It was expected and celebrated that I rack up as many awards as possible. I remember that getting 2 or 3 certificates was considered honorable. But not for me. That would have been lousy.
Already as I begin this DB, I feel a sense of pressure. I want to do well. I need to do well. I don't necessarily feel that for my other DB's - usually, I just let the writing flow out of me. But this time, I think of my parents, and after reading these essays, I am in a bit of a nostalgic mindset, and cannot help but think of my own family. I've never known how exactly to put what I've felt into words, but the above quote is perfect. I've always known that I was expected to excel. My parents weren't ones to settle for average, and there was no way on this planet that their only daughter and eldest child (and later only son and youngest child) would simply get by in school. Although C's were considered an average, anything below a 90 was completely unacceptable for me. And getting below the 93 mark was reaching dangerland. When some of my friends boasted that their parents were paying them money for every A they brought home on their report cards, I was treated out for a celebratory dinner for fulfilling expectations with my consistent A+'s.
I never truly felt pressure from my parents though. I knew what was expected from them, but they had helped awaken a drive within ME, a desire to excel that came from within my own being. I knew that "failing" (i.e. not being the best) at anything was not only failing my parents, but failing myself. My parents never allowed me to doubt that their love was based on my academic success, but at times, because both their generous affection and expectations of excellence were so ingrained in my daily life, I equated the two. Unconsciously of course. It was my father's opinion who I cared about most. My mother shows her love very openly - she is quite consistent in her 'huggy-ness' and 'i love you's' and 'sona jaan's' (translation: golden darling... ish.) I never have to worry about whether her love will come or go. I never have to wonder if she's happy with me or not. My father was more distant - his love was shown in different ways. But growing up, it was HIS approval on our grades that I desired the most. He probably never knew, but I besides proving myself to myself, I needed to prove myself to him. I needed to prove that I could be the daughter worthy of him. I could carry on the legacy started by both grandfathers who left their villages to earn their PhD's (an impossibly huge deal that I cannot even begin to convey the significance of). I could carry the legacy of the man who became Man of the Household as a child during war and got a full scholarship to Vanderbilt University to earn his PhD. I may have been a girl, but I could carry the torch.
I needed to impress him because he left his dreams behind to provide for my mother, brother, and I. My father has many dreams - he wants to do so much and save the world from itself. But instead, he chose to keep a steady job at a stable university so my brother and I can attend good schools and get good educations. I think he could go far in life, but he holds himself back and gives himself to us. As a university dean, he is still touching and improving lives, and as a writer, he is still influencing minds, and I'm inexpressibly proud of all he accomplishes. I can never repay him. My mother is the same. She is such a dreamer, and I am so much an intensified version of both of my parents. My mother is an artist. She wanted to be an architect and beautify her country. Instead she married early, moved to the Stateds, got a degree in accounting, and became a mom.
I respect my parents for so much, and strive always to repay at least a fraction of what i can never even begin to repay.
"Although my mother and I are linguistically distant and educational strangers, I need to be connected to my raices, my roots...Like myself, mi familia is forever changing and assimilating, but like me, they selectively assimilate in order to retain a rich culture." (412)
These are my roots, and no matter where my branches reach, my roots will keep me grounded.
My mother and I are actually NOT educationally opposed - she is incredibly well educated and well spoken, despite her own insecurities about her intelligence and accent. I suppose that carries over from cultural norms, where girls were not considered as smart as boys. That's all changing now, as the overwhelming majority of students in Bangladesh are female. But she, even more than my father, has always taught me to remember where my ancestors come from. Relative to many other immigrant families (almost all that I know), I would say we are the most Westernized. My parents usually dress in stylish Western wear, have only a trace of an accent, and participate in all sorts of Western holidays and activities. We vote, watch movies and plays, and celebrate Thanksgiving and Independence Day. At the same time, they can never and will never forget their past, and try to pass it on to my brother and I.
SOmething I don't think they understand though, though maybe they try to, is that I am not Bangladeshi. I am not American. I am not Muslim. I am all three, altogether, intricately intwined. There are not 3 seperate parts of my identity. I am part of a generation of hybrid children. My culture is different from my parents' and different from my peers. I honestly think only others in this same position have truly felt this. I go to Bangladesh, and despite my relatively fluid Bangla, my american accent is spotted before I even say a word. I wonder if its how I walk, the way I dress, style my hair, or look around at everything with a hunger and curiosity that gives me away. Maybe all of that. In America, I look different than my friends. Especially in studio, where, to be perfectly honest, diversity is kind of at a minimum. I have another country I can call home.
Maybe all that is why I don't feel like I have a home. I don't really desire one either. I am perfectly content with the idea of roaming. I want to see everything. I want to live everywhere. I want to experience it all. I want to be an immigrant to so many countries that eventually the term 'immigrant' fades away and I am simply a nomad, an explorer, and adventurer.
"Although my mom didn't approve of me getting up at dawn and returning home well after dusk, she eventually understood I was trying to work hard and stopped nagging me about not spending enough time at home. I eventually compromised with my mom and decided to stay at home on the weekends when I didn't have any athletic events." (415)
Um guys... this legit happens to me. No joke. Except maybe minus the talking sandwhich.
This is all part of the "creative process."
This desire to prove myself resulted in my ridiculous work ethic. Okay, let's be honest. I'm not an angel. I have fun. Maybe not in the same way as most people, but I do what I consider to be fun. I don't work 100% of the time. But. 90% is a fairly accurate percent. The above comic strips are essentially what studio life entails. It can be very stressful at times. It can be fairly frustrating most of the time. But I know that I can never give up. Despite the fights and tension between my parents and I on this topic - tension that arose for the first time when I entered college. Before that, I was a golden kid. I never brought up trouble, I did whatever my parents asked, and took care of my family. All of a sudden, I was doing exactly the opposite. I'd left my family to fend on their own, left to get educated, and spent all hours of the night in studio, walking home alone across campus at obscene hours. I didn't call my parents every day, and I didn't consistently respond to texts. I hadn't read the Qur'an in ages, and my prayers were becoming scattered and constantly more difficult to keep up with. What was I becoming?
OH. An architecture + plan ii student. Duh. How could I explain to my parents that everything I did was because I was struggling to keep my head above water? I was struggling to reconcile my religion with my lack of time and attention to do ANYTHING other than schoolwork. I was feeling guilty for not praying on time, guilty for not paying enough attention to my parents, and guilty for not being confident about my designs. None of my frustrations could be put into words when all my parents worried about was me being attacked in the dark. They couldn't understand that I was throwing myself into my work and that I loved and hated what I did. But I know what I want to do with my life. And this is all a part of getting to live my dreams. This is all part of showing myself that I'm someone I can be proud of. This is all part of showing my parents that they have a daughter they can be proud of.
Its all part of life.
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