When my grandfather threatened to kill himself, I began to wonder if, as he sees it, he has effectively stopped living.
When fighting on behalf of the father you love, who do you become?
If cancer and trauma are hereditary, is it not my responsibility to do everything in my power to ensure neither my children nor I have to suffer?
With words, spelled correctly or not, I could say exactly how I felt: like my head was a ball of snakes, like something extraordinary for once.
My family isn’t religious, but we have a saying that we do believe in my grandfather. And an essay he wrote about me reminds me to believe in myself.
There’s a distinct kind of relationship that privileged first-generation children have with their immigrant parents.
“Not thinking about these things doesn’t make them go away. So, instead, I choose to look. It is staring into a dim room and letting my eyes adjust to the dark.”
Papa left the summer I turned eight. The emotional toll of a wife who blamed him was too much to carry along with the burden of repatriating thousands of Filipino citizens.
“The nurse sucked the last of his water world out of him. And then the cry, a goodbye to that wet planet.”
When she held hands with a man and walked down the street, it was an act of responsibility to herself.