By: Em Li
You liked to speak of adulthood as a baby bird leaving its mother’s nest, soaring away in the west wind to explore all the world had to offer. It makes sense then, how I would grow up romanticizing independence, romanticizing the strength it takes to be independent, even though I would also grow up a meek and timid child. I hated loneliness but I was often alone. I hated stumbling around blinded by my insecurities, a skin suit of a girl in a world too stiff for her desperate hands. I hated free falls when I knew I was the only one to hit the ground. For most of my life, you were the hands pushing me forward, and I stayed in line because I feared losing this support.
You keep pictures of B in her cap and gown on the mantle of our fake fireplace, her smile radiant behind framed glass. I still remember how Dad exploded the day she returned from the salon with orange hair, a week before her graduation. He couldn’t fathom why his oldest daughter suddenly wanted to look like a neon punk princess, but you had defended her fashion as an extension of her self-expression. Me, I’d always admired B’s distinct sense of self and how steadfastly she held onto it. If growing up is like soaring into a wind as a bird, her easy, carefree confidence represented everything I revered about that freedom.
On Monday I told you I’d like to wear pants to my graduation. In all my dreams, you’d support me like you supported B, excited that I had finally found who I wanted to be. In all my nightmares, you’d start with rage but gradually soften to the idea, like in those sappy coming-of-age novels where even the most prejudiced parents come to love their children above their religion and their political beliefs, and we’d gradually work through the anger together in our unspoken guilt. I thought I knew you well enough. I thought this was my chance to fly.
Instead, you seethed.
Mouth pressed into a thin slice of red lipstick, and demanded why I needed to differentiate myself, why I wanted to draw attention to how much I wasn’t fitting in, and why I had to do it at an important event where other parents could see your arm around my shoulder and think it was your fault I was arrogant enough to flaunt social norms. You questioned who I thought I was and sneered when I couldn’t find the words to define something so delicate, so small, that even labelling it felt enough to stifle the spark. Because I’m a coward, because after six thousand two hundred and nine days on this earth, I’m still terrified of the way your face hardens to stone, terrified of the way your hands tremble from the force you clench them with. I let the subject dissolve into silence.
On Tuesday you looked at me like I was already in Hell.
On Wednesday I scrolled through prom dresses for hours on end. Imagining myself strapped in sweeping bows, imagining the smooth silk against my skin, and for a while it felt bearable. Then I pictured my awkward limbs entangled in the fabric, and I was reminded of why I’d approached you in the first place. I couldn’t imagine myself exuding the same bold femininity as the models in the catalogue. I couldn’t imagine myself comfortable in their coiffed hair and luminous eyes, because deep down, I knew that wasn’t who I am. Because I knew I’d always been most happy in starchy button up shirts and linear trousers that hid the curves of my legs, and on prom night, I wanted to be happy.
On Wednesday I overheard you on the phone complaining to Auntie. You thought you did everything right, followed the parenting manual down to the last letter and your youngest child still turned out like this. You raised both your children in the church and yet your youngest still grew up to become a sinner. You said I’d ruined my own life, that I was led astray by popular culture and influence. You said maybe it was wrong to let me explore and how you regretted not stamping out the ideas sooner.
On Wednesday I realized you were more terrified of me than I could ever be of you. I posed a threat to your friendships, to your social status. You were scared of how your friends would perceive your own views after finding out you’d raised a gay child, scared of walking into church knowing you couldn’t change me despite your many prayers.
And on that Wednesday, I decided that I would no longer let your fear rule me.
Being an individual lacking any sense of aesthetics, I was not particularly adept at fashion. But after many virtual try-ons and intense criticism from B, I finally found an outfit that was formal enough for prom, yet one that reflected my whimsical nature. And the person in the mirror felt right.
My strength to fly is an ugly one. It is birthed from tears and, when the tears ran dry, heaving hiccups of vengeful strife. It is chained by guilt and an irrational sense of obligation. It is ironic and hypocritical.
But such is life, and such is growth.