My mother moved to America in the 90s. She was part of wave of Southeast Asian immigration in America that continues to rise.
Today, 59% of the U.S. Asian population was born in another country. That share rises to 73% among adult Asians (Pew 2017). By going into the restaurant business, my mom had chosen a competitive and sometimes brutal industry: “A 2003 study by Ohio State University found that 60% of restaurants fail within their first 3 years of operation, and 80% fail before the 5th year” (OSU).
I wanted to understand how she came to be successful in the restaurant business, despite having no resources besides an unshakable work ethic. When I asked my mother about moving to the United States, she described how important English fluency was to her. She told me the first thing she did when she arrived: “I go to my family friend house and I try to find class to learn English.” Southeast Asians – a group with large populations of recently arrived immigrants – have some of the lowest rates of English proficiency (Pew 2017). When the old lady insulted my mom’s English skills at the restaurant, even though she cried, she was not surprised. But when I interviewed her, she told me, “I do not face prejudices. Everyone in America very nice. They just get mad when I cannot speak English clearly.” Maybe my mom got so upset that day in the restaurant because I was there. She tried to learn English. But money was tight. “I take ESL classes when I not work but I could not afford many classes,” she said. I could tell that my mom was understating the hardships she had to endure not only because I was there but because it was so painful to relive them. She told me, “I sleep on rug and couch of family friend many nights but when I could buy mattress I buy mattress right away.” Even though she faced these challenges, though, she almost never complained about them.
There was one night, though, when she did break a little bit from the pressure she faced. Late one January night, when I was about six, I had finished my homework — by myself, as usual — but had yet to have been tucked in by my mom for bed. Finally, I heard the garage door open and my mom’s weary footsteps coming up the stairs. But she wasn’t as quick to open my door and hug me as she usually was. When she quietly opened the door, I saw tears pouring down her face. I was only a kid, and I started crying, too. Trying to compose herself, she tried her most cheery version of, “it’s fine. We all have a job that we are supposed to do. Mine is to make the money and yours is to be a good boy and do well in school.”
For as long as I can remember, I have trained to be the “good boy” that my mother demanded. Typically, I guess, a “good boy” is obedient, gets straight As, and never talks back. But for my mom, “a perfect child” is almost entirely self-sufficient, as she had to be when she was growing up. My mom chose to act as an agent by taking direct control of her life. She has raised me to do the same. Through trial and error, I have learned to take care of myself. I never complained, though, because I knew that this was my role in life. Whereas my friends always had at least one parent to remind them of their responsibilities in school and at home, I’m grateful that, thanks to my mom, I learned how to manage my own life and responsibilities in elementary school. By requiring me to handle daily life on my own, my mom has been telling me, all along, “you’ve got this Patrick. I know you can do it.” My mom has helped me become an agent, capable of writing my own story by making my own choices. Thanks to my mom, I have the skills, at least the basic ones, to step closer to adulthood, and even more, enjoy it.