I grew up with immigrant parents who sacrificed for their family. They worked hard and never expected or demanded special treatment. Last year, we traveled together abroad and arrived in the airport of SFO’s Customs. I returned home early by a week and waited one hour to be served by the Custom staff. There were only two custom officials for two flights that arrived on Saturday.
When my parents returned home, I asked them how their flight went. They said everything was fine except, unlike me, they had to wait two and a half hours in line to have customs clear them. They had the same number of custom workers. This time there were four flights that arrived.
When I heard about their long wait, my reaction was of anger. I had no idea at the time who I was angry at more…..my parents, the customs staff or the people around them.
As an immigrant child with parents who did not speak English, I was assigned the role early on in life to be my parents’ ambassador. Beginning with PTA meetings in my first grade, I did my best to interpret for my parents. Eventually, they quit going and only attended the private conference meetings with my teachers. I wonder now if they felt insecure and ashamed that they couldn’t speak English. It wasn’t that they did not try to learn. But, their native language was no where close to English.
When I heard that they didn’t speak up for themselves and speak to the person in charge at Customs to let them get to the front of the line, I was stunned and upset. Not at my parents for not speaking up, but for the lack of people around them who never thought to speak up for my parents.
If I had been there with them, I’d have said, "Hey sir, is it possible for my elderly parents to get to the front of line?"
As a fluent English speaker, I have more power than my parents. If I was with them, I would have communicated to the Customs person that my parents cannot wait too long and will be challenged due to their health issues.
I asked my parents why they didn’t speak up. They said that it was okay. I told them that it was not okay. “You see….you no longer have to suffer. or tolerate misery.”
They looked at me with blank stares and didn’t say anything. My desire for my parents is to really get it. “You have the right to ask for special treatment to move to the front of the line.”
My father told me that he would next time. I was skeptical and wondered if he only said that to me so that I would leave him alone.
Let’s now talk about my trip to the Berkeley grocery store.
Fifteen minutes before closing on Friday night, I went into a local grocery store in Berkeley to buy some vegetables. Getting ready to pay, I headed to the end of the line where there were three people ahead of me. As I waited in line, I noticed an older thin, white haired lady with her blue tie dye long sleeve shirt and a green backpack. She’s unpacking her shopping cart and cuts in front of a family of four. I’m standing there patiently, not too happy to wait and watch to see what will unfold next.
The man in front of me standing in line with his son and wife said to her, “The line is back there”, pointing to where I was standing. “Oh really?” she says. “Well I only have a few items.” He turns to her again. "The line is still back there.” She doesn’t care. She continues to say in a tone reserved for grandmas in “Little Red Riding Hood” stories, “I only have a few items.”
I overhear the father say to his six year old son, "I’m just letting it go. She’s old.”
I was mad and upset. It wasn’t because I had to wait a little bit longer. It was that she felt entitled and never apologized to the people she was cutting. Instead, she continued rambling nonsense. "Look at this, I only have a zucchini and a tomato.” She’s rambling about what she is putting on the conveyor belt talking to no one in particular.
I’m noticing myself getting heated in my neck. I’m recalling how my parents waited and never once decided to get out of line and go to the front. They were not as bold as this woman.
Unlike my parents, this woman had no problem speaking up about how she thought she did nothing wrong when she stepped ahead of the line. As she was waiting to have her turn, she continued non-stop forcing the people around her to listen to her mumbling nonsense. She repeated herself aloud about what she was about to buy. I am guessing her rambling was her way of not having to look behind her to see all the faces of people who were gracious enough to allow her to pass.
Where were these gracious people at the SFO customs when my parents were in line? They were no where to be found. They turned away assuming that if my parents were in so much pain, they should speak up for themselves. My parents didn’t have the courage to just walk out of line and go to the front. They chose to shut their mouths and swallow their misery as their foot and spine ached.
I love and respect my parents because they never expected a free pass just because they had a hard life. They hid a lot of their suffering and for that, I love them because they didn’t want to burden me with it. I’m grateful for my parents who taught me to never take advantage of other people. What I wondered with this elderly lady was that: if she didn’t know how to speak English well, would she still have cut everyone in line?
She was not in a wheel chair and she had a backpack which allowed her to have the strength to carry her own groceries. I just wished that she owned what she did by saying, “Yes, I did move ahead of the line. I wanted to do this because I have no tolerance to wait. Thank you for letting me do this.” But, all she did was ramble about produce and drew attention to herself with her nonsensical rambling.
I will end with this. When she was rambling, I realized maybe she has a mental problem. Who knows unless I get her to sit in my office and do a thorough assessment. Regardless, she connected me back to why I became a therapist. I wanted to work with my clients so that I can ease their suffering. So that day, I let go of my resentment for this elderly lady. Because if I am about letting go of suffering for my clients, I want to also include my own suffering as well.
May you have the courage to speak up for others who don’t speak English well.
Happy Asian American Month of May 2019!