#w.a.t.

Dear Mom,

When I was younger, I remember how I used to consider you my best friend. We were each others' biggest fans, greatest supporters, most fervent of protectors. We shielded each other from the dark and scary world, your arm around me while I clasped the blanket that covered us tight (movie dates were still innocent back then and you were the only person I would share the popcorn with).

We had our own world and, in that realm, you were my hero -- a woman who reinvented herself in a new land where words were now out of her grasp, educational systems stacked the odds against her, and life pigeonholed her into an existence of mediocre being. But she believed in us, her children. And like a mighty pillar that carries the weight of a crumbling ruin, she supported us through school, clothing us, feeding, us, teaching us the lessons from her ancestors and their ancestors about how to utilize sheer will and determination to escape abject poverty and turn what is a mere existence into an actual life in being.

You're still my hero, but you're no longer my best friend.

You're still my greatest supporter, but you're no longer my biggest fan.

I'm still your son, though, and I'm sorry for failing you.

I'll never be the son you wanted, the son who is careful, considerate, thoughtful, and has the utmost respect for his parents. I'll never be the Harvard degree-toting doctor who would give his parents free check-ups while driving them to the Chinese grocery store on a sunny afternoon. Afterwards, we would all retire to my McMansion on the hill with the detached garage and we would drink tea while listening to old Cantopop songs. I would bounce my toddler son in my lap while you would hold my newborn daughter in your arms. My wife would smile at us and the skylight would cast rays upon us to turn the scene into a perfect family portrait.

I'm sorry for turning out rotten. Spoiled. Garbage. Useless.

For being gay. For being wasteful. For being lazy. For not understanding the true meaning of money, how hard you have struggled under the pressure of discriminatory management and unrelenting hours to put me through school without a single worry in life. For being only a distortion of the son you wanted me to become. For being unthankful for all you have given.

I'm sorry that I took your worst traits; you raised me to be as controlling and single-minded as you are. You taught me to stand up for what I think is right, to fight fire with fire, to never give up, kicking, scratching, biting while we're being held down. We argue and bicker and what rises from a single question is a cacophonous debate on life, direction, and control. We are two ships passing in the harbor, missing each other by yards, sailing off to opposite corners of the world as a result of only following our own paths.

I'm sorry for wanting to be free. 

I'm sorry for never asking beforehand.

I'm sorry for being me, even though that's all I can muster up sometimes. I know it's not good enough for you.

Maybe one day, we'll learn to stop with the heroics, the routines, and the minstrel play we mime and learn how to love each other again. 

Someday, I want to hold your hand and be best friends again. Maybe by then, you'll have forgiven me.