January to January: A Journal

October

October 2

October began with a call to Ma. After the customary chit-chat and daily gossip, Ma sighed. Long and deep. I paused, waiting for some elephant in the room to emerge, trumpeting noisily.

"Harry," she began. Then another long sigh. "I have been thinking lately." Not a good idea. "Who is going to take care of you when Pa and I are gone?" Sighing again. This was an orchestra of sighs, this call. I felt like sighing in sympathy, just to flow with the music, but restrained myself.

"Ma, what brought this on again?" I sat down by the dining table. I had no delusions that this talk would be resolved in one fell swoop, and not cycle back on some other day when gossip was hard to come by.

"I was lying in bed yesterday, waiting for sleep to come, which is difficult. You know how your Pa snores," she snorted. I was hoping this would veer off into one of many possible tangents and save me from an uncomfortable topic in which we both tried to regulate the floodgates behind which hid our respective secrets. No such luck. "Anyway, I know your siblings have money and fame, and will have no problems finding spouses and having their own families (Ma, you have no idea about your own children's romantic prospects!). But you?" Another sigh. It was becoming irritating very quickly.

"I'll be fine, Ma," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Will you?" Ma asked. "Without family, without children..." She trailed off. Silence. I understood to some extent. Among the Chinese, fortune manifests as a huge household and an indecent number of bratty descendants. Live long and prosper, and breed (sounds like a rat's life, and the rat incidentally is the first of the 12 zodiac animals. Praise be to the concupiscent rodent, symbol of a good life!). To find oneself without a family in old age is deemed...well, for lack of a better word, a curse. Among other things, it did not reflect well on the entire clan's reputation.

"Ma, I'll worry about my own future, okay? So far, everything's great. I have friends, a stable job, a retirement plan (well, white lie). So no need for an existential crisis (yet)."

"How can I not worry? It's a mother's job to worry." I waited for the continuation of the sentence, "especially when my son is gay" to come but it didn't. I was grateful for that.

"Harry," Ma spoke with a trembling voice. "I don't know what to do for you." She was sniffling, and it didn't sound like she was in her usual dramatic mode. It sounded genuine. "I want you to be happy, but I don't know how...or what to do...I..."

I felt a stinging heat in my eyes, and refused to join in on this new orchestra. I cleared my throat and steadied my voice. "Ma, thanks for saying that. It means a lot to me. But I'm happy (ish), really!"

"I don't know," she said. And there goes the touching moment. Pop goes the balloon.

"Okay then, if you really want to know what you can do to make me happy, then take care of yourself and be healthy. How's that?"

Ma pfft-ed the suggestion. Generic son-talk. She wouldn't take it seriously, no surprise there. I sighed in exasperation. I continued, "Seriously Ma, stop thinking about these things. When I need something from you, I'll let you know. If I'm unhappy, I'll tell you what you can do. Okay?"

Silence from the other end. It was strange for us to talk like this. Us siblings never went to our parents for comfort. They were judges, authority figures who commanded and dictated our next moves. They weren't coddlers, people with whom you could laugh or share a whispered dream. The fact that my parents didn't have a relationship with their youngest "brilliant athlete" of a son, and that Ma didn't even know Hen's struggles with interacting with others were testaments to the kind of parent-child dynamic we had. Probably in Ma's thinking process, to hear your son say something out of a Western feel-good movie would seem a fantasy (or science fiction?) especially when every party involved knew that said parties never felt that kind of connection throughout the years. It would seem unbelievable, or at least, required caution regarding its authenticity. Honestly, in hindsight, I probably wouldn't even know how to begin to start such a conversation with Ma. "Hey Ma, I'm not feeling happy lately. Can you say something to make me feel better? I need a hug. Can you come over?" is not something any of us children would say. Ever. Most likely response from Ma: "You're not happy about what? You have a job in the city, you have money, you have food to eat! Be more grateful!" And letting her stay over would open up multiple complications, not least of which would be finding out I'm in a gay ménage a trois (is this the politically correct term?) situation.