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In my immigrant household, my parents rarely displayed love or affection, either through words or physical gestures. Among my peers, it’s often understood that our Chinese parents showed concern primarily through food. “Eat more!” they would insist, even when we were full. But my father’s way of expressing his worry leaned more towards a deep-seated paranoia regarding the safety of my brother and me.
As children, we were prohibited from any activity that could lead to injury. This meant I was unable to ski, even though the slopes were just a short drive away, and I had to sit on the sidelines during my friends’ ice skating parties. My brother, with his nut allergy, was limited in what he could participate in, resorting to pretending to camp in his bedroom instead of engaging in team sports.
As I grew older, my father’s anxiety seemed to intensify. During a family trip to a new city, I offered to find a taxi stand, but I got lost and took longer than expected to return. My father was visibly distraught, exclaiming, “I thought you had been kidnapped!” He was on the verge of calling the police. Similarly, when my brother missed a flight home from college, my dad panicked, claiming, “His plane must have been hijacked!” jumping to the worst conclusions.
After college, I was eager to establish my independence, accepting a job on the opposite coast. I felt the need to distance myself from my father’s worries, even though I recognized they came from a place of love. But his attempts to maintain control persisted. When I moved to Washington, DC, just as the second Iraq War began, he bought me two child-sized Israeli gas masks from eBay, insisting I keep one with me at all times and store the other in my office. He urged me to avoid the subway, believing the bus would be safer. Feeling ridiculous, I complied, but after two weeks, I tucked the gas masks away and resumed taking the subway.
That same year, the SARS outbreak struck Asia. Despite a global shortage of Tamiflu, my father somehow secured a small supply for our family. He urgently informed me over the phone that a packet was on its way, warning, “Don’t share it with anyone. This could save your life.” While I appreciated his concern, I disagreed with living in constant fear.
Years later, during my pregnancy amid the Zika virus outbreak, the calls from my dad became more frequent. “Don’t go outside!” he urged. “You have to protect the baby. Keep the windows closed!” I knew better than to explain that the virus hadn’t reached my area, so I promised my unborn child a more carefree childhood than my own.
Then came COVID-19. My dad, now with multiple serious health issues, retreated into his home, praying for protection. “I will definitely die if I get it,” he said during one conversation, and I recognized the truth in his fear.
Seeing him vulnerable for the first time stirred emotions I had long kept at bay. I felt guilty for having intentionally distanced myself from him, even while prioritizing my mental health. I realized he rarely focused on his own well-being, instead pouring his love into his family in the only way he knew.
Now, living far from my dad, who is hesitant to travel despite being vaccinated, it has been nearly two years since my five-year-old last saw him. The pandemic has reminded me of the importance of relationships and the need to cherish one another. I hope to visit soon; while the thought of hugging him feels awkward—our last embrace likely being in kindergarten—I look forward to seeing my son envelop his grandfather in a warm hug that will surely bring joy to my father’s eyes.
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Summary:
The author reflects on her overprotective immigrant upbringing, recognizing how her father’s concerns shaped her childhood. Despite the restrictions imposed by his fears, she learns to appreciate his love and the sacrifices he made for their family. As adult challenges arise, including the COVID-19 pandemic, she comes to understand the importance of familial bonds and looks forward to reconnecting with her father.