“I will never be like him,” she laughs, as he recalls a childhood memory of his, the time he almost swallowed and choked on a whole baby mango because he didn’t want to share it with his siblings. He seems energetic and happy at the wobbly dinner table, surrounded by mismatched chairs. When he’s done eating, he leaves the table abruptly to smoke a cigarette outside and commands the family to clean up. She sweeps the floors, the easiest task for the youngest. Her brother puts away the leftover tum makhoong that Pa had made and the rest of the khao niew, still half full in the woven rice baskets.
“I will never be like him,” she ponders admiringly, as he builds a shed in the corner of the backyard to store gathered scrap wood, tools, and spare knick knacks that the house can’t hold. “Jao het heuan hai mah, boh? Are you building this house for our dogs?” she asks innocently, 6 years old, hoping that that’s the case. He doesn’t respond. “I guess he thinks that’s a dumb question,” she thinks, as she walks away to play in the herb garden that he’d grown, searching for snails to bother.
“I will never be like him,” she mopes, as she watches him sitting stone silent, staring at the rain pounding against the truck windows, immobile, stuck, hungry, as she waits to gather her school things and to go inside the house. “Pa,” she murmurs. It had been a long day for a second grader. He makes her wait in the truck with him until the rain subsides. They don’t speak.
“I will never be like him,” she tells herself, over and over, tears streaming heavily and quickly down her face as she watches her mother put the household back together after another of her father’s rage episodes. She helps take the belongings that aren’t broken out of the trash and takes them to the kitchen sink. Her mother moves just as slowly and deliberately as he had moved so rapidly and destructively. She hears him crack open a Budweiser in the next room over.
“I will never be like him,” she screams internally, watching, helpless, as yet again, another of her siblings takes a whipping for his irrational “reasons.” This time, she throws herself across her sister’s back in the hopes that he won’t strike his smallest, youngest child. She is wrong.
“I will never be like him,” she walks away reluctantly but still without hugging him goodbye, as he remains seated in the living room of his care facility. He wears a scarf around his neck, gifted to him by her loving brother, taken off of his own neck just moments before. Pa said he was often too cold inside the building. She vows to return, to interview him and ask him the questions he has promised to answer, to write his story, the family’s story, but she never gets the chance. “Bye, Pa.”
“I will never be like him,” she declares, out of the corner of her mouth, lighting a cigarette, drinking a Budweiser, sitting on the tailgate of her truck. She waits.
It was easy to spot him in a sea of people. He was wearing a black cowboy hat and boots, having fallen in love with Texas fashion upon arriving from Laos in ‘89. I thought he looked a little silly but loved him for it, even as a teenager who deeply cared about appearances. Pa walked up to me with flowers in hand, grinning from ear to ear. The lilies were a little expensive, but they reminded us both of plumeria, in fragrance at least, which grew abundantly in his hometown in Laos. He presented them to me and then pulled me into a hug. I could tell that he was radiating pride for his youngest daughter graduating from high school, and, at that moment, I was proud to be his daughter too.
My high school was quite small – a graduating class of 58. It was tradition that the graduation ceremony was held at a historic church in downtown Dallas. The stained glass windows cast warm shades of red and yellow along the hall where families were gathering. It was the perfect golden hour on a Friday evening: laughter, chatter, and hugs all around. Young adults on the verge of the next big step of their lives. This moment in time was a milestone for both of us. Pa was a man of few words, but he really didn’t have to say much. We understood each other.
—
This time, there were more people. I graduated with an Integrative Studies degree from the University of North Texas, and the ceremony was in the coliseum, and the crowds were dense after the graduates were all released to find their loved ones. Flowers in hand, again, Pa was waiting by the steps, a strategic place for me to find him. Smart, I thought. I wondered if always finding a good lookout point was an instinct leftover from having fought in the Secret War. He was a clever, resourceful man, always creating.
It was a warm day in May and the sun was high. I couldn’t wait to eat at the Thai restaurant in town that had the savory and funky flavors in their dishes that were closest and most pleasing to our Lao palates. I was impatient when I was hungry, much like Pa. We waited for the rest of the family to find us. This graduation was enough for me; I opted not to attend the ceremonies for my master’s degrees. Achieving an undergraduate degree was the highest education anyone in my family had earned at that point, and I knew, again, the amount of pride my father held for me then.
—
And then Pa was tying white threads around my wrist at my wedding reception. I shed a tear as he wished for my health and prosperity in Lao. He said that Mae had been up so early that morning, preparing the threads, the boiled eggs, and the steamed rice desserts for the ceremony. Pa had a tenderness in his eyes when he spoke of her.. He complimented the blending of Lao and Texan traditions, grinning at the cowboy hats that several of the wedding party had donned on their way in. He loved my partner as his newest, youngest son.
We whispered inside jokes and teased one another on the dance floor, relishing in a moment together and chuckling to get through our nerves. He twirled me a few times to an old country song, but we’d established during the wedding planning that he was too shy to dance for a whole song. So off we went to raucous applause at the end of our very short father-daughter dance. It was bliss.
—
Across the pha khao from me, Pa is cradling a Budweiser can in his left hand as he eats khao poon with chopsticks in his right. I’m annoyed at the slurping noises of approval at my cooking but also so happy to see him enjoying the food I prepared. It’s our favorite Lao meal: red curry and coconut milk soup with somen noodles, spicy, just a hit of sour, fresh, and so texturally fun to eat. “Saap e-lee,” he tells me, grinning and nodding. “Thanks, Pa,” I respond, laughing as he abandons his beer to lift his bowl and drink every last drop of soup.
—
If only these scenes were real memories. If only Pa were still alive. I would tell him how much it would have meant to me to have tried to heal our relationship, so that I could share with him about those milestone life events from which he was absent (I wasn’t ready to invite him). Though I’ve imagined these scenes from the perspective of “wishing my father had been the kind of loving, caring, delightful, compassionate father that everyone deserves,” I am also writing it from the perspective of “this is who I wish I had been too.” We are both not without our flaws.
I would apologize for subconsciously punishing him by avoiding and excluding him, and that my anger at his mistreatment of me, of his own family, felt justified. So I never called. I never considered inviting him. In my distance and protecting my peace and happiness, I was safe. It turns out, I was still afraid of him, despite his aged and frail body, he was still the monster my younger self saw. Feeling righteous and powerful, I was adamant that my abuser would not be allowed in my presence. Power can delude you, too.
And trauma can cause you to make decisions you might deeply regret with perspective but it is part of the healing process and cannot be discounted. You have to be gentle for treating people how they time and time again proved that they needed to be treated to protect yourself. For making choices that you wish you could change (but would you?). I don’t remember the last time that I hugged my father. (But why would you hug your abuser?) It goes on.
Grief has twisted its tendrils around every bit of me, sometimes binding me so tightly, I am incapacitated.
Perhaps, reader, you have gathered that I did not invite him to either graduation, nor to my wedding. We also never shared moments like eating a meal that I had made together, and it pains me that he never got to try (and criticize but maybe lovingly) the Lao food that I make these days with pride.
My father had crippling PTSD that went untreated, and his actions my entire life necessitated distance from him. I thought I might be able to log an interview or two with him after some years of my own personal work in therapy, but COVID took him from this plane of existence and that was that. I thought I had time, and that is a misconception that we all make and must forgive ourselves for. I am here, fatherless, and without ever having the chance to invite him to any other milestone events again, even if I chose. Even if it were a possibility. And I live with this. It doesn’t get easier; but we get stronger.
I wasn’t always Laci, and for a while, I wasn’t Lasamee. Read more about that journey.
A few years ago, I spoke on an Asian American Pacific Islanders (AAPI) professionals panel. There were dozens of university students in attendance. It was Asian American Pacific Islander month, which made me feel as if I had a duty to the the Lao community, South East Asians, and anyone else who had had to deal with slurs or offensive questions like “Where are you from, from?” The invitation to participate in this AAPI panel had indicated that panelists were supposed to talk about our career paths and how we had found our way into that field. Easy enough, I thought. Sure, I can commit to this. I thought I’d cover my bases and read a little bit about Lao history just in case that was part of the series of questions that I expected.
In a tidy row with fellow panelists. Photo credit UNT ASA.
There I was: wearing a blazer despite the Texas heat to cover my tattoos, hair straightened and styled in what I considered an edgy asymmetrical cut, sitting next to a Vietnamese news anchor who worked in the DFW metroplex and an actor dreamboat kind of person who was a Power Ranger on the most recent version of the show. (Childhood dreams, am I right?) There was a younger Korean American student on the panel as well, representing his fellow students, who probably felt a similar pressure that I did. We had a UNT professor on the panel to round it out.
It was an hour-long session with myself and four colleagues. We were all seated in a row at the front of an auditorium-style classroom. All eyes on us. Deemed the ones who had “made it.” Worthy of speaking to the next generation. The folks who had succeeded, in theory. Students from the university curiously scrutinized each of us, or so I thought. I fashioned my usual grimace into what I thought was a pleasant expression. I sat upright. My left foot jiggling at a rate of 45 miles per hour to release the anxiety from my body.
The expected questions rolled in, and those were easy. “What did you choose to study and why?” “How hard was it to find a job after you graduated?” “How do you feel as an Asian American in the work force?” We talked about things like “how we chose our career paths” (can’t say that it was 100% chosen but more like 60% “I know how to do this” and 40% this business needs me for these certain things). And what it was like to be an AAPI American navigating the world of higher education, many of us having been first-generation students whose parents were refugees or immigrants who had not experienced the world that we were in.
UNT Asian Student Association members, panelists, and me, as Laci. Look at that good old American flag behind us. Photo credit to UNT ASA.
Two questions stand out in my memory (read: I’ve been obsessing over my responses to these questions for four years):
How do we bring together SEA students and help them identify proudly as themselves?
How do you/we reclaim our names?
The answer to the first question was easy for me. “Food.” I answered, in a serious tone but grinning. People laughed and some nodded appreciatively. Who doesn’t love food??
I elaborated and went on to say that food brings people together, that it’s how we share time and community, and that, if anything, college students were usually up for a meal.
When I lived in a college dorm, I desperately missed my mother’s Lao cooking. She always seemed to know when I’d had a hard day at school and work, and there would be a pot of soup waiting for me on the stove when I got home. If it was khao poon, all of my worries and stresses melted away at the first chew of the somen noodles and sip of hot, spicy, coconut-creamy broth.
I was thinking of those moments where I craved a steaming bowl of noodle soup or something that reminded me of the comforts of my mother’s love. I wanted a warm embrace; a feeling that one could really only achieve from eating a bowl of noodles and broth made from love and ancestral care.
And now, I own and run my own food and culture business, Good and Golden, with my partner. But that is truly a story for a different day.
To the second question, I hesitated.
I felt like I was bullshitting as a panelist on the AAPI career panel and that I was failing this poor young person. Warmth rose everywhere in my body; I was sure they could see sweat droplets falling off of my nose from 30 feet away. My response was that I gave the person asking options. I wrote my actual email on my resume that included my full name, but then typed “Laci” instead of “Lasamee” at the top to maybe try to beat an algorithm or get past the first round of eyes. Because I felt foreign and unwelcome.
But why wouldn’t my given name be front and center? The name that was thoughtfully gifted to me by my parents upon reaching earth-side from my mother’s womb. It was a name that might not have rolled off the tongue as easily for everyone as the rest of the names of the resident population based on where I was born. Read: Lao refugee immigrant child born in Texas, in the U.S. of A. named something that translated to “celestial light” and was three syllables strung together in a way that no other word in the English language was. A foreign name. An unfamiliar name. Difficult. Complex. A problem for others who didn’t have a couple of minutes to practice the pronunciation.
I knew that that answer was unsatisfactory to me and probably unsatisfactory to the students sitting the in the audience for that panel. But it was the experience that I had at the time.
How do I accommodate the world that I live in? The place that I occupy as a Lao American woman?
What ways can I weasel my way in to this professional world and try to just touch the glass ceiling (not even imagining I could break it)?
What part of my identity am I willing to dim to be able to get a foot in the door?
Why would I fight for my name when it’s so much easier to say Laci than it is to say Lasamee in this situation?
The reporter questions: who, what, when, where, why? What does it matter? To whom? I’m here now, am I not? In the states, with my family. Why would I complicate something “as simple as an introduction?”
I didn’t have a good answer for them because I hadn’t experienced what it was like to truly take back my name.
Until spring of 2021.
It was just a couple months after my father had passed. And I was particularly enraged after the shootings of Asian Americans in Atlanta, an intersection of racism and sexism manifesting in murder. I am still working on trying to figure out how I move through this world as an Asian American woman. I am still angry.
I also make up scenarios in my head in which I have to defend or protect myself or my mother. It fills me with a motivating warmth to become fitter, stronger, ready to throw someone if needed. It’s funny but it’s not. Throughout my life, there have been moments where I’ve remained silent and haven’t done anything at all when someone’s made fun of my name or sing-song chanted made-up words that are their generalized idea of what my mother tongue sounds like. At a restaurant where I was a hostess, I was once called “that oriental girl” and was too shocked to say anything (thankfully, the manager on duty told off the offender); the man who used that adjective was actually trying (and failing) to compliment me, but I’m not a rug my dude.
I could go on about my rage, but I want to take some time to thank the people who readily learned how to pronounce my name and now say it with gusto, with love, with enthusiasm.
In the spring of 2021, I posted a vague “call me by my name” social media post while sitting outside enjoying the fire in my chiminea on the porch but also wallowing in a bit of sadness. The next day, I showed up to work (hi, Heather!) and was asked how I could be supported in the reclaiming of my name, and now I realize, returning to myself. I couldn’t tell you when I lost her though. I tear up thinking about it to this day. My soon-to-be in-laws (this was only a couple months before the wedding in 2021) practiced my name over and over again, in my presence and I will assume, with one another when I wasn’t there. It’s truly music to my ears. Sometimes, I still get goosebumps when I hear my name being spoken aloud, instead of people saying “Laci” which was an adoption of convenience when I knew no better.
It wasn’t too difficult for me to take back my name in the end, and it was pretty painless, to return to being Lasamee. You can do it, kids. I want to hear from you how it goes when you return to yourself, too.
with love,
Lasamee
Me, present day, as Lasamee. Seeing myself this way truly makes me feel like I could be a Muay Thai competitor. After joking about it in relation to this photo, I finally signed up for kickboxing classes. Photo taken by the talented Marie Nuchols of Headshot Headquarters.
In hindsight, for that panel, most attendees were probably more interested in the charming Power Ranger actor guy, who, in the end, I also found charming and sweet. Later we would bond over our shared love of sambal olek, or chili garlic sauce, that we both kept stocked in our pantries. (Hey, Peter!)
February 11th marks one year of my father’s passing, and a little under one year since I’ve published a blog post. I would love to say that this was intentional, but it wasn’t. I was just dealing with a lot of shit and spending too much time away from what feeds my soul (more on that in another post that’s been fermenting).
I love the momentum of a “new year” whether it’s literally a new year or a turn around the sun (birthdays) which is why I mark significant dates as anniversaries during which we are “starting anew.”
February 11th marks one year of my father’s passing, and a little under one year since I’ve published a blog post. I would love to say that this was intentional, but it wasn’t. I was just dealing with a lot of shit and spending too much time away from what feeds my soul (more on that in another post that’s been fermenting).
When you lose someone as significant to your life as a parent, you’re transformed. This is something I found myself declaring in the early days to my therapist and anyone who would listen post-father loss. I felt a seismic shift within myself but didn’t know what that would look like. But there are some earth shattering experiences that you can’t go through without unlocking a part of yourself that needed to be let loose at some point so you can become your whole self.
So here’s my year-in-grief-review, picking moments that stood out to me and felt connected to my father-loss.
I told a friend that I felt like I could “kick doors down” and that I “wasn’t afraid of anything!” and I think it was the adrenaline from the shock of my dad’s death speaking at the time. But little things started taking shape and manifesting.
In the wake of anti-Asian sentiment and hate crimes, I took my very Asian name back o f f i c i a l l y, the one given to me by my parents: Lasamee Kettavong.
I embodied the “kick doors down” power and somehow no longer gave a fuck whether someone liked me or not. I began to let all of my colors show, wherever I went and with whomever I spoke. Life is short and the unexpected will happen (which you CAN expect, ha. ha.).
I’ve thought about what my epitaph would be and what my tombstone would look like since the time I learned what an epitaph was (probably in high school english class). My tombstone sure as hell will NOT read “Laci” because that’s not who I am. My name means something synonymous with “celestial light” and I can’t live with myself avoiding embodying that brilliance that my mother gave me, so here I am, nice and shiny (read: oily, lol) for ya.
Throwing myself into learning more about the motherland and connecting with other Lao folx has helped me feel like part of a community and that I belong and am accepted. That’s mind-blowingly heartwarming for me. For some reason, my dad didn’t really help the family become a part of the Lao community when we were younger, and that’s a shame; my mom is a social creature and extrovert.
Blake and I finally got married this past year, which we were planning on doing anyway, but … now I actually had an easy reason to tell people why my dad wasn’t present. Before, it was “My father has complex PTSD and can’t be around people” with a big, fat, loaded silence following it. “He’s dead,” is a much easier to digest and say reason, plus, no one wants to upset the bride the day of the wedding and bring up dead dad, right? (Sorry, this is my sense of humor and how I talk … dark and maybe a little blasphemous?) My sweet mama walked me down the aisle.
Me, trying not to let fat tears roll down my face during a moment of silence for the people who couldn’t be with us on our wedding day
As the day of the dead/Dia de los Muertos rolled around, I’d planned to read a letter to my dad at an open mic but ultimately that didn’t happen. It’s okay though – I wrote one to him anyway, and now it exists in the world and has helped me do some healing. My therapist was excited for me to take this major step (publicly announcing my father), but that will have to wait.
What else did I accomplish? Finishing a podcast, The Untitled Dad Project, which for me is monumental. I’ve only finished listening to one audio book in my lifetime because I can’t stay focused on longer audio pieces.
And last but not least, my partner and I started our small business, Good and Golden, which aims to share Lao food and culture (lookin’ for partners here!) with people who don’t know what or where Laos is!
And, I learned a little more about what forgiveness looks like for me.
I hope that he didn’t suffer
January 20, 2019 was the last day that I saw my father in-person at his care facility. My brother and sister went with me. We’d had brunch and mimosas. We pulled in, parked, and my brother and I shared a cigarette, while my sister climbed a nearby crepe myrtle. She gets her anxious energy out in weird ways; my brother and I have our own coping methods.
Samout, climbing a tree and being silly before seeing our dad for the first time in years
I noted the automatic sliding door, the decorated entryway, the fake plants, the office-like feel to the environment, and the front desk person greeted us, asking what we needed and who we were there to see. I was in family historian mode. “Nai Kettavong,” we said, as she searched up where he might be and on what floor. We got on an elevator.
“Oh no one ever visits Nai,” the staff person on the second floor responded. I cringed. The place didn’t feel real. It felt like a dream where you know that you’re asleep and intuitively, you know where you are and feel like you’ve been there before. This was the first time I’d ever stepped foot in this facility.
We were lead to my father’s room, and it was empty. I panicked a little inside.
“He might be watching TV in the common room,” our guide said, and we followed him, completely silent.
There he was. My dad. The man who I had feared for most of my life and felt some dutiful love towards as his daughter. He was alone. There were chairs here and there in the room and a lonely couch, a couple of small cafe-sized tables along the wall. At least there was a window, wall to wall, behind him. We pulled up a couple chairs to the round table that he was seated at, a walker nearby.
Playing on the television was some mundane show about wildlife or something that I didn’t particularly care about but was glad there was something for all of us to look at when we needed to look away from one another.
He looked so much grayer, pale, and older than I remembered. He had the same smile though, somewhat sheepish and shy. Perhaps he felt as if he were dreaming too. His children were actually there to see him. Chasms of guilt rippled through me.
“Do you remember me?” my sister asked.
“Yes,” he replied calmly.
I’d suspected that the language barrier between my father and staff contributed to my father’s diagnosis of early dementia. I would observe a little more closely, I thought to myself.
“How are you?” my brother asked. “I’m fine here. I get a little cold,” he responded.
Later, my brother would take the scarf that he was wearing and give it my dad because of the comment about being cold, which I’d notice in all of his photos in the years following. Our oldest sister would become his caretaker in Texas City, where he would be moved to in just a few months following this visit.
The conversation was slow. The three of us assessed the situation, asking questions here and there. Speaking Lao out loud to our estranged father was quite the task. And we were electrified by being in his presence again, I think.
I asked him if I could ask him some questions for a project that I was working on, and he said, “Go ahead, ask, and I’ll tell you everything.” That was the last time we spoke. I didn’t get to ask him any questions again.
Gray is how I feel when I think about this. Like hand torn paper pieces that have been mixed with water to become pulp and and then pressed, to live a different life. Lumps. Speckles. Wet. Shapeless until the next step. Amorphous and gray. Lacking any brightness, any warmth.
Recently, I realized that a confident sign that you have forgiven someone who abused and terrorized you and your family (even if it was their own family) is that you pray that they did not suffer during their last days. That hot, boiling rage that you used to feel when you cursed them into oblivion turns into just your body temperature as you sigh and think about them.
The ‘rona finally got me after two years of the pandemic, and it was days of body aches, fever dreams, sinus pressure, sneezing, coughing, and mucus. The first night, I rolled over and said to Blake, “I hope my dad didn’t suffer,” and tried to get a good cry out. It didn’t work. I finally cried typing “He was alone,” in the above paragraph.
It took another couple of days for me to think to myself, “Ah. Yes. I did the work. I have forgiven.”
My father died of COVID complications last year, and we still have not been able to take his ashes to his final resting place. For Lao folks, this is usually the temple in the community. I know that this is the case for too many at this point in the pandemic. I am so sorry.
It’s been nearly an entire year since I’ve published anything on this blog, and it somewhat symbolizes where I’ve been with my grief: in the in-between. Which, I suppose, is where we could say my father’s physical being is too.
If you are in the in-between, I will meet you where you are. If you need help, please let yourself shoot that text, make a call, send an email, or call an anonymous hotline. It’s worth it; you’re worth it.
I’ve deliberated about a project that I’ve thought about for most of my lifetime: telling the story that my family carried with them away from the mountains of Laos across the Mekong River through the skies and to Texas. But I’ve mostly been still, immobile, glued to my spot, and unable to move. And I’ve been silent, afraid, pensive, anxious, sad, playing memories over and over, thinking about how best to paint these pictures as genuinely and honestly as possible and to honor the people within them.
“Why does it feel so wrong to be me? Why am I afraid for people to know who I am and where I come from?”
“The long-term consequences of trauma?” offers my counselor*, a couple of years after we’ve started digging in and doing the work that might enable me to speak. In 2018, he recommended a few books to me that I’m still working through. How on earth did I get through grad school?
True, but maybe not entirely the reason. I realize that a lot of it is shame, for things out of my control.
When I was a child, I was ashamed of being different from everyone else. Different in the sense that I was isolated and couldn’t visit with friends after school or attend the countless birthday parties and hangouts. Different because no one had ever heard of Laos. Different because I didn’t know certain American cultural references. I didn’t meet another Lao child out in the world serendipitously until college. And even then, we were legally adults. Magically thrown together as roommates at the university. I have a feeling we might have been the only 2 Lao girls in that freshman class that year.
Growing up, I was ashamed of being poor. My refugee parents tried their hardest, and we always had food on the table and our basic needs met. But that didn’t mean that I didn’t have to pick through bags of donated clothing to find “new” shirts and pants that would fit me. (And with my tiny, southeast Asian frame, hand-me-downs, especially from strangers, never fit me correctly.) That didn’t mean that I could afford to participate in any extracurriculars that might cost anything to the family, including time for my little hands to work and help at home.
I was ashamed that people would know that my father was traumatized by the war, traumatized by so much else he couldn’t and wouldn’t talk about, and belittled in a country in which he thought he would be welcomed as a hero. And because of these things, he traumatized his entire family, the ones from whom I wish he could have sought solace. Shame for being my father’s daughter; I am sorry.
I was ashamed of my name even. Moving from grade level to grade level, class to class, apologizing that it was “hard to say” (it’s only 3 syllables), raising my hand to pronounce it correctly and feeling a burning sensation in my throat. Until I finally adopted “Laci” which doesn’t even honor the way you say my real name; it just has similar phonetics. La-suh-me. Lasamee Kettavong. Now, my heart swells when people learn my name and work to say it correctly. To me that is an act of love.
Me and my sweet mother, who gave me my name.
Shame prevents you from doing a lot. Fear eats the soul and paralyzes you. But we only have so much time to really get to know ourselves in this realm of living, so I’m shedding the shame and swallowing the fear.
I’m not certain but pretty sure that I have taken on this project because I am the last child in my family and the one born in America a few years after my family’s arrival on Halloween Day, 1989. No one’s asking for this story, but it’s one that threatens to have me implode if I let it simmer and leave it alone. There’s no pressure from any of my siblings or my mother; just support, happily scanning papers that arrived with my family in their International Refugee Committee bag of official documents when I ask for them. I feel that our family’s story is not so different from immigrant families stories today, and that we have a lot of work to do. Together, with, and for others.
I can’t imagine the agony that my mother and father would have felt having arrived as refugees and asylum seekers only to have their children ripped away from them and kept in detention centers. It is horrendous that this has happened to so many.
I’m not certain but pretty sure that there’s no better time than right now to do something about the horrendous things, shed the shame, and swallow the fear that maybe has kept you from moving.
—-
*Important to note: I started going to therapy after a shitty breakup in 2013 and on the advice of a dear friend who’d also recently started therapy and it improved their life immensely. I’ve gone from counselor to counselor, for various reasons, and finally really dug in to working on childhood trauma with this particular counselor. Don’t give up if you feel like therapy will help you/your mental health but you’re not clicking with someone. Search around. It can change your life.
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Musings 