While having lunch with my mother on Saturday, in the middle of a random Chinese history lesson (without names of any of the people whose lives she was describing – though one of them was a ‘woman who fought to be able to study medicine to become a doctor, because women weren’t allowed to go to school or be doctors back then, and then she later chose between two brothers to marry, but she chose wrong because though they both became king, she chose the one who became the worst king ever’), she began summarizing Zootopia for me.
She told me that Zootopia is about prejudice, how one sloth might be this way but another that way, and one zebra is like this but another could be totally different, and to not judge before you meet the sloth or zebra. Halfway through this explanation, she interrupted herself and said dismissively, “At least, that’s how I interpreted it. I don’t know. Maybe you’ll watch it and see it differently.”
Though it annoyed me growing up and bothers me now when she self-deprecates and speaks poorly of her own intelligence, through watching her do so my entire life I learned to speak with confidence. I occasionally dip into “I don’t know what I’m talking about anyway” territory, but for the most part I speak loudly and clearly, stating my opinion and thoughts with little to no insecurity (publicly; obviously in my personal relationships and friendships I occasionally display my insecurity).
Today, I am grateful for my mother being who she is. All of the good and bad together, she raised three lovely children, each unique personality some blend of her and our father. Her journey of growth through her life – from growing up in Hong Kong to immigrating to America without any friends, living in the south, opening restaurants with my father, moving to NYC, raising 3 children, emotionally supporting her husband’s dreams and caring for him as he fought cancer twice, to becoming the independent and strong woman she stands today… I have been truly blessed to have her as my mother.
I often speak about how much of my father’s daughter I am, but I am no less my mother’s child. I look much like she did when she was my age, and for all her feistiness she received an incredibly stubborn, hardheaded child who defiantly refused to turn around in the womb and forced a c-section.
Happy birthday, Mom! Hopefully I won’t shrink to your height by the time I’m your age! 