Those tears at the airport

The scene at the airport was something quite unfathomable given our checkered history. There were tears and an emotional intensity I never anticipated and my departure provoked a reaction from my family I have never witnessed before. Even my normally staid father was affected by the somber mood.

For me, the farewell probably felt more final. This move to New York City was more than just leaving Singapore for graduate school; it was essential if I wanted to grow up. It was effectively a 24-hour flight into the unknown. My mother is probably under the impression I would return after a year or two, but I am not too sure.

In many ways, my departure was my second, albeit metaphorical, severing of the umbilical cord from my mother – more than 26 years later.

Like most “Asian” mothers, mine subscribes to a philosophy of intense mothering. I decided after one of our many fights at home that while our relationship has improved since my short stint in the military four years ago, my personal growth would be retarded if I do not stay a safe distance away from her, for a while at least.

Petite and in her early 50s, my lasting memories of Mommy are ones of strength, generosity, resilience but also of hardness. Her sense of duty is best epitomized with how she routinely starts her day at an unearthly 3 a.m. everyday to prepare breakfast and lunch for the family, before she leaves for work at 6.30 a.m.

One of my lasting memories as a child comes from a time when I returned home after I received a perfect score for a math examination in second grade. I was eager to share my joy with Mommy, but it was not good enough for her. I was not the only one with a perfect score, she said. I was eight.

To be fair, I was not always the easiest child to deal with. Rebellious, demanding and incredibly self indulgent, I basically imploded in my teens from the intense academic expectations my mother imposed on me when I was younger. In my four years in middle school, I did everything except study.

My strategy of dealing with a mother attempting to wrestle control of my life away from me was loud argumentation and dramatic intimidation. My attempts to out yell her would often result in the neighborhood reverberating with echoes of my anger, often in the wee hours. She only stopped beating me when I grabbed the cane from her at thirteen and snapped it into two before her very eyes.

But she never stopped intruding into my personal space.

A few years ago, she enlisted the help of my two younger sisters in a covert operation to repaint my room against my wishes. I came home later that Sunday night to a fresh coat of paint, realizing she got the job done in a single day. While Mom was glowing in getting her way, I was smarting from her violation of my personal space. I was indignant she could not even allow me to decide how my room would look like, even at 24.

I paid for her problem with boundaries in other ways.

Dealing with compliments still remains something that does not come easily to me. I feel awkward, sheepish, proud and arrogant all at once. On one hand, I want to gloat but on the other, I know better than to appear so obnoxious.

Instead, negativity is where I am more accustomed. Self-effacing became a reflexive reaction overtime as I convinced myself that it was great to be “self critical.” Worrying became a habit, as did an eternal insatiable quest for perfection that resulted from my relentless quest for affirmation.

While I found myself seeking affirmation in other areas such as my work because I had perceived none from Mom, I seem almost devoid of any capacity to accept affirmation when it comes my way. It is an eternal chasm that can never been reconciled.

I saw my Columbia acceptance as an opportunity to escape the clutches of my past and start anew. You only move out when you get married in Singapore, so there was no way I was going to be able to do that staying in the country. Moving out of the country became the only way I could move out.

But after two months in New York City, I find myself missing the convenience of home. Mostly, I am just coming to terms with the physical void I have created in distancing myself from my family.

My mom’s calls, which were incessant initially, fill this void occasionally. She tells me the same old things each time she calls: remember to eat and sleep regularly, keep warm, do not stay out too late because it is not safe to do so in America and just lately, whether the Wall Street meltdown has affected my cash flow.

The umbilical cord may be severed and there may be physical voids, but there are also undeniable emotional ties. The distance has also afforded me clarity on several issues.

I may have told my mother once in anger that I hated myself because I saw so much of her in me. I may have decided to run away from her because I hated I was becoming too much like her.

But I also cried buckets at the airport. I realized for the first time maybe I did because I love Mom.

This was first written as an assignment for an editorial writing class in the Graduate School of Journalism at Columbia University.