In my immigrant family, open displays of love and affection from my parents were rare. Among my friends, it’s often said that our Chinese parents showed their care through food: “Eat more!” they would insist, even when we were already stuffed. For my father, however, his way of showing love was through a constant worry about the safety of my brother and me.
Growing up, we were restricted from activities that could lead to injury. This meant no skiing, despite living just a stone’s throw from the slopes, and I had to sit on the sidelines during ice skating parties. My brother, dealing with a nut allergy, was similarly limited and often found solace in setting up a tent in his bedroom, dreaming of scouting adventures. Team sports? Out of the question for both of us.
As my father got older, his anxiety seemed to intensify. I remember a family trip to an outdoor mall when I was a teen. I volunteered to find the taxi stand, but got lost. When I finally returned, my dad’s face was flushed. “I thought you’d been kidnapped!” he exclaimed, on the verge of calling the police. Later, when my brother missed a flight back from college, my father panicked, convinced his plane had been hijacked.
After college, I was eager for independence and took a job on the opposite coast. I needed space to manage my life without my dad’s worries looming over me. However, he still found ways to extend his control. During my first year in Washington, DC, amid the second Iraq War, my father purchased two child-sized Israeli gas masks from eBay, insisting I carry one at all times. I felt ridiculous with a rubber gas mask in my bag, and after two weeks of commuting by bus, I stashed it away and returned to the subway.
That same year, as SARS spread through Asia, he managed to secure a small supply of Tamiflu, urgently informing me, “This could save your life. Don’t share it with anyone.” I appreciated his concern but didn’t want to live in constant fear.
Years later, when I became pregnant during the Zika virus outbreak, the calls increased. “Don’t go outside!” he warned, insisting I keep the windows closed. I didn’t bother explaining that the virus was far from my area; instead, I promised my unborn child a more carefree childhood.
Then COVID-19 struck. My father, now facing serious health issues, confined himself to home, praying for protection. “I will definitely die if I get it,” he said, a tinge of truth in his words. Witnessing his vulnerability stirred emotions in me that I had long suppressed. I had intentionally distanced myself from him for my mental health, yet realized he had always prioritized our family’s safety over his own well-being.
Today, I live several hours away from my dad, who is reluctant to travel despite being vaccinated. It’s been nearly two years since my five-year-old last saw him, a reminder of how vital relationships are and how easily we can take them for granted. I look forward to visiting soon, envisioning the joyful reunion between my dad and my son, even if the thought of hugging him still feels awkward.
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In summary, my experience growing up in an overprotective immigrant family has shaped my understanding of love and care. While my father’s fears sometimes felt suffocating, they also stem from a profound desire to protect his family. As I navigate my own parenting journey, I aim to balance that love with the freedom I wish for my child.