Drain-o my Egg-o

Remove the religion, peel off the days that I don’t have to be at work, and scrape off the chance to be with family, and I’m left with a more mired view of Christmas. It’s a view that shows something empty yet has an uncanny ability to stir up twinges of hurt and remind me of a time when my sense of self wasn’t as steadfast as it is now. For whatever reason, Christmas is my least favorite holiday.

Why Christmas? It’s a confluence of factors, none of which can be highlighted as the main reason. The factors could be any combination of a) growing up as the son of struggling immigrants, b) going to predominantly white schools, c) socio-economic, d) bad presents . . . I don’t know.

For me, very early on, it seemed Christmas was the test of how American I was, how much my family fit in, and it magnified any number of preconceived notions I had about how my family should be. Well, to be more exact, the test was both Christmas and the idea of vacations. However, with vacations, our family always failed that test. Circumstance. Classmates would come back from trips and tell me about their family vacations, show their souvenirs, and I would envy. However, Christmas was something in which I felt that I had some semblance of a chance. Ah, naïve youth.

The standard was set impossibly high by the media and society. Commercials, songs, school lessons, inundated me with how things were supposed to be when there was no way my parents could ever comprehend with what I was being told was required around this time.

I remember the old fake tree we brought from Cerritos stuffed into the supply closet of the apartment in Thousand Oaks. By the time we moved to the Symphony home, it was patchy at best. I remember setting it up with my sister while our parents were working.

At some point, I let it all go. It just wasn’t our thing. Other things became our traditions and that became what we as a family were about, year-round.

There were the spur of the moment runs to one particular donut shop run by a Vietnamese family three towns over because as dad would exclaim, they really knew how to make them. The donut trade was my dad’s first business while he still worked for the corporation. Bundling up to make group trips to Thrifty’s, Sav-Ons, where dad would start acting like he had down syndrome and follow me around. Sometimes I’d laugh and get in on it and other times I’d punch him in shame. I think mom and sis just found us weird.

Ah, the fast food fiestas - KFC, McDonald’s breakfast, Weinerschnitzel (although mom and dad never partook at this one, while sis and I ravaged the chili cheese fries), Subway subs.

All of these establishments were a reasonable radius from the shop. Once I could drive, the radius lengthened considerably to include Baja Fresh, before they got bought out, T.O. meat locker, the Mexican place next to the car wash. Del Taco was our special Sunday treat. And the “zamote” parties. I don’t want to get into too much detail there.

I don’t know exactly why I’m reminiscing so much today. Maybe it’s because I’ve been thinking about the self-hating Asians in my life and others who don’t have a strong sense of self. And as a natural extension, how I became myself? How I have dealt with people with image issues in the past or even if I should say anything to them?

Maybe the reminiscing today stems from watching the Kite Runner yesterday. Don’t have any desire to read the book. Still don’t but I will say that the movie made me tear up. It’s somewhat formulaic for me. It’s relatively easy for a movie to make me tear up. Involve a kid, show an element where some innocence is lost, struggle (immigration works for me), and redemption (although in real life getting repeated chances at redemption, to do the right thing, is extremely lucky).

(I had a funny thought after watching the movie that I’m going to have to write off-line. The Koreada Experience vs. the Forster experience. What it says about the person?)

Maybe it was hanging with my sister this past weekend. And while talking with her and hearing past events from her perspective made me realize how much of a shock I was and still am to mom and dad while I try to navigate life. Somehow, in the process of becoming American or an individual, with the choices I made, I suspect I shocked them as much as if I had joined a gang or gotten tattoos.

My sister and I discussed how the ninja episode ruined her chances to go to sleepovers during her prime sleepover years; I heard why my mom liked the chinchilla I brought home so much and then I heard what she said after I told her that the chinchilla died; I clarified some things with my sister about the time my parents read my journal and found out about my marijuana use. (Funny to think about the subversive reason dad got us those journals every year.) The time I brought home the life-size nutty professor cutout and left it propped in the backyard. Man, and to think that this stuff is the absolute ice-cube sized tip of the iceberg. If they knew the sort of potential trouble I got myself into from junior high onward, they would give me a long funny look.

Sometimes I feel that I provide sustained shock, one bewildering shock after another from their perspective. But, a part of me, doesn’t really see them as that fragile. By definition, they are almost as shocking to me. Taking that step to immigrate to a country with hardly any money, carving a life here, learning new customs, and dealing with their children, is their tattoo. Their struggle also imputes within me a lot of guilt.

A few years ago, dad told me why he immigrated. Of course, there was the Ariel’s-song-in-The-Little-Mermaid factor about “treasures untold” but he didn’t mention that. In what he told me, it seemed as though he knew being a nonconformist in Korea would be a difficult life for both him and mom. He wasn’t a drinker, wouldn’t do what’s expected as far as room salons, and wasn’t into deeply rooted office politics and nepotism. He didn’t want to play that game. I'm sure given his personality he felt constrained in Korea at that time too. Selfishly, this leads me to think that the shocks I provide must have been accounted for in their decision to still move.

Anyway, this has been an interesting year. We’ll see what happens. Maybe in a few years, this post will make more sense.

I occasionally wonder how different I’d be if I grew up in Asia. I feel as though I’d be a mechanic.