When my mother was 25, she had already had her first daughter--a shrill-voiced, underweight one-year old, who was desperately attached to her. Together, they explored a new city, Delhi, traversing the paved and not-so paved roads in search for nothing else but ice cream, because in each other they had found the whole world.
24 years and several cities (and countries) later, I find myself in the same position. My voice is embarrassingly high-pitched, and my partner even finds my bony shoulders too fragile (read: "creepy") to touch. And, still, when I'm with my mother, I have everything.
As a transplant from another country, I have struggled much of my childhood to find solace. I felt compelled to construct an identity that was digestible--a Hindu, an Indian, an American, an Atheist, a hipster, a conservative, and, my least favorite, the exotic girl (both in "Indian" and "American" circles). I was none of the above. Rather, I was in a state of constant recalibration, determined to figure out how to present myself, not only to the world, but to me. The only place in which I found a sense of home was in my mother. Her stories, her wisdom, her raw and authentic and brilliant sense of humor transcended the stark lines in which I was trying to color myself. My identity was simple, clear: I was my mother's daughter.
As I grew older, however, I thought to craft my identity against that of my mother. Unguided, lost, I began to reject much of which she taught me. I rejected the sciences, convinced myself I was bad at math, had boyfriends, had my heart broken. I wanted to be a world famous journalist. I told her I did not believe in marriage, that my husband would be a renowned chef so I didn't have to spend my time cooking (yes, ironically, those two ideas in the same breath--I might also add I rejected her sense of logic). I wanted to model, to act, to dance. I did not want to have children at 24 (and that ship has sailed now anyways).
And, the worst part of it was, she fully supported me in everything I did. As long as I was happy, she would say, she supported me 100%. My need to create my own self, in the interstices of what she had instilled in me, could only ever be superficial--there was nothing I did that was not inevitably a byproduct of my mother. My dreams, my restless need for adventure, my rejection of convention (if worth rejecting)--though she might not even realize it-- comes from her.
Through the years, I have also found her to be absolutely correct about, well, everything. She grounded my restlessness, stilled my racing mind. I sometimes find myself still seeking her approval, even when she is not around. I find myself excited to make Vin dinner, eager to decorate my new home, motivated not to just do well in law school, but to make it the best three years of my life. The older I get, I feel myself growing--not up, but into, into a woman who found joy in her family, in her home, and who did her work not out of obligation, but out of love for everything she ever did.
I can only hope to grow into the woman who not only gave me life, but taught me how to live it.
I am my mother's daughter, and nothing else.
24 years and several cities (and countries) later, I find myself in the same position. My voice is embarrassingly high-pitched, and my partner even finds my bony shoulders too fragile (read: "creepy") to touch. And, still, when I'm with my mother, I have everything.
As a transplant from another country, I have struggled much of my childhood to find solace. I felt compelled to construct an identity that was digestible--a Hindu, an Indian, an American, an Atheist, a hipster, a conservative, and, my least favorite, the exotic girl (both in "Indian" and "American" circles). I was none of the above. Rather, I was in a state of constant recalibration, determined to figure out how to present myself, not only to the world, but to me. The only place in which I found a sense of home was in my mother. Her stories, her wisdom, her raw and authentic and brilliant sense of humor transcended the stark lines in which I was trying to color myself. My identity was simple, clear: I was my mother's daughter.
As I grew older, however, I thought to craft my identity against that of my mother. Unguided, lost, I began to reject much of which she taught me. I rejected the sciences, convinced myself I was bad at math, had boyfriends, had my heart broken. I wanted to be a world famous journalist. I told her I did not believe in marriage, that my husband would be a renowned chef so I didn't have to spend my time cooking (yes, ironically, those two ideas in the same breath--I might also add I rejected her sense of logic). I wanted to model, to act, to dance. I did not want to have children at 24 (and that ship has sailed now anyways).And, the worst part of it was, she fully supported me in everything I did. As long as I was happy, she would say, she supported me 100%. My need to create my own self, in the interstices of what she had instilled in me, could only ever be superficial--there was nothing I did that was not inevitably a byproduct of my mother. My dreams, my restless need for adventure, my rejection of convention (if worth rejecting)--though she might not even realize it-- comes from her.
Through the years, I have also found her to be absolutely correct about, well, everything. She grounded my restlessness, stilled my racing mind. I sometimes find myself still seeking her approval, even when she is not around. I find myself excited to make Vin dinner, eager to decorate my new home, motivated not to just do well in law school, but to make it the best three years of my life. The older I get, I feel myself growing--not up, but into, into a woman who found joy in her family, in her home, and who did her work not out of obligation, but out of love for everything she ever did.I can only hope to grow into the woman who not only gave me life, but taught me how to live it.
I am my mother's daughter, and nothing else.
No comments:
Post a Comment