Archive for May, 2009
In the past few months I’ve written some posts in which my parents have been the subject.
I think I’m giving people the wrong impression.
See, a blog, to me, is a place where I can discuss things that don’t come up in the course of regular conversation.
Whether it’s political, social, or personal, I like to go with the flow of a conversation rather than direct the topics chosen. Most of the stuff I discuss here, I wouldn’t bring up in the course of a conversation.
My childhood or my parents don’t come up a lot in every day conversation unless someone else has specifically brought it up, or it’s relevant to the conversation at hand.
As I said, on my blog I feel that I can discuss whatever or whoever I like.
The problem is I run the risk of leaving people with an inaccurate representation of who I really am… or who the people I’m talking about really are.
I need to tell you something.
Yes, my parents are flawed.
But no more than me, you or anyone else.
Yes, I care a lot about what they think.
But not simply because they’re my parents.
My parents are truly extraordinary people.
I care about what they think because they deserve it.
Not because I’m neurotic.
Not because they brainwashed me or mentally tortured me.
Not because they placed huge expectations upon me in an effort to prolong my dependence upon their approval.
But because they deserve it.
The United States, 1974.
They didn’t know anyone, save for some friends of friends. A typical immigrant story?
It’s not.
My parents weren’t your typical “huddled masses” immigrants. They were from wealthy, educated and highly respected families. When they came here, they didn’t bring any of that money or status with them. In fact, in a way, they didn’t even bring their educations with them since foreign degrees aren’t automatically accredited.
So, they left much more behind than what they gained in America. They started over. With less.
Part of the reason my father left was because of he felt stifled by his family’s status. He wanted to live a life that wasn’t encumbered by expectations and visibility. You might not get that, and I didn’t for many years. But, that really is the reason. His life, other than this particular detail, was better in Pakistan in every way.
My mother came here because she was committed to making a life with the man she had just married. And I suspect because she was most likely a little too strong willed and accomplished not to encounter some sort of opposition in a mostly male dominated field in a male dominated society.
They moved from fairly opulent households where they had never had to wash their clothes, clean up after themselves, or go grocery shopping into a one bedroom apartment somewhere on the south side of Chicago. Most people they encountered initially in America had never even heard of Pakistan.
My dad, who was a lawyer, worked in a bottling factory as a foreman. My mom, a neurosurgeon, became a housewife. At least, until she passed accreditation exams and got a residency in Florida.
I can hear people wondering why they would leave wealth, status and power behind for a humble existence in a foreign land among people who spoke a different language, looked nothing like them and, for the most part, didn’t care to know much about them.
But, I don’t wonder.
I know why. Because of me. And my brother.
And that’s one of the reasons I care about what they think.
I know what they gave up for me. They deserve for me to care what they think for that reason alone.
And, yet, there are more.
When I was growing up, my father sat with me almost every day after school and tutored me. In math. In history. In politics. He asked me to read passages from different books and then write one page essays about them. He never returned the essays. He never corrected them. He always looked them over and said in heavily accented English, “This is very good. Are you sure you didn’t copy this from somewhere?”
A deep sense of pride would well up inside of me and I would say, “No, daddy, I wrote that myself.”
And he would say, “Wow. Even people my age cannot write this well.”
I know there were grammatical errors on those essays. I know there were spelling errors. But he looked at those papers and said, “Even the people who write for Reagan cannot write like this.”
I was eight. He was lying. But he made me feel like the smartest person in the world.
When I was seven, my father’s younger brother died in Pakistan of a heart attack. He left behind a wife and five children. My father went to Pakistan to see to their affairs.
He has visited them every year since then to make sure that they were alright. In a patriarchal society like Pakistan, a widow with five children is in the position of being under siege in the social and financial sense.
I remember resenting my father for the time that he devoted to my aunt and my cousins, but, now, I get tears in my eyes as I think about how if that were my brother’s family, I would do the same. No questions asked. Besides the fact that my brother is generally awesome, I think part of the reason I care so much for him is because I witnessed how much a person can, sorry, how much a person should love their brother.
I care about what my father thinks because he deserves that much from me. And more.
Even casual readers of my blog know something about my mom, I guess. But they know what I’ve written about accomplishment, respect, reservedness and calculation. And about how her and I are very different.
I’ve written that, sometimes, I feel like I’m not good enough to be her daughter.
What I haven’t explained is that I think she’s amazing. Sometimes, I don’t think anyone is good enough for her.
My mom is not just a doctor. She is the woman who will leave her home with sleeping children at two in the morning so that an eighty year old woman who is breathing her last breath won’t have to die alone. She is the one that holds that woman’s hand, and whispers, “It’s alright, I’m here. You’re going to be fine.” She is the one who does not get paid to do that, but does it because it is good and right and because that woman is somebody to someone.
This hasn’t just happened once. I have witnessed this dozens of times.
I feel like people should know this before they decide who she is.
I feel like people should know this before they think I respect her only because she’s my mom or because she’s a doctor or because she’s made a lot of money.
Those are such small parts of who she really is.
I care what she thinks because she deserves that from me.
My mother at the apex of her career made more than a lot of CEOs of smaller corporations.
All that time, she drove a used Toyota Camry and shopped at JC Penney.
Why? So that when I went to college, I could graduate completely debt free. She did the same for other members of my family, who were not her children, as well.
Once, my mom paid the tuition of a friend of mine for a semester. She said that the girl was a good student and shouldn’t have to miss a single semester because the people in the student loan office couldn’t get their act together.
It was not a loan. It was a gift.
A gift from a woman who has never bought make up from a department store, a designer purse or even perfume for herself. (Luckily, she has me.)
I also haven’t mentioned on this blog that my mother tells me she’s proud of me all the time.
She tells me that she wishes that she could have been the kind of mother to me that I am to my child. And she says these words without knowing that if I could inspire my daughter to a tenth of the greatness I see in her, I would consider myself successful.
She tells me that she loves me all the time.
If I tell her that she looks nice, she says, “Not as pretty as you, you are the most gorgeous.”
See, what I don’t tell you on this blog is that if I think I’m a disappointment to my parents it’s not their fault.
It’s because I see them.
I see them for who they are.
I know a lot of people thinks their parents are wonderful.
But mine really are.
They didn’t just build an entire life in a brand new country out of nothing.
They did that, preserved the life they had in the country they came from, and improved the lives of hundreds of people in the process.
I don’t like to think about their passing, but this I know, there will be hundreds of people who will cry for them. Who will think it’s unfair. Who will wish it didn’t have to be them.
I will be just one.
I would care what they thought even if they weren’t my parents. In fact, I would probably care more because I wouldn’t be encumbered by the feeling that I was somehow selling out by caring too much.
At any rate, please don’t misunderstand why I care.
A lot of people care what my parents think of them. And for good reason.
Because they deserve it.
You know what?
I’m getting really tired of having to think about every little piece of trash I throw away.
No, this isn’t a tirade against how the left wing has blown the environmental issue way out of proportion.
I believe we have a problem. I believe we have a responsibility to our planet.
I use canvas bags for my groceries, phosphate free cleaners, I do not use paper plates (well, except last week and it was totally a one time thing), I buy locally grown organic produce, I recycle everything that comes through my house, I used and will be using cloth diapers for my children, and I rarely drink bottled water.
(I do not, however, have one of these. And, frankly, it will be a cold day in hell before I get one).
But, I would really love it if all of this planet’s corporations just started making stuff so that I don’t have to worry about whether something is recyclable or whether or not the packaging is adding to our environmental perils.
I know that a lot of corporations are doing this, but, it’s not nearly enough to make my life easier. I think we’re waaay past the point where “recyclable” and “green” should be considered marketing tools.
Recyclable and green should be considered the standard.
And companies that don’t offer them as the standard are … the devil.
Take, for example, the new earpiece I bought for my iPhone a few months ago. It was bound with a small piece of plastic, then wrapped in a larger piece of thin plastic, then placed in a plastic bag and THEN covered in plastic packaging.
FOUR layers of plastic. Really? REALLY?? Apple is supposed to be a 21st century kind of company, right? Why do I, as a consumer, have to worry about this nonsense?
(And may I mention how annoying all these layers of plastic can be when a 3 year old is tugging at your shirt announcing that she has decided she wants to watch Sleeping Beauty and drink a Pepsi right now even though she’s only allowed to do that on Fridays and we did calendar this morning and she knows it’s Tuesday…)
But, I digress. As I was saying, do we really need all these freaking layers?!!
I understand that some of you will insist that the packaging protects the items as they are being shipped from damage. Agreed. Yes, they are protected.
But, hey, how about instead of investing all of our capital into finding new ways to kill each other, we devote a little R & D to shipping methods which could potentially reduce the amount of plastics needed to protect the stuff that we buy?
I think the results of that kind of research would be useful on a daily basis. As opposed to the “kill each other” research that only proves useful every thirty years or so.
I also read a blog post about crayon recycling. The author, who I am thankful to for pointing to this issue and the immediate actions necessary to correcting it, mentioned that Crayola suggests that if you were to line up all the unrecycled crayons next to each other that they could cover the earth, like, fifty bajillion times. Or some number close to that.
So, Crayola has given us some kind of address or program where we can send all our old crayons.
I hope they don’t want a recyclable paper ticker tape parade for this. Because they aren’t getting one from me.
You know what? How about they make a crayon that I can throw away that will just melt into thin air when my kid decides it’s too beat up to use.
Don’t laugh.
They can clone sheep… soon, they’ll be cloning people… they can totally make a disappearing crayon.
They just don’t make disappearing crayons and eco-friendly shipping materials because they know that we’re a bunch of guilt ridden schmucks that will turn over every piece of plastic to check and make sure that we’re doing our part.
I’m doing my part.
I’m tired of working around outdated technology and packaging.
Somebody. Fix it. Now.
::Cough.::
Please.
Full disclosure?
I hate Wal Mart.
I wish I could tell you that I hate it for political, social or ethical reasons.
But, no.
I hate Wal Mart because it’s dirty. And shady. And just gross. And no matter how respectable and dignified a person might think they are, the moment they walk into a Wal Mart they become human trash scouring filth laden aisles for the cheapest prices on items manufactured in poorly regulated overseas factories that will most likely kill us all because said items are infused with lead, mercury and God-only-knows-what.
OK, maybe it’s not that bad. But… it’s close.
More full disclosure?
I love history. Particularly the history of the American Civil War. I think this era represents a formative point in our nation’s history. I also think too many Americans, in general, live in ignorance of how the events of this particular era directly affect the way in which we still approach the basic ideals of freedom, nationalism and government.
I know.
What do my love of history and disdain for Wal Mart have to do with one another?
About 145 years ago, Generals Ulysses Grant and Robert E. Lee faced one another for the first time on a battlefield in Locust Grove, Va. in what became known as the Battle of the Wilderness. It was a definitive battle, according to some historians. It represented a turning point in that many argue that the Confederacy lost its offensive edge beginning with this battle.
In a few months, it seems there will be a Wal Mart looming over this battlefield, roughly across the street.
It’s an interesting situation.
Some of the residents of this area support the initiative of this Wal Mart, citing that it will bring needed economic development to the area.
Others, for obvious reason, are horrified by the idea that extra low prices will be touted just steps away from a place in which more men lost their lives in service to this nation than both of the Gulf wars combined.
Me? Here’s what I think.
I think that a historical landmark in and of itself is a viable opportunity for economic growth and development. I think we have a lot of Wal Marts, but we only have one battlefield where Grant’s men and Lee’s men first faced each other.
I don’t like the idea of a Wal Mart being anywhere near this nationally sacred (yes, sacred) place… this place where many men offered their lives simply so that their version of American ideals would live on.
If the citizens of Locust Grove are looking for economic growth, Wal Mart is an expedient, but poor choice.
But, I don’t live in Locust Grove, Virginia.
Maybe they need these jobs really badly?
Maybe arguments of preservation, identity and national treasure are a bit ivory tower for people who are standing in an unemployment line or might have had to apply for government aid for the first time in their lives?
It’s a difficult situation and the most that I’m willing to commit to is an opinion that wavers precariously whenever I consider that my tendency to lean towards historical preservation has a very real human cost.
My God, I do hate Wal Mart, though.
P.S. Be sure to enjoy your Memorial Day. And the meat you’ll be barbequeing. Which was no doubt purchased at extra low prices. Sigh.
Really?
You’re not actually expecting depth from me this month, are you?
I present you with …
My Formative Years: Television Edition
1. Diff’rent Strokes
2. Facts of Life
3. Beverly Hillbillies
4. Martha Quinn
5. Remote Control
6. Double Trouble
7. Growing Pains
8. Family Ties
9. Silver Spoons
10. Amitabh Bhachchan (*Major* props to the first non desi to explain this one without a Google search).
And you? What TV shows were part of your formative years?
