Immigrant parents

Every time they describe how loving their friend’s children are, they represent their love through the amount of money given. Red pouches, presents etc. They describe people they know using their career successes. I never get to know if a person is a loving father or if a girl is a sex fiend.

Hugs are few and far in between while it’s rare that they show up for my soccer games like all the other parents did. I don’t hate them though. They had a harder time to adjust and more to learn than my young self back then.
They suffered more than I did and could not have fulfilled the American love which I desperately needed. They were not bred to show and perceive love in that way. In the culture where we came from, that expression is through the form of money. Because it was so hard to come by and it was through blood and sweat that my parents accumulated them little by little.

To them, giving money is like giving a part of them, although the meaning is slightly eroding through the years due to how easy it is to come up with them. To me though, it’s been just a number on the computer screen.

Which is why, tears welled up when I learned my dad’s eyesight is failing and will eventually become blind when the first feeling that comes through was that of annoyance. Annoyance at the need to take care of him in the future. The tears were for the fact that I am twisted like them.