An existence to justify for

Out of all the relationships in my life, none is more precarious than the one I have with my parents.

Dad advised me to stay in the car. He’d gone back inside to check if Mom had calmed down enough to go out for dinner with us. I pulled out my Field Note and scrawled the words, “It’s not safe”.

I don’t know how sustainable it is to be in a relationship that does not feel safe. But it’s the longest relationship I know.

I’m on the flight back to Hong Kong, having just spent the week of lunar new year at my parents’ place. And although it was fun to just vibecode in the living room while Dad makes me cappuccinos and Mom makes me avocado and scrambled eggs, it’s nice to finally be relieved of a tense few days.

Every conversation, every car ride, every interaction felt like a fight. They were questioning pretty much all the aspects of my life, like:

• Why are you gay?

• Why do you want kids when you can’t have them naturally?

• Why do you not want kids?

• Why aren’t you investing?

• Why are you investing in ETFs instead of stocks and forex?

• Why does your hair look a mess?

• Why don’t you go to church?

• Why do you still pray?

Every moment felt like I had to justify my existence. That it’s not enough to be just me. That I have to be the perfect daughter of their expectations that would make them happy and elated and fulfilled and feel like they’re good parents.

But at the same time, I’m starting to empathise with bits and pieces of their existence.

They raised two children in a precarious nation and worked hard to send them off overseas with no expectations of either of us returning. They expected us to permanently emigrate. And what they’re letting go is a life where they get to see their grandchildren grow up down the road. Where they get to help their children pack up and move flats. Where they get to share some extra food that the neighbours gave them.

“Kalian terlalu mandiri. Kadang-kadang kita juga ngarep kalian masih butuhin kita.” You guys are too independent. We sometimes wish you still need us.

When it comes to my relationship with my family, I often think of the tale of Malin Kundang. He came from this drab village but made it to a ship that took him far and wide. He became rich, got a wife, and when he eventually returned to the village for a visit, his mother came over to say hi but he thought she was too disgusting and poor so he denied that he is her son. He even admitted he was an orphan instead. He did the most durhaka thing possible - to betray his parents. His mom wailed as he left on a ship, and prayed to the sky: if that really was my son, please curse him to stone.

I wandered off alone in my life when I was eighteen and have never lived back there since. I’ve struggled to call it home, especially when there was a stretch when I cut ties for two years.

What I put them through is very durhaka-coded. And now I just expect them to understand all the intricacies of my life immediately, without homophobia, without skepticism.

But in reality they are still learning about so much. Mom once asked if adding she/her to my Instagram pronouns section meant that I was declaring to the world that I was a lesbian. Dad just a few days ago asked if two girls living in the same household will work. He didn’t mean this maliciously. It’s just that the only instance two wives can be in the same household is when his wife and her mother-in-law are in the same household, and from his experience, those days are really tense.

They have to learn a whole new relationship form that takes place of a same-sex couple, and their single point of exposure is their first-born. They have so many questions but feel the need to tiptoe around me lest I cut them off again.

Plus they’re also learning a whole new relationship dynamic. One that has non-violent communication, that isn’t a “wife is always right”/suami-suami takut istri/”happy wife, happy life” dynamic, that doesn’t yell at each other to resolve a conflict.

A few days ago, Dad was asking me a question about work, then missed a turn to the restaurant. Mom started yelling. “If you know the directions so bad, then you drive! I’ll get off!”. Mom said, “Fine!”. They literally switched seats in the middle of the road. “Beck, pull up the Google Maps,” my mom ordered. Dad didn’t say anything. But ten minutes later they were chatting again.

So to go from that to seeing my relationship dynamic - one where conflicts are not resolved by the husband giving into the wife - must be very confusing.

No. Instead, when my mother was lecturing me about how it’s unnatural for two girls to have a baby, I decided to poke the bear. There had been a few days of my mom sulking about the fact that I’m still with a girl and not at all considering a man - “keep your heart open to love!” she kept saying - and I pretty much had it. I asked, “Right, so you don’t want to be invited to the wedding, right?”.

I immediately felt her temper rise from across the table. It had been 4 years since my mom yelled at me at all, but I could feel her holding it in every time I reference my girlfriend or marriage or moving to a country where gay marriage is legal. But just one poke in the right angle, she came back. Her temper, her rage, her incredulousness that her daughter dared to - in her words - hold her at gunpoint like that.

“I’m just asking questions! Go be in a relationship, fine, but don’t get married!”

Ah, there she is. In a weird way, this felt familiar. It’s like setting off a controlled fire. Not great, but predictable and that makes it better.

So I decided to fan the flame.

“Why can’t you just be happy for me? I don’t think your love is unconditional.”

And that just about did it.

“You don’t think I’m happy for you?!”

I just aggressively opened my palms up in her direction. Like, case in point??? “I don’t think you are! You keep wanting me to marry a man!”

“I’m just saying you don’t need to do things just because you feel like you have to! You don’t need to be with a woman if you feel like you need to get married!”

“If I felt the need to do anything I would have married a Chindo boy a long time ago. That’s what you want! Life would be so much easier!”

“It doesn’t have to be Chindo!”

“But it has to be a man?”

Then she started going off.

“You don’t know how hard we have it! You weren’t here through our hardest times! I regret sending you overseas!”

And in that moment I knew it wasn’t about this conversation anymore. This was about something else, some things of the past that she hasn’t forgiven me or forgiven herself for. So I ignored her. She kept going into the room to yell at me, then out again, then back in to rattle off some more, then out again.

Dad, all too familiar with Mom’s temper, asked if I wanted to go to a coffee shop and I jumped up with a “sure!”, closed my laptop, and got in the car with him. My mom was trailing behind with some more yelling.

I wonder if he was worried then that I would cut them off again. I had offered to spend the night at a hotel, and he said that that’s a ridiculous thing to do.

Dad took me to my favourite restaurant. Mom calmed down a lot - but not completely - when we got home. The next day, everything is swept under the rug and none of us talked about what happened. Typical Asian family dynamic.

In The Art of Spending Money, Morgan Housel shared a story from a priest about how in deathbeds, children of families would often say thanks for things that money can buy, like thanks for my education, thanks for putting food on the table, thanks for buying me a car. “In the best families, the ones I know have solid relationships,” the priest said, “the kids say the same thing every time: Thank you for believing in me.”

This feels like a very flattening generalisation. I don’t think any Asian or immigrant family would ever say that. Or kids who have succeeded in upwards mobility. At least in my case, putting me through college is the form of belief that my parents have in me. And my family may not be solid, but just because the love shows up differently, doesn’t mean that the love isn’t there.

I wonder what my parents were thinking.

I wonder if they feel like they constantly have to justify their existence to me.

A daughter that is far more progressive, rash, brazen. Who now expects them to need her, but isn’t sure if she’ll ever need them again.

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Update log:

• 😅 Received my first “This is AI” comment. This to me is now the silver play button equivalent of “you went viral”.

• 🔥 Still deeply absorbed in RF Kuang’s Katabasis. I love a good fiction anchored in historical references.

• 🎙️ Very useful ep: “Most YouTuber Advice is Bad” by my buddies over at Gimbal Podcast, ranking different YT advice and commenting on them (the episode is aptly named). Snipd loads of nuggets from it as a YouTube producer.

• 👰‍♀️ Celebrated a friend’s bachelorette over the weekend by doing a wholesome art jam session and also having conversations sparked by WNRS (Healing Edition) + Tumler.

• 👩‍🍳 Hosted a housewarming dinner for my colleagues

• 🤓 Got my first 2 clients as a web developer! It’s crazy how I didn’t know how to do any of these things like last month, but many many web tools later, I’ve become very familiar with hosting sites, Supabase, etc… And now I’m officially in the web development space!

Work with me: https://go.beckyisj.com/workwithme

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