If you couldn't tell from
my favorite text of all time, English is not my mom's first language. Also, I am not a disrespectful daughter, my last name is Vietnamese and it's ho without the e. My dad
was a refugee from Vietnam and my mom had a half American stepbrother so she
was able to immigrate to America with her family under the Amerasian Immigrant
Act. Clearly, my parents are badass. Sometimes I think they're fictional
characters. With that being said, it's very hard for us to understand each
other at times. Growing up in a warzone, my parents have a survival mentality
and inevitably, they implemented that in me. My parents have always taught me
to work your ass off. That’s it. Simple…right?
Mental healthcare in
my family was never spoken of so when I learned about it in middle school, it
seemed like a luxury to me. Therapy? Medication? Why not just talk to your
friends? I’ll have you know, that this was very stupid of me to think at the
time. No one fucking likes middle school. Everyone has braces and acne, girls
are getting hormonal as shit, and the boys become ass holes. I remember when I
tried talking about my parent’s divorce and our financial instability at the
time to my guy friend and he replied on AOL messenger like “omg. do u lyk mi or
wat?”
I was lost until I met
my fairy godmother. Her name is Kate and her son and I were friends. She
learned about my story and for some reason, she took me in as her daughter. We
used to always joke that she was my token “white mom.” YAY RACISM. Forreal
though, when she said she was basically my mom, it was no joke. She got me a
scholarship to a private school, gave me music lessons, drove me to my new
school everyday, and years later, she introduced me to my therapist.
It took me a while to
grow the courage to get a therapist. My dad doesn’t live with me so it was easy
to not talk about it with him. I figured my mom would find out eventually so I
just told her. We didn’t go into much depth about it. She just handed me the
money to go and that was her way of showing her support. To me, that was more
than enough.
Therapy
didn’t make my mom comfortable, so medication was something I wasn’t excited to
talk about. When I told my mom I needed it, she just told me I should just be
happy. “Honey,” she said, “we have food and housing, what is there to be upset
about? I had to work in the fields with my fifteen siblings in Vietnam because
the communist didn’t let us have an education as southerners. I’m happy. You’re
so lucky. Be happy.” Like, damn, mom!
Way to make me sound like a total bitch! Honestly though, it wasn’t wrong of my
mom to react like that.
What my mom and I had
to come to terms with was that we grew up in very different contexts. Maybe my
Vietnamese parents will never fully understand and that’s okay. I can’t claim to
understand my parents. My dad saw someone was stealing his grapefruit in
Vietnam and then hid out all night to attack the dude with a machete just to
find out it was his neighbor. That shit is crazy. Dad, why? It’s kind of like
that with my medication to them. Maybe that was a stretch. What I’m trying to
say is, their crazy ass stories have taught me many lessons. I wouldn’t have
the work ethic I have now if it weren’t for them. I’ve learned from them and who’s
to say they won’t learn from mine? Different is okay. Anyways, I gotta bounce
now. I hope this journey summary contributed to your super cool life somehow!
Best,
Your
coolest friend
Here's a token funny photo:
My mom doesn't know what WTF means, but she thought this shirt was cute. I love my mom so much. #blessed
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