baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mommy's alright, daddy's alright-they just seem a little weird... My mom called today, and I didn't recognize her voice. My parents were gone over the holidays, and now they're back; back in Southern California after spending three months in the steamy, politically humid climate of the Philippines. I was worried, and very much prefer having them on more stable political ground. Here they have a modest yet comfortable four bedroom suburban paradise, stereotypical conveniences like 71 degree weather, and a relative measure of safety against, say, violent political upheavals. Our relationship is funny. My parents and I have straddled that delicate line between love and annoyance for some time now. Years ago, I finally realized that any concession between our polarized worlds would have to originate from me. They are firmly entrenched in the culture of our homeland, and are doing everything exactly the way they feel it should be done. They aren't budging. They don't feel the need to because, in their eyes, I am the aberration. They're right. I was a surly teen-not as nice as I should have been, and respectful only when the mood hit. My feet first fell on American Terra Firma when I was just a wee-little-piece of baggage, and I grew up surrounded by American friends, American music and American culture-qualities that eventually became tattooed on my conscience, covering up, much to my parent's chagrin, most of the colours of our homeland. They shouldn't have been surprised. I was taught the mechanics of the English language long before I was Stateside-bound, and was more fluent in its intricacies and pronunciations than some of my first American-born friends. I remember singing along with Sweet's "Fox On The Run" on a small transistor radio in my parent's bedroom-drowning myself in the four-part harmonies and the vocal melody-without even realizing what those British lads were singing about. I was well on my way to being an American long before I set foot in LAX and, in many ways, I felt and feel like an emotional and cultural mutt. So, I grew up an American while they stayed Filipinos-not the ideal setting to the already strained relationship between teenager and parental unit. Progress has been made though. My visits with them are pleasant and, lately, there have been some actual moments of clarity-something that I can only describe as a quiet acceptance of each other's idiosyncrasies despite massive differences in opinion. In a few hours, my GF and I will visit. They weren't home for Christmas so I'm considering this a belated holiday celebration. I have some simple presents, and, knowing my mom, she'll make some hopelessly Filipino meal that will send my tastebuds, more accustomed to Southern California cuisine like Double Doubles and french fries, right back to the islands where, at least as far as she is concerned, they belong. My father, she tells me, is sick-which, in actuality, should be no surprise considering his age. They both take a variety of pills and vitamins which, I'm still unsure is necessary. It's all part of aging my mom tells me. But, still, I look at the phletora of plastic prescription containers littering their dining room table and wonder just exactly what western medicine is practicing. Off course, I'll get there and my father will talk and look every bit as healthy as he always looks. He's not a weak man. He enjoys his many trips to Las Vegas and does not think twice about doing strenuous work around the home when the mood strikes. It's hard to imagine him ever growing weak from illness, though I realize that the some things are inevitable. He'll ask me about my 401K, my Roth IRA, my mortgage and my insurance. He'll grill me about my investments-and make sure I'm doing all the right things. In a nutshell, he'll engage his prime directive: making sure his children and wife are financially secure. My mother, however, will fill us with personal questions. How are we? How is work? Are we happy? Are we healthy? How is Lynn? How is Jeff? For every mechanical financial-related multiple choice inquiry my father throws at us, my mom has an equally personal question waiting in the wings. It's always like this when we visit. The conversation with my father seems tightly rehearsed. He asks and I answer-like a job interview, but minus the tie, jacket and resume. My talk with my mom will feel more like an actual conversation. She'll enquire about my GF and, through her questions, will try to ascertain if I'm truly happy and satisfied with life. Off course, I am happy. I won't tell her about the ups and downs that I detail in these entries. But, I'll try my best to prove that happiness is a constant visitor to my front door. I used to hate my parents' interrogation. I didn't like all the questions. I felt as if my privacy was being violated. But, now I don't mind. What escaped me as a teenager is now apparent: I owe my happiness, my good fortune, to them. They deserve to know that all is well. They deserve to know that I'm thankful for all they've done. I secretly hope she relays this info to my dad. I foolishly imagine that maybe late at night, when they're both in bed, my dad quietly asks her, "So, our son...Is he fine?" "Yes. I think he is," my mom would reply..."but, I'll ask him again next weekend just to make sure." 21:42:58 - 2001-01-27 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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