Son

The day wasn't being very kind to me that Wednesday. Things were rolling around in my head that should have been put away ages ago and it was, for obvious reasons, frustrating me to no end. That's the nature of the human psyche, I suppose. It somehow finds the most inconvenient time for you to have the most inconvenient thoughts. For me, it was on "Hump Day" and the thoughts revolved around the words my parents decided to ever so kindly impart on me the night before.

We had a fight, you see.

It turns out that fifty-something first generation Filipino immigrants aren't very understanding of youthful trends and the indiscretion of young adults during their time of discovery. In short, they weren't happy with me getting tattoos. The usual reasons were thrown about the room like snowballs in November.

You'll never get a job.

You'll regret that when you're older.

How are you supposed to face the rest of the family?

I thought we raised you better than that.

You look like a criminal.

Different times carry with them different mindsets and I would surmise that had it been in their generation, perhaps some of those would hold true. Of course, I was smart enough not to get anything I couldn't hide for an interview with a nice looking button up. I thought they would, at the very least, acknowledge that. However, that's not what I got. What I got was stern admonishing and frowns that weighed me down like a boulder. I suppose you could say that my relationship with my parents is very much akin to a boulder.

No, I don't mean that it's hard (although it is). There are times when I feel as if I'm Sisyphus watching my boulder roll down the hill after reaching the top. That's how it's always been with us. I push this boulder up and when I think I finally have a way of connecting, the boulder rolls back down.

All of those thoughts rolled (pun immensely intended) around my head that Wednesday afternoon as I drove home. I didn't want to come home to them, but I had to. I didn't want to go home to people who were ashamed of me, but I had to.

My eyes were tired by the time I opened the door to my house and was greeted by two overly excited dogs. I set my bag down and let the thud of my books fill the living room as I let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit cube that we call our home. Slowly, I made my way to the kitchen to make myself something to eat. I decided to check the fridge to see if I could shortcut my way out of cooking and I saw something that caught my attention and started a fire in my heart.

It was a small pot at the bottom of the fridge with black handles jutting out of the opposite sides. I picked up the pot and looked at it and I already knew what was inside. Of all the years we've lived in our house, my mother has only used that pot for one thing and one thing only. It was for my favorite food in the world, bistek. Whenever I saw that pot, I knew that she made it for me. The pot was small and didn't have enough servings for one family dinner. It did, however, have enough for me.

I didn't realize it until they hit the top of the lid and rolled to my fingers, but I had been crying. Not a profuse or dramatic cry, but a subtle build up of tears that come from a certain realization. All that anger, all that shame, and now a pot.

Bistek is my favorite food in the world.

For my mother, it was her quiet way of saying that I'm still her son.