Sliced Pears

“I love you”, a phrase meant to show the appreciation of something or someone in your life. Something that you have to be grateful for, someone that brings value into your life. Like a mother to a child, a son to a father. If that’s the case, why do my parents never say it? I never heard those words growing up, I only saw it.

They don’t say it not because they don’t love me, but because they were never told those words growing up themselves. I can’t tell you why they never heard it, but I know for a fact, that my parents, especially my dad, aren’t good at expressing their love vocally. They express themselves in acts of service. That’s why my dad fixes my bike after a rough argument, or why my mom cuts pears on a hot summer’s day. They can’t express themselves vocally, but their actions speak louder than any word in the whole universe.

I hate myself.

In the quiet of my room, I found myself fighting with the inner voice that berated every flaw and shortcoming. “I hate myself,” became a familiar phrase, echoing throughout the walls of my mind. Strangely, this self-loathing wasn’t a source of despair or hopelessness but a driving force. A force that fueled a restless determination to go beyond the limitations that I had put on myself. The intensity of that self-hate transformed into a motivation, pushing me to challenge my own boundaries and redefine my capabilities. Each failure became a stepping stone, and with each step, I grew stronger, driven by a comforting hatred that had turned itself into a catalyst for self-improvement.

As I navigated my maze of personal growth, I discovered tranquility in this contrasting relationship with self-hate. It’s not about succumbing to the despair but rather embracing it as a path to self-improvement. In my journey toward becoming the best version of myself, this unconventional motivator played a huge role. The hate had become a coach, pushing me to strive for excellence and pushing me to carve out a narrative of resilience and triumph. In the paradox of hating oneself while cultivating growth, I found a peculiar kind of contentment – a harmony that propelled me forward in the pursuit of personal growth.

The House in the Mountains

Every winter my parents visit the mountains. We spend all of winter there. Through Christmas, and into the new year. I wish that I could spend my time at home. The home where all my friends are, the home that I get to party at. I wish I could be anywhere in the world but that home in the mountains. It gets cold quickly. Cold enough where you can feel it inside your lungs with every breath, cold enough to shiver with every step. The milky white mountain and the bone chilling trees. With every direction being a snowy landscape, the house is my place of solitude. With nothing but me, myself and I, I have room to reflect, room to grow. As I sit on the front porch, a cup of hot cocoa in hand, I can’t help but feel thankful. I look back on my year with a smile and go into the new year with an even bigger smile, because I know that every year, I am one step closer to becoming less of an idiot.

Sundays

Sundays are days of rest, but they’re also the days that I spend with my grandparents. I eat my grandma’s pho with them and then go with my grandpa to play badminton with him and his friends. I enjoy every single second I spend with them. 

I enjoy hearing about their stories about what their life was like. Much like many others who immigrated from Vietnam, they were boat people. Meaning that they had to eat the spoiled taros that they kept in sacks, and the moldy rice from the jars. With nothing besides the clothes on their backs and the little money they had in their pockets, they suffered through thick and thin, just to make it to America. 

They suffered for the sake of our future, my future. So that I wouldn’t have to go through the same experience as them. I love them to death, that’s why they deserve, at the very least, a day of rest. 

My Father

My dad is Vietnamese. He came to America on a boat meant for fifteen, but instead crammed with three hundred and forty six people . He came to America as a child in 1986, not knowing a single ounce of English. My dad was the second oldest out of his five brothers. He lived pretty much how’d you expect growing up with five boys but with the added challenge of not understanding any English.

Much like other immigrants, he grew up poor. His everyday meal was rice and fish sauce. Fast food was a luxury to them. So much of a luxury, that my dad got a job at McDonalds just to be able to eat their burgers for lunch. Basically, they were poor.

My dad likes to define himself as scrappy. The literal definition being “disorganized, untidy, or incomplete parts” but he takes the term to a new level. My dad has always enjoyed video games, but again, they were too poor to afford the new Atari or the new genesis. But my dad wasn’t satisfied with not having one so he saved up money through hustling and bargaining to get his way. And that’s just the way that he grew up. 

I think the most important thing that he learned growing up was adversity. He faced his challenges head on and didn’t stop until he overcame them. Although he’s a little hot headed sometimes and harsh, he is the person I strive to be. The person I want to grow into. He is my pillar of strength and my number one supporter. Even though he never says “I love you”, I know he does, and he knows that I love him as well.