An essay about second generation immigrant blues. In short: culture clashes and Mommy issues.
I wrote this piece for a college literary magazine, and rode quite the high afterwards when it got over 100 likes on Facebook. Unfortunately, I have yet to collect any royalty payments.
My first memory of making my mother angry starts with a mirror. When I was a kid, I spent countless hours staring at my reflection, pinching and poking my face. Everyone told me they saw my mother’s features in my brows, my eyes, my long, slender fingers. I didn’t get it. Was my face mine, or was it hers?
I would trace the shape of my eyebrow. “This is ma ma’s,” I’d try. My reflection’s brow would furrow up, and I’d try again. “This is mine.” Neither sounded right.
Continue reading “Middle Ground”