They Fly Over The Blue

I spent the last five days back in Jersey visiting the folks. Sis and my brother-in-law flew in from Chicago, so the whole immediate Stark Clan was home. (Sis is a second-year OB/GYN resident, and my brother-in-law is a fellow lawyer). What I remember the most wasn't the dinner at Morimoto's in Philadelphia (great neo-lounge ambiance, excellent selection of background music, meh food) or just chillin' wid da fam, but rather a photo album.

My sister and I used to rifle through photo albums everytime we went home to remind ourselves what we were like before we had jobs and bills and workaday "issues." Sweet little pictures of Asian tykes, running on stubby legs through yards or smiles with chubby cheeks on a goddawful striped couch. Sis found a photo album neither of us had seen before - the closest American analogy would be a wedding album (my folks met through a half-traditional arranged marriage / half-hip dating service thing, so the album including photos of the first setup). You could tell it was "professionally" arranged because all the photos were of cheezy poses, and the first page had heart-shaped stickers with syrupy sayings like "I Love You" and "Will You Marry Me."

Surprisingly, I don't have anything cynical or snarky to say about the album. In fact, in a weird way, it made me feel better about myself. The photos showed my parents when they were 28 (dad) and 27 (mom). Dad was a very sharp looker and mom was a dish, which was quite a shock for me. All I saw of my parents growing up were two beaten down folks not knowing what to make of America or their strange kids who didn't follow the way they grew up. Most of my life was trying not to be like them. My parents are now happy in the wane of their professional life - dad has taken up golf and mom exercises - a sporty Asian Ward and June Cleaver. Bitter and frustrated or content and harmless, but never as folks my age.

Seeing the photos showed me that they weren't bad folks, or unattractive folks. Something in me clicked -- that with the bad traits I inherited from them there might be good traits. OK, so I don't forgive them through all the guilt-trips and ego-burn outs they put me through growing up, but I think I hate myself a little less than I did before, and that isn't a bad thing.