I once hid in my closet after school, afraid of what would happen when my mom saw my report card. On it, I had a C next to physical education.
I got spanked that night. With a rubber slipper that hurt SO BAD. But inside, I knew it was my fault. It was my fault I couldn't physically finish four laps (that's a mile... a very long mile). It was my fault my PE teacher hated me. It was all my stinking fault.
Never mind my parents never took me out to run around a field. Never mind my only form of physical exercise was a weekly jazz dance class. Never mind that I didn't do any other sports. Never mind that I had never done a jumping jack until I was in PE at school. Never mind any of that.
Growing up, I always knew that grades were important, but somewhere along the way, I didn't really think physical education would matter. In the back of my mind, I thought my mom would forgive me for a bad grade because we weren't very active in our family. I barely learned how to ride a bike when I was 8, not because anyone taught me, but because my dad came home from a garage sale with two bikes, one for my cousin who was 3 years older and living with us at the time, and one for me. We both didn't know how to ride a bike, so my dad took us to the elementary school where with much trial and error and some physical scars from falling, we learned how to ride a bike. My brother, six years younger, wouldn't learn how to ride a bike until he was in his early 20's. I was shocked when i found out, but by the time he was of age to learn how to ride a bike, our bikes had disappeared into the backyard where dust and obscurity conquered them. My brother would never learn how to ride a bike while living at home.
It was really physically hard for me to run a lap. My lungs ached for air, my body hurt with its lack of use, and my mind didn't care to try.
That was, until after I got beat for my grade. I didn't just fear for a sore thigh, I feared that my mom would do something unthinkable. Like throw me out. Or stop feeding me. Because in the Chinese culture, those are the things love translate as. A roof over your head, and food in your belly. I feared I would be a disappointment. I feared I would be mocked and ridiculed forever. I felt so little. So weak. So sad. So meaningless. So dumb. So incapable. I cried for minutes in my small dark closet, wondering if anyone else in the world understood me and what I was going through. Times like these were when I wished for a sibling the most. My brother six years younger would not understand. My cousins who lived with us had already moved (because they couldn't stand my mom's strict rules, even though years later they would admit it was her rules and regulation that got my cousin acceptance into UCLA). It was just me and the darkness in my closet, answering me with an unapologetic silence, as if telling me to just woman up, and get over it.
And yet, I came back determined and committed, and I ran those four laps even if it meant I was dying for air, gasping for life, and desperate for a better grade than just passing. I had to be excellent or good, there was no option to be mediocre, even if I was. By means of being a Chinese student, I needed to have good grades, even if that meant physical education. And once I accomplished it, I seemed to have forgotten the pain and anguish that came with being alone and lost. I rejected those feelings of inadequacy and told myself to shape up. I aligned with the Chinese culture my mom had beat into me. And I obeyed. And I succeeded. And I thanked my mom for making me a stronger person who was able to pass physical education.
But now when my kids get bad grades, I inherently gasp inside before realizing I need to lead with love, be patient, hear his side, and then try to teach. It's an additional step immigrants didn't have the time for, but with all that I've been given, this is the least I can do for my own kids.
No comments:
Post a Comment