| Perhaps it's normal. |
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| Written by OHmommy | |
| Thursday, 15 January 2009 19:00 | |
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I remember the first time I tasted my tears. I grasped my fork, with my left hand, sat up straight in my chair and glared at my father. His stern stare made it clear that my pointer finger wasn't gracefully placed on the top of the fork as he would like it to be. I allowed my tears to fall upon my pre-adolescent face and onto my Guess jeans. I turned to my mother for acceptance and she looked away signifying that she was on my father's side. "That is how we do it." "Why can't we be normal? Why can't we be more American?" I bawled. I don't remember what he said that night during our family dinner as he was teaching me how to properly use utensils the European way. I do remember what my tears tasted like. As the first born child of immigrant parents I have a thousand memories of the hardships of assimilating and my struggles in finding my place. I am pretty sure that my younger sister has no recollection of the refugee camp we lived in. I am the oldest child of immigrants. This past summer my children lived in the same communistic apartment block I grew up in. In between those two walls, this summer, I searched for my place in the world. Am I Polish? Am I American? Who am I and what do I want my kids to be? It was exhausting. And now. A mere 12 hours before I leave for Chicago to stay under my parent's roof for four days I frantically run around my house packing the warmest wool socks, and the cleanest cotton pajamas, and an assortment of proper white under shirts hoping that my parents will not criticize the upbringing of my children. I have told my mother to hush and relax and enjoy her time with her American grandchildren. Because now, I am the oldest child of immigrants, with her own children. And as I pack for our trip, I imagine the road I have paved for my younger sister and brother every time I tell my mother to hush and relax, "This is the American way. Mac and Cheese will not kill them." And I see my sweet beautiful mom cringe when I mention Kraft and my father come home from work with packages of goose-liver pate and goat cheese croissants and I know that I am home. The excited look in my father's eyes as he bends down to offer the Feenster a poopy-seed roll to convert her to his ways and the look in her eyes as she spits it out and proclaims, "YUCK! I no like." We have come a long way together assimilating into the American culture. There are things that I do that they don't like and there are things that they do and I don't like. And. After months of soul searching, I have come to realize that I still have no idea where I belong as I force the fork into my son's left hand and I cringe when I realize that I am somewhat criticizing him and his ways. The things that made me cry, have now become semi-important. "The fork belongs in your left hand, handsome." Why, my six year old asked looking up to me so I answered, "That is how we do it, handsome." Perhaps it's not so much an immigrant thing. Perhaps it's accepting your childhood. Perhaps it's accepting and realizing the value. Perhaps it's universal.... You know you are a mother when you stop criticizing the way your mother raised you. |
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| Last Updated on Sunday, 18 October 2009 20:33 |
Comments
We have situations like that a lot as well. And I still wonder what my place is. I'm not as depressed as I used to be because of that. But I doubt I will ever find my place. Thank you for sharing!
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