P2C
"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own
life, or whether that station
will be held by anybody else,
these pages must show."
first sentence, David
Copperfield, by Charles Dickens
ÒI
mean, IÕll admit that I donÕt have everything figured out, but I know that
societal ills cause my arms to ache for action, and if school has taught me
anything, itÕs that education is the panacea. So, if I love English and
education, as well as helping others, I will welcome any sort of conflict on
the road to the fulfillment of my passion.Ó I took a deep breath, satisfied
with being able to effectively verbalize my feelings and yet simultaneously
exhausted and annoyed at having to explain a sudden question of what I want to
do in life.
My mother pursed
her lips and tilted her head to the side as she thought, her eyes gleaming with
thoughtfulness. ÒConfucius also thought that education was the panacea. I donÕt
agree. It makes humans out to be nothing more than robots, needing information
in order to exist. DonÕt we need love? What happens if I speak in the tongues
of men and angels, but do not have love?Ó
ÒNo, ma, I meant
an answer to all our social problems.Ó
ÒSocial,
political, emotional: theyÕre all the same. Our problems have been the same
since the beginning of time, with maybe a few changes here and there. DidnÕt
Ecclesiastes say that nothing is new under the sun?Ó
Of course, my
mother was right. My mother (like any other mother) is always right. It is
because of her constant propensity to be correct, that meaningful conversations
with my mother can either be pleasant and enlightening or maddening and
painful. I am actually quite grateful to her for placing me in humbling
positions every now and then, since she was the first person, and not Ram Dass,
that informed me of Òa deeper wisdom, which knows its place and accepts Not
Knowing.Ó[1]
I donÕt have a problem with being put in my place every once in awhile, but the
maddening and frustrating conversations we hold always serve as an unpleasant
reminder that I want to become like my mother, without a faintest clue of how
IÕm going to achieve it.
A picture taken of
my mother and myself right before I left for UT Austin[2]
It is still a
fascinating mystery as to why daughters and sons suddenly wake up one morning
and realize that they have either become like the older, despised versions of
themselves that live downstairs, or long to become like them. For me, I
emulated my mother from Day One, although a deep admiration did not develop
until much later. When I was younger, I would mimic my mother when she had her
Òquiet timeÓ of the day. I would read The
Berenstein Bears or The Babysitters Club while she read and reflected on
the Bible or other books. Before dinnertime, I would either pretend to be a
mother myself, by making casseroles with my EZ-Bake Oven for my stuffed animal
ÒchildrenÓ, or observe her doing so. This time of observation before eating was
always special to me, since I was fascinated by how quickly my mother could
thinly slice meats and tofu without cutting off her fingers and nails, or
amazed at how expertly she gutted fish and dealt with the stinky mess of raw
meats. Even more so astonishing is how she could stir-fry foods. As a child, I
was frightened by the loud, hissing noises the oil made when food hit the
cast-iron surfaces and felt suffocated by the smoke and heat that wafted
throughout the kitchen. In a way similar to how little boys notice their
fathers as the one person capable of killing spiders and opening mayonnaise
jars and therefore deem them as the strongest men alive, I saw my mother as a
courageous person for having braved the threat of fire and metal on a daily
basis in order to nourish our family.
A sampling of my
motherÕs cooking[3]
Unfortunately (but
in the most fortunate way), my happy, carefree childhood withered away, along
with the idolization of my parents. The tumultuous years of intermediate school
began, when I despised my father and mother, along with their oppressive rules
concerning study time, Òbeing properÓ and the need to attend church. My faith
came extremely slowly to me since during this time I became discouraged at how
many supposed Christians lived their lives with no change or morality. Worship
songs seemed unctuously sticky-sweet, and commercialized churches Òsmack[ed]
too much of Christian barbarismÓ.[4]
I critiqued others for being prideful like the Pharisees and saw many of the
churchgoers as having a blind, antiquated view on faith, when it was arrogance
and pride in my own heart that incited such criticism in the first place. It
was ironic how I constantly complained to myself and to God that it was much
harder to worship something that was not tangibly there, even though I
constantly ignored my parents: people who were faithfully and consistently
there for me. As that awkward, rebellious phase passed, my admiration for my
parents, and especially my mother, began to grow.
A picture of my
family, taken about the time I grew out of my rebellious middle school phase.[5]
My parents
immigrated to the United States to provide a better life for my brothers and I,
even when it meant giving up what they loved to work mindless, menial tasks.
They owned and operated a laundry mat and dry cleaning business in an
undesirable area in southeast Houston, which entails a lot more work than one
would normally think. I hardly saw my father outside the context of the dinner
table, and my mother began to slowly cease her nightly recreational reading.
But the bills had to be paid, and my parents had a very Victorian way of
thinking, in terms of LandowÕs assertion that ÒWhat makes Victorians Victorian
is their sense of social responsibility.Ó[6]
What made them different from other Victorian role models was their attitude. I
spent a summer helping out at Evergreen Laundry and noticed, among other
things, how much the customers respected and appreciated my parents. I saw how
my mother kindly dealt with rude, and sometimes scary or threatening clients
and admired how cheerful my father would appear, even after he fixed the same
broken washer for the third time that day. At nights while we prayed together,
I noticed how my mother would refer to the most energy draining days as
Òblessed,Ó and how my parents would constantly pray and depend on God for
protection and love, even if it seemed like they both had an inexhaustible
supply. ÒEvery human creature is constituted to be
that profound secret and mystery to every other.Ó[7]
My parents were profound secrets in their happiness through seemingly miserable
conditions, and my mother, who was somebody I already admired in terms of
literary and intellectual prowess, was elevated to hero status as I vied to one
day discover that profound mystery and become like her.
My father, during one such time set aside to study the
Bible and pray[8]
And thus, I began
a conglomerate life plan that seemed loftier than my abilities. I want to teach
high school English in a low socio-economic community, but not without first
meeting Mr. Right and eventually becoming a great mother. Somewhere along the
way, I want to be elected to PTA President while doing freelance journalism. A
Pulitzer Prize wouldnÕt hurt, either. But all this step by step concocting
certainly doesnÕt allow me to figure out what makes my mother a happy and
compassionate person, despite circumstances and duty. If anything, my plush,
white picket fence existence goes against the hardships that shaped her
goodness, and as shown by the earlier conversation with my mother, does not
seem to add up the way I want to. I am passionate about many things, but until
I learn to love like my mother, it comes to a void that is worse than the
nothingness I face when IÕm clueless about my future. It is Òan impalpable
greyness with nothing underfoot, with nothing around.Ó[9]
I have related
this problem with my mother countless times, and each time she reminds me that
she has had twice as much time as I have lived to learn what God had in store
for her, and even longer than that to truly live out GodÕs love for others. I
know that patience and experience is an important component in the process of
life, but the latter does not come without the former, and I am not ashamed to
admit that I lack the former. I also know that becoming like my mother and
transforming myself to pure-heartedly embrace her attributes of love is not something
I can force myself to do, and it is with reluctance that I resign myself to a
(supposedly wise response of) ÒI donÕt knowÓ when asked how I can become like
my hero.
Even if I donÕt
know exactly how to become like my hero, I know what I should do to keep myself
from not becoming like my mother and
following my passions. I know that although I admire my mother, she is not
faultless, and I will carefully think through objections concerning what IÕm
passionate about. I know that if the world were to one day persecute
procrastinators, I would be the first one and my mother would be the last one
in jail. I know that I am not wise, but IÕm satisfied with my decisions as long
as I am not a fool. But most importantly, I know that life is unexpected and
the most imprudent course of action one could take in response to an
unfortunate event is to solely trust in himself and his acquired wisdom. Which
is why I believe that all my conversations with my mother concerning the
problems in life would boil down to: ÒWhatÕs the matter?Ó ÒI donÕt really
know.Ó ÒWell, I donÕt know either, but here I am.Ó[10]
DB Word counts: 2,640
Quote word count: 65
P2C with quotes: 1,687
P2A without quotes: 1,622