Family
Film negative collected from my travels (dots by esther, ode to Baldessari)
Ah, the joys of parental visits. If you’re anything like me, that first text announcing their impending arrival sends a jolt of anxiety straight to your gut. And it’s not the “Yay! Parents are coming!” kind of excitement. No, it’s more like the “Dear God, why do I do this to myself every time?” sort of panic. Because let’s face it—family visits are less about catching up over coffee and more about donning your emotional armor for a few days of psychological warfare.
Now, I’ll admit, there’s this part of me—a remnant from my obedient, wide-eyed younger self—that still wants to make them proud. Maybe if I just straighten my posture, hide the tattoos, and serve up some homemade kimchi jjigae, I can keep that dreaded look of disappointment off their faces. Spoiler alert: I can't.
I grew up Korean, which, if you know, you know. It’s the eternal tightrope walk between your own identity and the looming shadow of what your parents wished you would be. Got an A? Why not A+? Landed a great job? Why aren’t you a doctor yet? Bought a house? When are you getting married? It’s this constant cycle of not-quite-good-enough, a relentless hum in the background of every accomplishment, reminding you that success is just another way to let them down. And even though I’m well aware that I’m an adult now, fully equipped to live my life on my own terms, that childhood programming runs deep. The fear of disappointing them is like a shadow I can’t outrun, no matter how fast I go.
But, and here’s where it gets interesting, I also found myself looking forward to their visit. I know, weird, right? Maybe it’s the secret hope that they’ll bring some semblance of comfort with them, a fleeting taste of that parental warmth I’ve craved. Perhaps I imagined that just this once, they’d show up and be the parents I need instead of the ones I’ve got. I should’ve known better. This is where my life starts to look suspiciously like a scene out of Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections—a book I adore, by the way, despite its lack of feminist credentials (sorry, but it's true). The dysfunctional family dynamics Franzen captures so brilliantly resonate with me in a way that’s both comforting and horrifying. Sure, my family hasn’t done the stuff you see in his novel, but the major themes—oh, the themes—they hit close to home. It’s that particular brand of dysfunction that doesn’t need to be dramatic to be damaging. It’s the slow, simmering kind, the one that quietly erodes your sanity over time. (Unfortunately I have both kinds)
They arrived yesterday morning, but it feels like they've been here for a month. And my dad—God bless his outdated, sexist heart—has already pushed me to the brink. I swear, I’m one unsolicited piece of advice away from a kitchen showdown (Yes, I’ve daydreamed of punching his face). How did I, a fully functional, modern human being, spring from the loins of this man? I’m seriously considering the possibility of a hospital switch at birth because how the hell else do you explain the vast chasm between our worldviews?
And if that wasn’t enough, let me add another layer of hell to this cake: I’m running on approximately zero sleep because I have a puppy in heat who has decided that her sister, my poor senior dog, is her new love interest. So all night long, I’m treated to the delightful sight of my puppy shoving her vagina towards her sister’s face, like some twisted canine version of The Bachelor. I mean, what kind of nightmare am I living right now? I’m basically navigating family dysfunction on a sleep-deprived brain that’s been marinating in dog drama for days.
And yes, I hear you muttering that I sound like an ungrateful daughter, lamenting the presence of parents who are still around to drive me crazy. But let me tell you, toxic family dynamics are no walk in the park. I’d trade a thousand shallow praises for just one moment of genuine understanding.
The thing is, being the lone sane person in a family unit is a special kind of hell. It’s like being the designated driver at an open bar—everyone else is having a grand old time, and you’re just trying to keep the car from veering off a cliff. And now, with my parents here, I’m hanging on by a thread, desperately scanning the horizon for an escape route. Anyone got a spare couch I can crash on? I’m asking for a friend.
So here I am, stuck in the whirlwind of my parents' visit, caught between my desire to please them and my need to preserve my own sanity. I’m sure there’s some deep lesson here about family, love, and self-acceptance, but frankly, I’m too tired to find it right now. For the time being, I’ll settle for surviving the next few days with my sense of self intact. Wish me luck—I’m going to need it. I’m going to fucking lose it soon.
August 21, 2024
Now, I’ll admit, there’s this part of me—a remnant from my obedient, wide-eyed younger self—that still wants to make them proud. Maybe if I just straighten my posture, hide the tattoos, and serve up some homemade kimchi jjigae, I can keep that dreaded look of disappointment off their faces. Spoiler alert: I can't.
I grew up Korean, which, if you know, you know. It’s the eternal tightrope walk between your own identity and the looming shadow of what your parents wished you would be. Got an A? Why not A+? Landed a great job? Why aren’t you a doctor yet? Bought a house? When are you getting married? It’s this constant cycle of not-quite-good-enough, a relentless hum in the background of every accomplishment, reminding you that success is just another way to let them down. And even though I’m well aware that I’m an adult now, fully equipped to live my life on my own terms, that childhood programming runs deep. The fear of disappointing them is like a shadow I can’t outrun, no matter how fast I go.
But, and here’s where it gets interesting, I also found myself looking forward to their visit. I know, weird, right? Maybe it’s the secret hope that they’ll bring some semblance of comfort with them, a fleeting taste of that parental warmth I’ve craved. Perhaps I imagined that just this once, they’d show up and be the parents I need instead of the ones I’ve got. I should’ve known better. This is where my life starts to look suspiciously like a scene out of Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections—a book I adore, by the way, despite its lack of feminist credentials (sorry, but it's true). The dysfunctional family dynamics Franzen captures so brilliantly resonate with me in a way that’s both comforting and horrifying. Sure, my family hasn’t done the stuff you see in his novel, but the major themes—oh, the themes—they hit close to home. It’s that particular brand of dysfunction that doesn’t need to be dramatic to be damaging. It’s the slow, simmering kind, the one that quietly erodes your sanity over time. (Unfortunately I have both kinds)
They arrived yesterday morning, but it feels like they've been here for a month. And my dad—God bless his outdated, sexist heart—has already pushed me to the brink. I swear, I’m one unsolicited piece of advice away from a kitchen showdown (Yes, I’ve daydreamed of punching his face). How did I, a fully functional, modern human being, spring from the loins of this man? I’m seriously considering the possibility of a hospital switch at birth because how the hell else do you explain the vast chasm between our worldviews?
And if that wasn’t enough, let me add another layer of hell to this cake: I’m running on approximately zero sleep because I have a puppy in heat who has decided that her sister, my poor senior dog, is her new love interest. So all night long, I’m treated to the delightful sight of my puppy shoving her vagina towards her sister’s face, like some twisted canine version of The Bachelor. I mean, what kind of nightmare am I living right now? I’m basically navigating family dysfunction on a sleep-deprived brain that’s been marinating in dog drama for days.
And yes, I hear you muttering that I sound like an ungrateful daughter, lamenting the presence of parents who are still around to drive me crazy. But let me tell you, toxic family dynamics are no walk in the park. I’d trade a thousand shallow praises for just one moment of genuine understanding.
The thing is, being the lone sane person in a family unit is a special kind of hell. It’s like being the designated driver at an open bar—everyone else is having a grand old time, and you’re just trying to keep the car from veering off a cliff. And now, with my parents here, I’m hanging on by a thread, desperately scanning the horizon for an escape route. Anyone got a spare couch I can crash on? I’m asking for a friend.
So here I am, stuck in the whirlwind of my parents' visit, caught between my desire to please them and my need to preserve my own sanity. I’m sure there’s some deep lesson here about family, love, and self-acceptance, but frankly, I’m too tired to find it right now. For the time being, I’ll settle for surviving the next few days with my sense of self intact. Wish me luck—I’m going to need it. I’m going to fucking lose it soon.
August 21, 2024