The Ancient Art of Keeping Secrets from Asian Mothers
Ever try to keep a secret from your mother? I have.
When I was sixteen, my online acquaintance from San Diego, whom I met off of Prodigy, decided he wanted to give me a bunch of Honcho and Inches magazines. Online pornography, at this point, was waiting 45 seconds to download a pixelated, four-color gif, so when I was the first to get the package from the mailbox, this was the motherlode. I had no idea where I would put this, however. Throwing it away after getting it in the mail would be too much of a waste, so I decided I would just be really clever, sticking them in an unassuming manila folder and hiding them in the closet.
This was a dumb move.
What I didn't realize was that Asian mothers were thorough and that mothers go through everything.
EVERYTHING.
The dirty stash - which, by the way, was homosexual, and did I not mention I had not come out yet? - was found, and there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth. It may or may not have single-handedly prevented me from attending UC San Diego and triggered my dad to almost get me arranged to get married to a girl in China, but that's for a different story, I suppose.
Fast forward several decades, and you'd think I'd have outgrown keeping secrets from my mother. Yet here I am, a grown man with a secret that makes those dirty magazines seem trivial in comparison:
Mom still thinks I'm working full-time. I haven't had a job in seven months now.
I haven't told her for a couple of reasons. One reason is that I don't want to overwhelm her. She’s 86 years old and already dealing with so much—my dad's Alzheimer's, my sister's radio silence. Most 86-year-olds don't deal with this much burden, do they?
Even if I do tell her, what is my mother going to do or say? Besides threatening me with buying a new car?
"Ma. I can buy a car for myself," I told her. No, I can't, of course. It was going to be when I got a new job, but...
"Then actually do it. The engine shakes; it's a safety issue. SAFETY." The engine was making a knocking sound. Everyone who has driven in my car has complained about it. "You should buy an electric one, like a BYD."
"You mean a Tesla?"
"No,” she says. “A BYD." BYD is a Chinese electric auto manufacturer. Short for Build Your Dreams, apparently. A backronym on top of that, which is a delightfully Chinese thing to do.
“You know we live in the same city where Teslas are manufactured, right? And that BYDs aren't sold in the United States?"
Mom looks at me in disapproval. Why do you hate Chinese people, she seems to convey? I rolled my eyes, and she continues sending me YouTube shorts about the power of BYD from mainland China to this day.
Realistically, she'd tell me to move back home. I'd like to think she'd be out of my hair when I do get a job, and not like the time she burst into a room I was conducting a Zoom meeting.
"CHER-RIEEES," she announced.
The whole meeting erupted in laughter while I sank into my chair.
"Oh man, I would personally love some cherries," a client said. At least he was sympathetic.
"Don't forget to spit out the cherry pits into the bowl," she reminded me as I shooed her out.
But past the wacky hijinks, there's something darker. Being the son of Asian immigrants, keeping things like this to myself feels almost like a given. To everyone else, you are fine. Don't let everyone see the chaos within.
And I don't want my mom to realize what I have: that I am in a demographic where I'm less hirable because I'm too young for retirement but too old to be able to learn and retain information at a wage fair for my years of experience.
Ever try to keep a secret from your mother? I have. Twice now. The first time, at sixteen, it was about dirty magazines. This time, it's about my career - or lack thereof. Both times, I've felt the same knot in my stomach, the same fear of discovery. But I'm not sixteen anymore, and eventually, I'll have to face the music. I'm hoping that by the time I share this truth, just like when I finally came out, it will come with some good news, too. Maybe this time, instead of weeping and gnashing of teeth, there will be some acceptance.
After all, isn't that what growing up is supposed to be about?
So. many. secrets. At one point my parents thought I was working a regular job in Taiwan when I had actually renounced my U.S. citizenship and been drafted into the Taiwanese army during the 1996 cross-strait missile crisis. But, like you, it was a matter of weighing which would do the most damage, based on how they handle such issues, and _that_ is simply not under our control, so I feel you are doing the best for all concerned.
It never changes, my friend. My Mom didn't live as long as your mom has, but it didn't matter what age she was--or I was. Moms have a hold over us, even when we feel like they shouldn't any more.