Asian American X: An Intersection of Twenty-First Century Asian American Voices

21. Understanding Life, Ma, and Me

21 Understanding Life, Ma, and Me Joyee Goswami “Your priorities have changed. You’re exceeding the limits and values of this house and family.” “What is that supposed to mean, Ma?” “You know exactly what it means. You cannot keep pretending that something is not going on between you and that boy. We did not grow up like this; we did everything our parents told us, and we did not question them. How could you have changed so much in such a short amount of time?” “Ma, why do you always think my being different means being wrong? Why is change necessarily a bad thing?” The ‹rst memory I have is of slapping my mother in front of dozens of shocked adults at a party . . . Granted I was only three at the time, yet still I have never forgotten (or perhaps more appropriately, my mother has never let me forget) the pinnacle incident that marked my rebellious entry into society . There are many memories from my childhood that are my memories only because they are my mother’s. My mother was married to my father at the ripe age of twenty-four. Finishing her master’s in political science in India, she had planned on continuing her studies to become a professor or a lawyer. But then she met my father. Or rather, her father met my father . . . My parents were married to each other in 1975, without ever having seen each other until their wedding day. On a hot summer day in Calcutta, my parents’ eyes met for the ‹rst time, in front of hundreds of excitedly noisy people. “What did you think of him when you ‹rst saw him?” I ask her excitedly every once in a while. She just blushes and says, “We don’t talk about things like that, dear.” A few months after meeting my father during her wedding, my mother suddenly found herself moving to America, where my father had just been offered a job. My mother moved to a foreign country with a man she had just met, far away from her parents and siblings. I consider the adjustments she had to make as a young Bengali bride in New York: wearing pants for the ‹rst time in her life, learning to cook edible dishes, teaching herself how to drive . . . accepting the snow, a one-room apartment, and a new lifestyle as a path in her journey toward ful‹lling the American Dream . . . Perhaps it was her youth that allowed her to accept her new life with open arms, without complaint or disappointment. Or perhaps it was her hope to let her children live the American Dream—full of opportunities galore—that gave her strength and guidance. Beginning with the birth of my brother, my memories about life at home become much clearer. I remember the day I brought ›owers to my mom in the hospital, dressed in terribly mismatched clothes that my father had somehow managed to assemble. I remember peering jealously at my mother as she sang a lullaby, my lullaby, to my brother to get him to sleep. And I remember the huge amount of love that was always present in my house. My parents were undoubtedly the best parents a child could ever dream of having. Their priority was always their children, above anyone else, especially themselves. I remember after a long week of school being chauffeured around to singing lessons, softball games, dance practices, math tournaments, piano lessons, science competitions, volleyball tournaments, and more. My extracurricular activities became my mom’s extracurricular activities; my being a “well-rounded child” meant my mother became well-rounded as well. The arguments between my mother and me began when I entered high school. Finally free from the plaid-skirt school uniform, which my mother had always caringly made sure was down to my ankles, I decided to experiment with different styles of clothes. “I know you’re not wearing THAT.” “But Ma, the skirt goes below my knees.” “It’s too short and your shirt is too tight. Go change.” Asian American X 150 It was tough to reason with her. Shorts were out of the question. Even for gym class. I remember wearing sweatpants in the middle of April while playing basketball with my classmates. Is it any wonder so many kids made fun of me in school? Then came the dilemma with high school dances. “What would...