My mom used to remind me of a Vietnamese folktale when I was a little girl, for those times I wasn’t perfectly obedient.
“You should be careful,” my mom would say. “The gods could turn you into a pineapple.”
This is what can happen to careless and ungrateful daughters who don’t listen to their parents—they are given many eyes so they can see the grief they put their parents through.
**
“What if we broke up?” I asked. “And I move out, and you take the dog?”
Even in the act of breaking up, I couldn’t be assertive. Throughout my relationship with Tim, I had enthusiastically gone along with whatever he wanted. Move to Lake Tahoe after a three-year long-distance affair? I did that, even though that meant leaving my dream job as a sports writer in Utah. Ski almost every weekend during the record-setting snowfall winter I lived with him? I did that, even though my anatomical features disagreed sharply with the physics of skiing. Get a dog even though I wasn’t too fond of pets? I did that, too.
To be clear, Tim did not want to break up. After almost six years together, he was very comfortable with our life on the lake, in the mountains, where he was skiing fresh powder on the weekends, taking the dog on camping trips, and not having to travel 500 miles every time he wanted to see his girlfriend. But I was restless, a feeling that sprouted from uncertainty in multiple areas in my life. This is why I kept pushing him to define our relationship—was marriage in our future? I desperately believed that having assurance in one aspect of my life would have a domino effect. But Tim wanted me to focus on getting more clarity in my career than in our relationship. So I shelved the marriage question and agreed to his plan. I decided to get my MFA at a far-away campus. Enrolling in that program changed my life. Just not in the ways I expected.
**
The inheritance of every first-born child of refugee parents is duty. I was the first fluent and best English speaker in my family and with that came immense responsibility.
When I was 13, my 10-year-old disabled brother nearly drowned in a bathtub that was filled too high. We think he had a seizure and slipped under the water when my dad stepped out of the bathroom for a moment. I remember the sound of thrashing water as my dad fished my brother out of the tub. He screamed at me to call 911 as he ran out the door to get our neighbor for help. My mom rushed to my brother, already howling the cries of a grieving mother. My knees buckled as I tried to remember our address.
I rode in the ambulance with my brother and when we got to the emergency room, a doctor asked me, “How long was he under the water?” Still in shock, I said, “I don’t know. Maybe a minute or two.” She looked at me incredulously, surely a look that should only be reserved for adults.
“Look at the clock. I want you to see how long a minute is,” she said.
It was the kind of clock that is in every public school classroom. I fixed my eyes on the longest hand and watched it agonizingly drift from the 12 to the 1 to the 2. I didn’t need one more second to understand what the doctor wanted me to. I felt dumb, and then angry for feeling dumb, and then shame for feeling angry. In that moment, I realized how precise I had to be in the way I translated or interpreted or conveyed things between my parents and the English-speaking world they thought I moved so easily in—it was sometimes a life-or-death situation.
When I took on translation duties, I also took on all the frustration, anger, and confusion that often accompanied my parents’ interactions in their American lives. Complaining never helped me. Doing so was just occasion for my parents to remind me to be grateful—I hadn’t had to escape war in Vietnam, trek through jungles, or survive refugee camps like they had. No matter how burdened I felt, it was instilled in me that my life was always better than the life I would have had. I had to be grateful and dutiful in equal measure. To know how I came to be born in this country meant to feel indebted. I often wondered how long I would have to pay.
**
After my break-up suggestion, Tim was shocked into an unsettling silence. I didn’t know how to navigate that silence, so I just stayed as still as possible.
“What are you thinking about?”
“I never thought you would say that to me,” he said.
Tim moved from the living room and lay down on our bed, turning his face away. I hesitantly followed him and stood in the doorway. Everything in my body wanted to comfort him, but something held me back. I didn’t want to unravel what had taken so much courage to say. I, too, never thought I’d be the one to walk away—that was not the dynamic between us. I acquiesced in almost every aspect of our partnership. This was nothing new: I had merely graduated from obedient child to submissive partner.
**
Resentment was a coal in the pit of my stomach that glowed off and on throughout my childhood. But then a small gesture from my parents would make me feel ashamed of my ingratitude. Maybe one day I’d wake up and find a newly sewn garment at the foot of my bed or see that my dad brought home my favorite burger after his morning shift at Jack in the Box. Like most kids of refugee and immigrant parents, I rarely heard the words, “I love you.” My parents gave me these small trinkets to show their love. Given our circumstances and resources, this was the best they could do. To me, though, being loved meant being completely taken care of, shielded from worry and angst and all the woe in the world that children aren’t yet ready for. I knew my parents loved me, but the reality was that being their first-born child often felt like a circuitous traverse on the long, jagged road between gratitude, duty, and resentment.
**
Choosing a low-residency program let me participate remotely, except for the twice-a-year, 10-day residencies. My first residency was a cocoon that made me forget my real life. It was intoxicating to meet people with the same passion for writing, including Mike, a fiction writer from New Hampshire. It took a couple days for me to realize how handsome he was, but soon after, I noticed him everywhere: outside of workshops, in line at the lunch buffet, at after-hours fireside conversations with other students. Mike was teaching English in Seoul, and all of a sudden, I wanted to learn all about South Korea.
In this residency cocoon, I entertained my crush on Mike. I let it germinate and take root. By the time I saw Tim again, it was a beating thing in my chest.
**
In the months leading up to that first residency, the doubts I had about my life with Tim escalated from a subtle static to something disconcerting. It was more than just the 12-year age gap between us.
On too many occasions with Tim, I felt like an invisible observer. Amongst either his college friends or Tahoe friends, I agonized over how obviously different I was. I didn’t go to an Ivy League school like he did, and I didn’t grow up doing challenging outdoor activities—life itself was challenging enough. As hard as I tried, I could not love Lake Tahoe like Tim did. My life there was a reminder of everything I wasn’t. I often thought that this out-of-place feeling was the price I had to pay for the defiant act of choosing to date Tim in the first place.
Up until we started dating, my obedience as a daughter was never in question. Soon after my mom found out how much older Tim was than me, she gave me an ultimatum: stop dating him or forget that I was her daughter. In that moment, I couldn’t understand why she chose to be so extreme. But now I see that it was not that much different than reminding me of the girl turning into a pineapple. My mom wanted me to see the grief I was putting her through.
Despite my unsettling feelings in my relationship with Tim, I couldn’t let my one act of defiance be in vain. I had been with Tim for almost six years, a length of time that felt like a threshold I couldn’t turn back from. There was also a part of me that wanted to prove that not only could I make choices for myself, but I could make the right choice for myself. Besides, I never believed my feelings of otherness and discomfort merited leaving. I was too trained to endure despite my misgivings.
Then I met Mike. After which, an internal directive became clear and incessant: This is not your life. Your life is somewhere else.
**
At a lecture during that first residency, Mike and I sat next to each other. I was facing the speaker, even though I kept trying to see Mike from the corner of my eye. I noticed he knelt down toward my bag. He gently touched the spine of my planner, which was wrapped in a fake leather book cover that I got from a thrift store in Reno. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the tear that would give away the book cover was just a poor imitation. A part of me was mortified, but another part of me started to glow. I liked how this little thing about me spoke to him, made him curious enough to act.
**
Not too long into our relationship, Tim and I fell into very distinct roles. Not as equals, but as teacher and student. He had experienced so much more than I had, it felt disrespectful to offer my experiences and perspectives in the same light. I wanted to be filled with the wisdom I saw in him, and I liked that he taught me new things. This felt like what it meant to be taken care of and nurtured. In exchange for this kind of love, I allowed myself to be molded into the girlfriend he wanted.
Once, Tim and I went out on a friend’s boat. Even though I was wary of water, I felt emboldened when trying new things with Tim, things like skiing or mountain biking. I wanted to make Tim proud by showing him that I was willing to try even though I was scared.
I climbed up on the side of the boat and before I had any time to second-guess myself, I jumped in. The water swallowed me up. My limbs became lead. My stomach sank. My body remembered the time I was seven at a pool party with my classmates, when I ended up in the deep end, and I immediately started panicking because I didn’t know how to swim. I felt the same terror that coursed through that little girl, thought the same thoughts: Why won’t anyone help me? Is this how I die?
I was suspended in that dark water, which felt heavier around me with every agonizing second I was down there. I burst through the water exhausted and relieved. “Please throw me a life jacket!” I yelled.
“Nope, I’m not gonna do it,” Tim said. “You can swim here.”
I felt defiant right then. I wanted to yell out, “What the hell is wrong with you? Can’t you see I’m scared?” But now I see that he was doing what he usually did—expose me to new things, push me to my limit.
Tim didn’t know the trauma I brought with me when I dove into those waters. He didn’t know what I went through with my brother or that before I was born, a fortune teller told my mom that she would die by drowning. This prediction turned into a fear that she would pass on to her daughter. Tim also didn’t know that I equated the times I was struggling in life with the feeling of frantically treading water. I never felt safe or comfortable enough to bring my experiences and trauma into our relationship. I didn’t realize how harmful my deference and obedience was.
**
My upbringing taught me docility was my most valuable attribute. I never considered my willingness to adapt to others’ feelings a detriment, no matter what it cost me. I hated making those calls to phone companies and talking to solicitors on behalf of my parents. I was shy and felt most comfortable blending into the background. I couldn’t do that when my parents needed my help.
I wanted to be a kid—my parents’ precious child—not my family’s representative, the bridge between them and the rest of the world. Still, I reasoned with myself, my discomfort helped them make it through another day in America. It was the least I could do to repay them. Gratitude was how I showed my parents I loved them. And I didn’t realize it at the time, but I equated my obedience with their love for me. I was afraid of what I would lose if I wasn’t obedient.
**
I could not ignore that internal pleading voice once I started hearing it. Once residency was over, Mike went back to South Korea and I went back to Lake Tahoe, but I had resolved that I would leave everything behind to be with him. I had clarity and a new kind of tenacity I wished I had during my reporting days. As a reporter, I was sometimes too bashful to ask questions at press conferences. But once I had Korea in my sights, I tracked down interns at my state senator’s office to see if they could help expedite my visa process. I avoided the lengthy process of going through a recruiting agency and found my own places to apply by scouring the internet for blog posts about reputable schools. I turned a typically six-month process into less than three. I moved out of Tim’s place in mid-December, and I was in South Korea by the beginning of March.
I was eager to jump into my new life, but I couldn’t shake my rapacious capacity for feeling indebted long after I needed to. I was racked with guilt when I stepped off the plane at Incheon International Airport. Did I deserve this new start? What did I still owe Tim for breaking his heart? I did not know what it meant to deserve something in spite of what I might still owe. I did not know how to unlink those two things.
**
“What do you want to do this weekend?” Mike would often ask me. Instead of saying, “Whatever you want to do,” I told him I wanted to see Buddhist temples in the capital city, find hidden-from-the-main-street bookstores, people-watch in Hongdae, buy gifts for my friends and family in Insadong. I pushed myself to learn from my past mistakes. I wanted to hear my own voice because I finally let myself believe that my opinions, perspectives, and experiences were valid. I no longer wanted to be an invisible observer.
Six weeks into my new life in Seoul, I was walking Mike out to the subway a few blocks from my studio apartment. In the alleyway before the main road—the one lined with cherry blossom trees in mid-bloom—Mike stopped me. The sun was in my eyes so I couldn’t really see his face, but I was holding his hand, and I knew he was looking at me.
“I love you, Maggie.” Mike pulled my hand into his coat pocket.
“You do?”
My instinct was to look away, but instead, I studied his face. He shifted out of the sun, and I could see that his green eyes were peaceful. There was a slight smile on his lips. I wanted to brush the cherry blossom petals out of his brown hair.
“I wanted to say it earlier,” Mike said. “I’ve known this for a while now.”
“You love me?” I asked again. My insides tightened. Even though Mike was the reason I moved 6,000 miles across the world, my guilt over how I left my relationship with Tim paralyzed me. The doubt over my head only got heavier as Mike waited for my response to his declaration. I didn’t want Mike to think I was quiet because the feeling wasn’t mutual. In fact, I was deeply, unequivocally in love with Mike. I might have loved him the minute I left that first residency.
I decided I wanted to know what it was to love and be loved without feeling the need to acquiesce and obey. I was ready for love to have a different meaning. So after a silence that lasted longer than I wanted it to, I said back to Mike—my hand still in his—”I love you, too.”
**
On the way to San Francisco International Airport to catch my flight to Seoul, my mom stared out from the passenger seat, my dad in the driver’s seat. My family didn’t say a word the entire 95 miles to the airport—they knew that I’d be gone for at least a year. I took this silence as a gentle acceptance.
My mom came in with me to the Korean Air kiosk.
“You got everything? Make sure you check everything,” my mom said. It was what she always said when I was about to leave for something—college, my first job. It’s her way of saying “I love you” without actually saying it.
“Yeah, Mom, I have everything,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders. There was more I wanted to say.
“I really need to do this for me, Mom. Thank you.” My first instinct was to ask for permission. But I had already given myself permission, and I wanted that to be enough. Instead, I showed gratitude, just like a good daughter should. Then she said the one thing I needed to hear.
“Go,” my mom said. “Do what you need to do.”
What was unsaid between us but what I was hearing loud and clear was that she saw my need to be more than just her daughter. I felt emboldened by her blessing.
It was a relief when I boarded the plane. I was ready to be completely on my own and to see where things would go with Mike. After months of scrambling and preparation, I could finally relax. As I settled into the middle seat of the last row, I closed my eyes and hoped that by the time I opened them again, I would be in Korea. I did not realize in that moment that I was the same age my mom was when she left Vietnam to begin a new life in a new country. Like my mom, I would decide what I’d bring with me and what I’d leave behind.
Maggie Thach Morshed is a former award-winning sports journalist whose byline has appeared in The Salt Lake Tribune, The San Francisco Chronicle, and other newspapers across the country. Her most recent writing revolves around identity, assimilation, and displacement. Her work has appeared in Catapult, Undomesticated, and Off Assignment, among others. She is currently working on a memoir about how living and teaching English in South Korea helped connect her to her Vietnamese roots.
