My Love Letter to My Mom

Last July marked the 5^th anniversary of my mother’s passing from ovarian cancer. After all of these years, I have not fully and/or properly mourned her death. There is this lingering feeling like something is missing and there is a void inside me from not having closure about her death. I know I need to do something, and unfortunately, I just don’t know what to do and how to feel. I have a feeling that this is going to be the first of many letters that I will be writing to my mother as I learn to mourn her life and passing.

One of the main reasons that I don’t know how to mourn her death is that I don’t really know her. I left her care when I was nine years old, and since that time, I rarely had any contact with her. Due to my immigration struggles, I was not able to see her in-person for over twenty years, even before she passed away.

The fact that I wasn’t able to see her one last time before she passed away is an emotional and psychological void and agony that I am still reconciling within me. Currently, this inner battle is at a stalemate.

In retrospect, technically I could have gone back to Taiwan to see my mother one last time before she passed. The reason I didn’t was because it would have jeopardized my green card application. I had been battling immigration for 27 years and I was literally months away from receiving my green card. Pretty much everything I had worked for over decades was to prepare for that moment. Also, due to the political climate in 2017 and the increasing anti-immigration sentiment, my immigration attorney highly advised me not to leave the US for fear that my green card application might get further delayed, or worse that it might be denied and I might not be able to come back to the states at all. So, I made the difficult and painful decision to not go back to Taiwan.

To a certain extent, I think my mother understood my decision. At the same time, I know that she wanted to see me one last time especially since we hadn’t seen each other for twenty years. I was told that she got really sad when she heard that I couldn’t return to Taiwan.

By late-June 2017, my mother’s condition had improved and stabilized. The doctors and my family in Taiwan were hopeful that my mother would have a longer time. I was relieved by this news because her improved health condition would buy me more time to wait for my green card approval.

Then came the evening of July 11, 2017; I had a long day at work and got home late. I went to check my mail. I saw an envelope from the US Citizenship and Immigration Services and it felt like there was a credit card in it. So, I opened the letter, and lo and behold, it was my green card. I instantly felt an electrifying excitement and joy rush through my whole body. I had never experienced anything like it before. After a couple of moments, I calmed myself down. I was exhausted from the day, so I told myself that it was late, I was going to have a good night sleep, and I would celebrate and announce the great news to everyone the first thing in the morning. And, maybe, start looking for flights back to Taiwan.

I woke up early the following day and saw dozens of missed calls. I checked the messages and my mom had passed away while I was asleep. Even today, I am still grappling with it, bewildered, disappointed, and frustrated by the timing.

Out of all the mixed and unresolved feelings I have about this tragedy, only recently have I come to realize that I never really explained and apologized to my mother for the decision that I made in 2017. So, at this moment, what I want to say to my mother is “I am sorry! I am sorry that I chose my future in the US and green card over you, over choosing to see you one last time!”

 Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash. 

OUR STORIES

 As part of the new documentary film project that NamQuyen (Q) Le and I are working on, Rachel, our Director of Photography, and I flew to Louisville, Kentucky in early April to do some scouting and preliminary filming and interviewing.

(Detail info of the new doc film is coming soon).

The person we interviewed and our host was Coco, the owner of Heart and Soy, Roots Restaurant in Louisville, KY. Heart and Soy is a Vietnamese vegetarian restaurant that focuses on “mindful and compassionate cooking.”

Coco is a fascinating and wonderful person. She is one of the “Boat People” that escaped Vietnam at the age of 27 when Saigon fell in 1975. After nine months of a long and strenuous journey on various boats/ships and different refugee camps in Thailand and Taiwan, Coco made it to Louisville with her family.

(Coco’s amazing and inspirational stories will be available in our upcoming documentary film.)

While sitting there interviewing and documenting Coco’s story in her restaurant, I couldn’t help but wonder about the many traumatic experiences that Asians/Asian Americans have endured coming to the U.S. in order to have a better life and provide a more promising lifestyle for their children. This includes me.

Two-thirds of Asians/Asian Americans in the U.S. are either immigrants themselves or have someone close to them that is an immigrant. The other third are descended from immigrants. This shows that, whether we like it or not and whether we want to admit it or not, our identities as Asians/Asian Americans are intrinsically bonded to immigration.

For some, the journey and migration from Asia to the U.S. was a jumper flight experience, and for many others, it was filled with fear, distress, agony, and uncertainty.

Even though immigration is such a huge part of our identities, based on my observation, immigration is one of the least talked about topics within our communities.

Growing up in an Asian community (predominately Taiwanese and Vietnamese in California) and having the experience of working with Khmer, Filipino, Indian, and South Korean communities, I notice that the majority of these people would rather glaze over their immigration stories, especially the ones that had to escape their home country due to war or unpleasant circumstances. It’s similar to the way veterans don’t talk about their deployment experiences. My good friend is from a military family. His dad fought in Vietnam and his granddad fought in Korea; my friend barely knows any of their war stories.

Reflecting inwardly, I admit I was like this too. I hated sharing about my immigration. The times that I spoke about it, I literally would get headaches and chest pain. It took me over nine years of therapy and lots of inner healing to feel comfortable enough to talk about my immigration journey. So, Coco was exceptional in so openly and willingly sharing her refugee stories. I was extremely impressed and grateful.

Many immigrants and refugees hesitate to share their immigration status and past because of xenophobia and mental health stigma. A lot of us feel ashamed about our immigrant status and past because we are often treated as sub-human and are discriminated against. On top of that, the paperwork and application processes are stressful, headachy, and dehumanizing. From this shame, we don’t want to bring attention to the “deficiency” of our life.

What is often not talked about is the actual migration from Asia to the U.S. Moving across the Pacific Ocean is more complicated and arduous than an American moving from Dubuque, Iowa to Denver or Los Angeles. Many of us have to uproot ourselves and say goodbye to loved ones, friends, the familiarity with the infrastructure, and the already established social network, to a new place where the water tastes different and we have a limited social network and support. On top of that, there are language barriers and dietary differences that directly impact our survival instinct. All of this cultural shock can create tremendous distress, heartaches, and anxiety, and results in trauma. Often times the effect of these traumas can have a long-lasting negative mental and emotional impact on an immigrant’s life.

Using myself as an example, part of my migration story is saying goodbye to my mother at age nine, and I didn’t get to see her again until a year later. Even as a forty-year-old adult, I can still hear the inner child within longing for my mother’s love and I can feel this void. It has taken me over nine years of therapy to recognize this and to continue to recover from this traumatic experience.

Due to mental health stigma, I notice that many of us never get a chance to process the journey itself. Much of this is due the mental health barriers that immigrants face. Many immigrants and refugees have to start from scratch after moving to the U.S. We have to focus on survival and many of us work long hours. Thus, we just don’t have the luxury, the energy, time, and money to talk and process our mental health. The idea of seeing a therapist can be as far-fetched as going to the moon.

I am not advocating for forcing immigrants to talk about their traumas and stories. What I am advocating is the idea that it’s time for us to heal, take care of ourselves, and take care of each other, to allow ourselves to heal as individuals and as a community. Instead of feeling ashamed of our immigrant past and experience, we should be proud of the adversity that we have overcome. Our immigration stories, no matter how trivial or tragic, can inspire many other Asian Americans or non-Asians. Our stories deserve to be documented and preserved for the future generation because our stories can continue to help us define and redefine what it is like to be an Asian/Asian American in this ever-changing world.

Coco’s stories have given me inspiration and hope about mental health within the Asian American community. Her stories validate the path that I am on by advocating mental health awareness within an Asian American community, even though it’s an uphill battle and lonely path. Her presence and support give me the strength and encouragement to continue to make this documentary film, to capture and preserve Coco’s and many other Asian American immigrants’ stories.

Here are some of the amazing vegetarian Vietnamese dishes we had

What does failure mean? How do people fail? Why do people fail? What is success? Why is it that certain people are successful and other people are not? What does success even mean? Who gets to define what success is and what failure is?

We can all admit that the answers to these questions can get complex and even philosophical. Certain professional fields might have benchmarks to define success and failure. And within other fields, including different aspects of life, success and failure can be very subjective and relative. For example, a modest family that goes on an international vacation every other year and has healthy relationships compared to a well-off family with a big house that can afford to go on two international trips per year and has a toxic household environment. Which of these families is “better” and more successful?

What I’m more interested in is the mindset behind success and failure and the relation to mental health.

When I was twelve years old, I competed in track and field, specifically high jump and long jump. If I remember correctly, the competition was a two-week tournament. It was my first time ever taking part in track and field activities.

I started off with the long jump. Somehow, I qualified for the semifinal. After one of my jumps, I was told I’d broken the school record, including the school records held by older students. I felt happy and at the same time, I didn’t really know what it meant. I don’t even remember if I won a medal or not (most likely not).

Then, it came to the high jump tournament. Somehow, I was more emotionally invested. The competition was pretty stiff and I was feeling the pressure to win.

Even nowadays, I can remember the emotional rollercoaster I was on during my last four jumps. I did very well with the first jump and I felt confident and good. After a short break, I was back on the field and ready for the second jump. If I won this jump, then I would be in the championship round. I ran wholeheartedly, jumped, and knocked the bar off. This startled me. Even though I had two more attempts, I could tell that my confidence was shaken.

I attempted one more time. I could feel that my body was over the bar, and somehow, I accidentally tipped the bar off with my left foot. Now, my confidence hit rock-bottom from the high feeling I had experienced during the first round of jumps.

While I was standing there waiting for my last jump, looking at the bar, I could feel this unbearable pressure inside my body and head. I had no coach to process this feeling with. No one gave me a pep talk. I was just standing there alone by myself waiting and being consumed by this anxiety and fear.

Even though rationally I knew I could win it, my body and emotions were telling me that there was no way I could make that jump. I was “telling” myself that I was going to knock the bar off again and fail. Part of me just wanted to leave the field and go back to my dorm room because I couldn’t manage the pressure, anxiety, and overwhelming emotions inside me. And, it was like a self-fulfilling prophecy; I started running and by the time I jumped, I could feel that I didn’t give my best. I was defeated even before I made that final jump.

Months later, the school hosted a chess tournament. The tournament was free for all, meaning there was no age limit between the students. I played very well and advanced to the final championship round. My success was a shock to the teachers and students because I beat off some of the smartest and best chess players that were older and more experienced than me.

Then, it came to the final championship round. The student that I was facing was five years older than me and twice my body size. On a daily basis, I was intimidated by him because he was hailed by the teachers as the model student that is smart, hardworking, and has good behavior. In reality, I felt daunted by him because he came from what I perceived as a good, loving, and supportive family, which I didn’t have.

When we sat down and were ready to play, the unbearable pressure from the high jump resurfaced inside me again. Teachers and students were watching. Some students wanted me to beat him because he was a model student. Internally, I was telling myself that “I can’t beat him because I am not worthy of winning.” My brain drew a blank and the will to win simply dwindled. Even though there were a handful of opportunities where I could have won the game, just like the high jump, I gave up even before I tried.

These memories and experiences don’t haunt me anymore (all credit to my former therapist and the work we put in together). Instead, they serve as a reflection point for me to contemplate the meaning of success and failure in relation to my mental health, and these memories continue to guide both my personal and professional life.

Looking back at the high jump and chess tournaments, the pressure and anxiety got to me because of the praise that I’d received and the expectations that were put on me. As a twelve-year-old kid, I didn’t have a trusted person/adult to help me process my thoughts and emotions. With the success that I’d had up until the championship moments, I had been level-headed and cruising on what I was enjoying doing, pursuing my own expectations and not others’ suppositions.

Anxiety is real and it sucks. There are many reasons why people feel anxious. Through years of mental health healing and self-discovery journeys, I have been using a set of tools to process and manage my anxiety. Here are a few that has worked well for me

1. Connect to Oneself – Instead of trying to suppress or distract yourself from the anxious feelings with unhealthy habits, learn to acknowledge, become aware of, and embrace these feelings. Yes, these emotions are unpleasant. The way to overcome fearful feelings is to learn to be present with them. Using physical pain as an example, in order to heal that injury in your leg, you have to know where the pain is located and how the pain is hurting you.

2. Process it – Only after you have acknowledged, embraced, and come to know the emotional challenges you are experiencing, you will start to have some control over these anxious feelings. When you start having some sort of control, then you can start choosing how to overcome them. According to Tim Ferriss, the idea behind “fear(less)” is not having no fear at all, but instead, it is having less fear and learning to process and manage it. Here are the steps I use to process and overcome these anxious and unpleasant feelings:

• Mindfulness – Continue to practice mindfulness and be aware of the feelings, what is trigging them and how they are making you act or react.
• Connect to Others – When you feel you are ready and have a trusted person to talk to, share, and process your experiences and feelings with that person. When you are able to verbalize and call out your “demons” and pains, you start having control over those emotions.
• Taking Actions – If you haven’t done so yet, build up and engage in healthy daily routines and habits like journaling, exercising, listening to or playing music, napping, a good night’s sleep, etc. Healthy routines and habits help to prevent these unwanted emotions from going haywire and they help you to manage and control the anxious feelings.

Image by archies7 from Pixabay