You just wouldn't get it

We are in a constant state of unknowing. Whether we choose to acknowledge this reality or not, we are perpetually living in the shadows of all we have yet to discover. I like to view it this way: we are in a constant state of learning. We are always in pursuit of knowledge, even if it’s a subconscious endeavour. In our careers, we are building and mastering tangible skills. In our personal lives, we pick up hobbies, finding new ways to enrich our brains and fill the empty intervals in between our primary tasks. In our relationships, we are always, always learning and understanding who our friends are, who our families are, who our partners are. Learning-- isn’t that the ultimate love language? To know someone is to love someone, to continue getting to know them as you and they both grow into new people day by day, giving them the space to come to terms with who they are and who they aren’t. There is always more to know, and if you ever reach a point where you think you know it all, it will be your undoing.

I love my parents. I know them. I know that they love me infinitely, of the same flesh and blood. I would like to believe that they know me, but I am hesitant ever to claim that they understand me. I would not say that I have a fractured relationship with my parents. To say that would be to say that our relationship is faltering and full of mistakes, broken without any means to fix it. Our relationship is like that of a box of puzzles that has been permanently glued shut: we have everything to make a whole masterpiece, but when you shake the box, the rattle of the pieces is just another reminder of the spaces between us, that despite having everything we need, we can’t bring ourselves to put it all together. One night, at the dinner table, my mom says to my sister and me, “I wish I could speak English better. I hear you guys discuss books and literature, when something is written one way but actually means something else, and I wish I could join the conversation. In Chinese, I understand, but can not communicate it back to you. In English, I can not even understand it.”

A part of me weeps silently every time I remember this. How my parents blame themselves for not knowing English better when they could have easily put the blame on us for not knowing their native language better, for not putting in the time and effort to speak Chinese more fluently. I am remorseful for my parents’ intelligence; I know they are wise people, brilliant thinkers, whom I am blessed to be descendants of, but there are parts of their reasoning, gaps in their intellect and judgment that can only be filled by a language I am slowly losing touch with. I mourn these holes in our relationship, rips that can only be sewn back together with mutual understanding, bridges that can only be formed by the same language. 

And it all runs even deeper than simply analyzing the subtexts of a book we’re reading. It’s the rift that forms between us when I am always quick to anger when it comes to my parents, my tone immediately sharpening when I’m just a little upset, and only around them, but only because I know they are a safe space for me, that they offer me a home and acceptance even when I lash out. How do I say this to them if sometimes even I don’t understand my actions? How do I reckon with the fact that growing up as a child, and even into adulthood, my parents and I have never really fully understood one another because we lack the capabilities to express our thoughts and emotions fluently in a language only the other party knows? How am I supposed to explain to them my tainted relationship with religion or the complexities of disordered eating when I can barely make it through an elementary sentence in Chinese? When trust and understanding rely on communication, but the foundations of communication are non-existent, where do you go from there?

I harbor no resentment toward my parents for my Chinese education; it is a burden that solely lies on me. As someone who did not dedicate enough time or effort towards learning the language, for not studying it and practicing it enough, the blame only falls on me. As a child, you do not fully grasp that learning a new language is not a punishment. It is not extra homework you have to do in addition to your English reading or your math workbook. It is a deep, complex relationship you are building not only with your parents and your ancestry, but also with yourself. You are filling a void in your identity, one that has been passed on from generation to generation, and it is on your shoulders to preserve and grow this part of you. My lack of discipline and motivation not only cost me many, many conversations I could have had with my parents, but also relationships I have lost out on with strangers who could have been friends. It is a loss that I will carry with me if I ever bear children, a piece of my parents that I can not fully pass down to my offspring. My parents gifted me something whole, I bit off fragments, swallowed some pieces greedily, and shoved the rest away in the depths of my childhood. It is not lost, it is just forgotten, abandoned amongst the growth spurts and tantrums. 

The words exist everywhere. I find myself starting a sentence in Chinese and ending it in English. The translation is on the tip of my tongue, but every time I go to spit it out, it slides back down my throat, back into the underbelly of an abyss of not knowing. There are words everywhere, characters floating around in my consciousness, but I am too short to reach them. When my parents look at me with confusion spread across their faces, and in my head I know what I want to say, but the words are just out of my grip, I tumble back into the safety net of English, once again forcing them to do the hard work of understanding. We have lost so much in translation. This dark tunnel, where I don’t know becomes 我不知道, and how do you say it in English becomes 英文真么说, everything is dampened. Love is muted, anger is misinterpreted, and empathy has gone adrift. 

The words are there. I know they are. Luckily for me, they are not permanently gone. What’s lost can be found, and what’s forgotten can be remembered. We are in a constant state of unknowing, and I am in a constant state of learning, of trying to understand, in pursuit of building a bridge to cross these gaps. It is a duty that solely lies on me, to turn an I don’t know into a 我知道。