My mom doesn’t answer my quick retort. She yells somewhere in the distance at another relative of mine—something about being barefoot on the reef.
When there’s a break in her world on the other side of the phone, I ask in a small voice, “Why would you think I don’t like visiting O’ahu?”
“Sweetie.” She sighs. Distinctly, familiarly, like the conversation is going to suck the energy out of her. My shoulders slump. “I’m sure you like coming on vacation. But we’re not on vacation right now. It’s okay you wanted to stay home and focus on school.”
I chew the corner of my mouth. For my parents, going back to the land fostered by our ancestors will never be a vacation. And spending two months teaching online classes while spending time with family isn’t “visiting” by any means, but it’s substantially shorter than the original plan. Last spring, after years of my parents preparing a full-on move back to O’ahu, talks about post-retirement island life seized.
My parents swore it wasn’t because I got into a master’s program. I want to believe them. The pressure to succeed wouldn’t be in a perpetual state of growing if I didn’t think my parents gave up their home for me again. Like they did when they moved to the mainland to start a family. But the timing lined up too perfectly to be explained away.
“Are you having fun there with everybody?”
It’s a double-edged sword. If she says yes, then the image of my parents blissfully being there won’t leave my mind. But if she says no, she’ll be lying to spare my feelings. Of course, they’re having the time of their lives where they feel most understood.
“It’s nice to see everybody,” she answers civilly. “Your dad spent all day trying to convince your cousins he can keep up with them on the waves.”
“Dad’s horrible at surfing.”
“I know. He wiped out like, ten times while your cousins laughed from the shore.”
My mood lifts, but only for a second before dropping again. This was the twist of the sword. I’m so happy they’re so happy. At the same time, I feel guilty for holding them back from what they love the most.
“What did you want to tell me about?” My mother asks, and I push myself off the counter and towards the couch.
“Oh, it was about my assignment.” The positive feedback felt like such an accomplishment before this call. Now I question ifit’s even worth mentioning. “But that’s okay. I didn’t realize you were at the beach.”
“No, no, tell me.”
“I don’t want to interrupt.”
“Your father is challenging your cousins to a chicken fight.” I sink into the cushions of my couch and smack my palm against my forehead. “Everyone is off watching him make a fool of himself. I have time. Tell me.”
I press my fingers deeper into the creases of my forehead. “Well, it’s good. My assignment, I mean. I got good feedback on my draft.”
“That’s great!” Her pitch raises and a smile tugs at my face. “I knew you’d do well at a writing degree. You should’ve done that for your undergrad, too.”
My eyes squeeze shut. I haven’t had the heart to tell my parents the master’s degree they selfishly gave up their retirement plans for is headed downhill. I haven’t had the courage to tell my mom despite how long I’ve loved to write, I got a psychology degree so I could ace my classes, find a steady job, and make them proud. It was never about my personal passions.
“Sometimes I question if I should’ve applied for this master’s degree at all.”
“What?” I rear back against the couch. I didn’t mean to say it aloud, but in the cyclone of my emotions, it slipped out. My mom huffs before I can take it back. “Don’t say that. Your dad and I were so excited when you said you wanted to pursue another degree. Education is a privilege we need to take advantage of.”
“I know.” Guilt and shame rack through me. “Thank you for always supporting me.”
“Don’t thank us, either. We brought you into this world. You’re our baby. We’re supposed to put you before everything else.” It’s the same rhetoric my parents recite every time I thank them for being the best parents I could’ve asked for. “And it’spaying off. You succeed at everything you do. You make us proud every day. Everything we’ve done for you, you make sure it’s worth it.”
I feel stupid for sitting on my couch, silent tears gathering in my waterline caused by sentences I’ve heard before. I feel like a failure every time I’m reminded of the things my parents selflessly gave up for me, and the fact that it’s a debt I still haven’t repaid.
If my parent’s stories about Hawai’i and their move to the mainland taught me anything, it’s that people don’t understand how different growing up on the islands are. The culture shocks they had. How quickly they were invalidated because people don’t understand how different Hawai’i is from the rest of the United States. They spent hours of my childhood teaching me about the culture they grew up with, the customs that are second nature to them but unheard of in this city I call home, and the food that they long for every day.
My mom told me they moved to Boston not because they didn’t love O’ahu, but because they got priced out of their hometown. They wanted the highest education possible, they wanted a family soon after, and they wanted to give me opportunities they only dreamt of. Financially, logically, it made more sense to leave home behind. To make a home for a child they didn’t know yet.
In first grade, when I brought home an assignment with smiley faces in the corner and my teacher’s praises written in blue ink, my dad cried. I don’t remember what the assignment was. I just remember seeing him cry for the first time, and him saying everything they’d done until that point was worth it.
Two PhDs later, both my parents are accomplished professors with impressive résumés who say their proudest accomplishment is me. A daughter they claim is even more ambitious than them.
I wipe away my tears and force a smile. “Making you proud is the most important thing to me.”
“You should be making yourself proud, too.”
