This Is About To Get Personal

One of the saddest things I'll ever have to go through is seeing my mother cry. Or hearing it, or even knowing about it regardless of whether or not I'm present. Luckily, it hasn't happened too often. I remember a few times when I was a young girl and my parents got into a fight at my aunt and uncle's place (my dad had too much to drink or something, my mom wanted to leave, something something), but I was doing a puzzle with my brother and cousins and we were all too young to understand. My mum and dad used to fight at home too, mostly over money, sometimes it'd be about how we were raised, my dad's disciplining and how his side of the family was a bad influence. But recently (being the last handful of years), I've noticed a change. It's no longer about my dad's side of the family and it's not about how he disciplines us, it's all about my brother.

My brother 'got in with the wrong crowd' in high school. Didn't do too well in school, spent less time at home, started smoking a variety of things, drinking a variety of things, etc. I knew because I was the sister, and it was my window that he snuck out of at night, it was my bathroom he hot boxed in, it was me who covered for him when my mum smelled something weird, and it was me who said he was fine when I really had no idea what he was doing. My parents, for the most part, knew nothing.

Until one night, the kid made the decision to smoke some junk in the house, when he thought everyone was asleep. Before I knew it, my dad busted him and yelled a bunch of stuff in broken English. But that was it and we all went to sleep. My mum used to scold him, lecture him, tell him to be a better person, not to do things like that and to study hard, earn money, make a good life for himself. When he got old enough, he started to yell back. He screamed. And she screamed. And I will never forget the sound of my mum sobbing in her room right after that. Me sitting beside her on the bed, rubbing her back, her shoulders, whispering things to calm her down, did nothing. I didn't exist. There was only the sorrow that my brother had caused her.

This week, years later, after I thought that phase had passed, he did it again. It sounds so insignificant, knowing how many people are like him (that he's like so many others), because he was in his room by himself, and it was so harmless. But my dad smelled something, busted him and started to scold. I suspect he did it quietly at first because he didn't want to wake my mother, but she ended up coming out anyway. I'm on the phone with my friend, hearing snippets of what's going on, a lot of tsk-tsk-ing, some yelling, and then, the crying.

This wasn't just any crying, this was What have I done wrong to deserve this? Why is my child like this? Have I not provided enough for you, for a good life? Why do you do things to hurt me? This is how you repay me? Still, I cannot translate it all, the meanings are deeper when spoken through sobs in Cantonese. And for the first time, I listened to the sadness that my mother lived through just to get to this point in her life.

Life in Vietnam. A father who passed away too young. A mother who did little nurturing. Too many siblings. War. Northern Communists invading her Southern city. Poverty. Not enough clothing, not enough food. Walking to school barefoot. Selling their life for passage on an overcrowded boat. Being separated from family. Internment camps in the Southeast. Brothers in jail. Guards, guns, little food, lots of disease. Death. Weeks at sea, less food, more sickness, more death.

Finally. Canada.

She gave up her education to work, to earn enough money to feed and shelter her younger siblings. She's worked every possible day, never took maternity leave, saved up for a car and a house and for her kids. The only thing she regrets is not being able to go back to school. She wishes her English was better, that she had a more respectable job, but she gave it all up for us. And despite the fact that my brother has had a good education, has the privilege of going to university, he goes and gets himself into a mess like this. This is how he repays her.

I love my brother, I do. I care about the kid and I've seen some really good changes in him. But it gets difficult when he sits in his desk chair (probably too high to soak in what's going on) and ignores the woman who is yelling and crying at the same time. It's hard to get your message through when all you see is a back I suppose. And suddenly I'm there, rubbing her shoulders and back, pulling her away from his room, whispering, soothing. Ma, it's okay, let's just go to bed, come on, it's okay. Mummy, please.

When I was sad a little while ago, she said to me, Don't keep things locked up in your heart, you have to tell your Ma and she will help you.

Yes, mother.

I want you to know that David is a good kid. He tries really hard and though they don't give medals for trying, he does mean well. Did you know he got 100% on his accounting assignment? He didn't bother to tell you because he knows that everyone thinks he's dumb. He takes care of the car and fills it with gas, he does his best at school and there's nothing wrong with being an average student. He works, earns his own money and stopped asking to borrow a long time ago. He's in a long term relationship and takes care of her very well. He stopped being a brat and lets me borrow his things, he drives me around because I don't have my license. He took extra credits to pull up his grades, he managed to make it into university. He stayed home to save money, he plans to buy his own car soon. He does what he can.

We are all very tired.

I don't know why I decided to share my mother's sorrows and my brother's habits with you tonight. I'm sitting here wondering if I want to post this, that yes, this is my personal space but it's also online so most anyone has access to it. But I shake my head and know that that doesn't scare me. I'm not afraid of people knowing these things. Yes, it's personal, but biographies, auto-biographies, memoirs, they get published all the time. This is the reason they call blogging 'personal publishing'. What does this post mean? Does it have a message? I'm not quite sure to tell you the truth. But I've discovered recently that even though things may not have a specific purpose doesn't mean that they can't be shared anyway.
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