It’s 10 a.m., and a deathly silence permeates the air at the tarnished wooden dinner table. A half-eaten Trader Joe’s Mochi Cake lies messily wrapped in aluminum foil, beside a nearly empty bottle of Tabasco sauce. My eyes lock onto the packaging label, avoiding even a momentary gaze at my siblings to the left of me, and my parents to the right:
“Three Simple Ingredients,” it read.
The silence reminded me of the time I learned about life on the frontlines of the first World War during my World History class — periods of long, tension-filled silence, except for the scattering mice below and circling vultures up above — violently broken by the sudden impact of artillery shells and subsequent whistles and yells, a sign that the enemy line was trying their hand at a new offensive attack.
The new offensive, arriving in short bursts, had occasional retaliatory responses: “Don’t be like your father” flying from one side, “I am done with your mother” from the other. No broken glass, no physical violence, just daggered words.
Whenever my parents had previously exchanged verbal fire in short skirmishes with each other, it reminded me of the nasty 2020 presidential debates. Candidates on the stage fought tooth and nail, insulting, nitpicking each other for supposed past faults, personality differences, or petty disagreements. Yet, it always seemed that following the overly-dramatized televised programming, many candidates found ways to reconcile their conflicts. At one point, I recall watching then Presidential candidates Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders hugging it out after an intense round of questioning and quickfire responses. In contrast, that same reconciliation never seemed to manifest itself for my parents.
Those lingering feelings of unfinished business, like the shell shock from a traumatized soldier, had tortured me since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, after my parents started to drift apart. My mom’s job as an essential healthcare worker put her at direct risk of contracting the virus, and my dad was unwilling to take any chances. He soon isolated my siblings and I from seeing her in person for almost a year. Things got emotional. The division started as small cracks but eventually grew into large ravines as my sibling and I watched from the sidelines — often being caught in the verbal crossfire.
Silence, once again, fills the room. It’s heavier this time.
“Three Simple Ingredients.” The Tabasco bottle is mocking me. Kendrick Lamar’s “We Cry Together” plays on repeat in my head. By the end of the silent conversation, I believe that I had found some sense of closure. There are no three simple ingredients that will leave me wholly fulfilled and content. Conflict and disorder are normal aspects of any family, but I must learn how to be able to better appreciate the good things and memories that have resulted from spending time with my family.
To my parents, if you end up reading this, I hope that this piece can give you perspective on how I’ve felt over the past four years. I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate and love you both.
To myself, as you take your next steps in your journey towards adulthood, never forget where you came from.
