daughters and their mothers, mothers and their daughters

The words Freedom and Expression have no meaning to my mother. Since my arrival, we have had endless arguments where she teeters between proclaiming her unshakeable beliefs on how the world works and her fear that her mother will faint while not be able to bear the agony of a bald granddaughter. Yes, many of the things my mother says is absurd, but they always were – from gender roles to politics. However, understanding where my mother comes from helps me to understanding the intention of her words. There is a proportionate amount of disconnect between her words and mine, mother and daughter, and Chineseness and American-ness. I twist the meaning of her words, just as she does mine. The degree and weight of “she doesn’t understand me” is very equal to how much I don’t understand her.

As I follow my grandma and mother around Taipei, I am beginning to see how easily and closely they relate to each other. They find similar life-associations, laugh simultaneously and share everything from underwear to stomach ailments. They speak rapidly, interchanging between Taiwanese and Mandarin while I struggle to keep up and often ask my mother to translate.

I laugh independently, often too loud and at the wrong times. I drink from coffee beans while they sip on sugary packets of Nescafe. I ask too many questions and they show similar impatience and exhaustion when answering them. They see nothing positive about recollecting the past while I see it as testament to an inspiring future. I do not know how to color coordinate my wardrobe and the very worst: I am hairless with unnecessary piercing and tattoos. They agree when I disagree.

Observing their relationship allows me to realize how much effort my mom has put in (and continues to) in our mother-daughter relationship. This is more than forks vs. chop-sticks or hair and no hair. The gap is not merely generational; it stretches, leaps and expands from budge-proof traditions to life-purpose.

But amongst all this, I do not doubt my mother’s love for me. I often feel undeserving of it when reminded of how much she’s endured (and continues to, considering that I am the world’s “weirdest and craziest daughter”). To feel so strongly a mother’s love gives my insight to our differences a little less weight and a lot less importance.