoiled silly daughter might be lonely. Again, I could not have been more mistaken.
Two years hence, they’ve gotten used to it. Nowadays, they still worry a lot, but I don’t think they cry anymore. And I can only hope that in some little way they feel a bit of pride in me for having been brave enough to test my own limits and see how far I could go. In spite of the worry and pain they had to endure, they let me do what I wanted, and let me make a dream come true. It is because of this that I now know I can go anywhere, do anything, if I so wanted.
When I left home, I told myself that I was doing it to gain that mysterious, elusive thing called “freedom.” And gain it I most certainly did. Only, I realize clearly now that I never gained it for myself. It was my parents who had gifted me with it all along. My freedom is my most precious possession, because my parents paid for it with their tears.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot that I’ve had my little adventure, and that I ought to be heading back home soon. My life in Japan has been a grand escapade. I’ve made many good friends, seen spectacular sights, and learned so many lessons that I’d have never learned had I not dared challenge myself. But I also have a long list of things to go home to, and first on that list are my parents.
I want to return to that feeling of being whole again. Our family has been scattered for such a long time. Now my parents are home again, and I want to be part of their lives. I don’t want to be just someone they talk to on the telephone every now and then anymore. I want them to see my face, hear my voice, and feel my presence as part of their surroundings. I want to be part of their memories. And I don’t want to wait until we all grow too old and time gets to be too late, and there’d be nothing more that can be done but regret.
There are no words that can describe the agony I feel when I see my parents’ grief. It paralyzes me and makes me feel utterly wretched and unworthy. So I never want to see my parents’ tears again. But if I come home to the sight of them crying because they are proud of me or because they are happy, perhaps then I won’t mind catching a little teardrop or two.
(posted elsewhere 2 Jul 2009)
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