Flowers for my Father

A young woman's collection of who she is that she's never shared with her father.

There are many spaces between me and my father. There is the generation gap, from growing up in different times, the culture gap from his childhood in China and mine in Canada, and a language gap because while I speak Mandarin the language he knows best, the language I know best is English.

This is a collection of personal essays and reflections I have made throughout my life on feminism, racism, environmentalism, identity and beauty so I can give him, at least in symbol, as gently as I can, the flowers, good, bad, biting, and prickly, of who I am.
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In the Chinese community we don't always share a lot of personal things with our families, there is a sense that one must endure and not burden the family, protect them from worrying about you, and to keep the peace. There also isn't always the language that exists across culture to communicate what I mean - what is intersectionality in Mandarin? I don't have the context or knowledge to know.

These are beautiful realities, the depth of human experience, but they are also difficult realities to wrangle with. My dad, my parents know I'm a writer and environmentalist, but don't know the extent of my knowledge, advocacy and belief systems. I don't know if they grasp my feminism.
And I know I am not alone in these experiences. So for you immigrant kids, and daughters who are sometimes at odds with your family, this is for you, too. I see you.