diaspora dissonance: the generational divide of emotions

BY HILLARY MA

CW // Death

My father was never one to verbally express his concerns, doubts, or worries. He claimed he suspends his emotions by “taking everything with a grain of salt.”

But I know deep inside, concealing his innermost struggles was his way of keeping us from worrying about him. No human on Earth could completely defenestrate all their fears, worries and concerns into the nonexistence— even my dad recognizes that.

Yet he continues swallowing his pain— 吃苦 (chi ku), or “eating bitterness.” This Chinese proverb encapsulates an intrinsic characteristic that glamorizes adversity as a noble characteristic of perseverance. Every Chinese parent knows the exact weight of this proverb, and my dad is no exception to its extremities.

But a Chinese father’s expression of love is unique: their love is tough yet tender, but nevertheless, unconditional. America’s narrative about Asian fathers is nothing but strict and stoic househeads tethered with emotional unavailability. However, my father is unafraid to show us his array of emotions. He spoils the ones he loves with affection.

Yet never once in my 21 years of living had I ever seen my dad shed a tear. My mother would reassure me that my father is simply not a crybaby, but I always thought there was a deeper reason.

My doubts would soon be proved true when my father announced we were suddenly taking a trip up to Wisconsin.

The only explanation my father provided me at the time was that my aunt in Wisconsin was edging near her due date in the hospital.

The next thing I knew, we were driving up to Madison, Wisconsin at 4 a.m. I cursed the whole state of Texas, damning the founding fathers of this state for making the stretch of this excessively vast land. WhydidHoustonhaveto be so far from Madison? The whole 17-hour car ride still left me in disbelief that we were returning to our hometown we left nearly seven years ago.

“Just think of it as a family reunion!” my dad exclaimed. He attempted to lift our spirits by reminding us we were visiting ouroriginalhome My father still considered himself a cheesehead at heart even after all of these years.

But my father’s grip on the handwheel could not coax his sugar-coated excitement. The rearview mirror reflected his dark circles, revealing deeper shades of grey than usual. I knew my father was already tired of keeping his façade.

Yet he remained silent, unwilling to share his thoughts.

We arrived at my Wisconsin uncle’s house around 11 p.m. By then, some of my other relatives from Virginia had already arrived. They’d also dropped everything when they heard the news about my aunt. They, too, were tired from the spontaneous road trip.

My aunt’s husband settled us down at the dinner table, feeding us take-out wonton soup. He then broke the real story to us. He started off prefacing that his wife had been bedridden at the local hospital due to too many pre-existing conditions currently failing her body.

Butweknewthatalready.

He continued the story and told us that his wife got the news around May that she only had a year left to live — but never bothered to tell anyone about her condition. She rejected any offers of treatment from the hospital, not knowing that would shorten her time left into half.

She did not fear death. Her silence was to protect her own husband, children, and anyone she loved from worrying about her.

She swallowed her own bitterness for the sake of her family that she could no longer protect herself. Her husband found out. Her 37-year-old son living at their home found out. Her 33-year-old daughter living in Washington D.C found out. My uncle wanted to keep this matter within the three of them, but his daughter vehemently refused to keep secrets from the family.

“Everyone in our family has the right to know,” my cousin rationalized. I will never forget the bravery of her words.

My father looked at his older brother, unsure of what to muster out for comfort. He remained speechless, but my uncle merely shrugged everything aside and told us to rest up.

“We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” he said.

My uncle took us to the hospital the next morning so we could visit my aunt. He told us she had the potential to get discharged and spend Christmas at home with us, depending on her physical condition.

When we entered her room, my dad’s wore expressions that were completely foreign to me. Was he in anguish? Disbelief? Nervous? Perhaps all of them combined. My father stayed disconnected with the grave atmosphere the whole time, unwilling to add more layers into the heavy aura imbued.

He was lost, and it was my first time seeing him like that.

We stayed a bit, waiting for the nurse to check my aunt’s vitals. After the physician signaled us the clear for my aunt to get discharged from the hospital, we rejoiced together, discussing dinner plans for Christmas Eve.

But we were also informed that she only had about ten days left to live.

My dad took the initiative to oversee cooking duties for Christmas Eve, recreating her favorite dish: his homemade French Onion soup. At this point, we all accepted the ending pages of her chapter. Yet, we decided to end it with a celebration of her life — one filled with her favorite foods and family gatherings.

We left Wisconsin on Christmas day. We told her our final goodbyes, wishing her, my uncle, and my two cousins well.

She passed away the day after.

I ran to my dad in his room as soon as I heard the news. His façade of distraught began faltering, but my dad stubbornly refused to let go of it.

“At least I got to make her favorite dish before she left,” my dad cheekily exclaimed. His unfazed gaze shifted to me, who had tears racing down my cheeks. He chuckled at me, extending his arm to ruffle my hair and pull me in to kiss my temple.

“You silly goose,” he told me. I held onto his embrace, hoping that somehow, I could satiate his grief through this hug. But my father just continued to stroke my hair and give me his goofiest smile.

My father was never the one to express his concerns, doubts, and worries verbally. Tears were still absent from his eyes — even after dropping everything to mourn alongside his brother. But I realized my father avoids dwelling in anguish and attempts to be the pillar of moral support for his family. His own emotions are not the priority— his family is. I let him hold his composure so he can feel at peace playing his role right. My father is no different from my aunt or my uncle: they tend to their family’s needs before anything else no matter the pain.

But it’s within the silence where you can feel the rawness of their love. Their self-sacrificing love enveloped in selflessness. When I was born, my father and his family were the first to introduce me to what love was in a familial context. At 21 years old, they’re the only ones who can make me weep the hardest.

I hold a feeble heart for my father. His capacity to love is something beyond my imagination. And every day, I thank God for allowing me to be my father’s first-born daughter.