Phalanges

I will try my best to work hard. I will do my best. I will be the best. I aim for perfection. I am perfection. This is the life of an Asian. A stereotypical one.

I hate it.

The traditional ideals of an Asian is that to become a domestic slave. A wife to which is only able to cook, clean, and bow to her husband's fancy. My father, while a self-proclaimed, open-minded man, could not be any more wrong. Wives psychologically support their husbands, feed the children and themselves, keep the house from getting into a state of disrepair. I find it offensive how many people think that only women should do the cooking, how they are more knowledgeable because they are groomed to do it.

I will not become a slave.

That is my promise to myself. I view equality and equity as primary aspects in my life, and a must-have. My dad has told me about the importance of balance, in nature, in science, in everything.

So, if the balance can be man and woman, then why must one have more dominance over the other?

I've seen the way he treats our mother like a dog, telling me under his breath that she doesn't know anything. He's talked to her tiredly, not even daring to look her in the eyes. He knows the expression on her face is that of masked pain, but does little to stop it.

Little does he ever show a smile on a daily basis, much less a monthly one. I've only seen him smile when drunk. I notice the ways he seems to dim down when I tell him I wasn't the only one who got this 'very special award'. I have to be the only one.

Humans are so finicky. Picky. Greedy. Loathing and hating, odd and yet-- they can be the simplest of beings, the happiest.

No matter what you give them, no matter how many times you give-- they'll want better.

The idea of pushing yourself is to meet your limits and push them, not break them and yourself. They-- peers around school-- have mocked me so much. Told me they were 'disappointed in me' with these taunting, disgusting tones. I've never felt such cold emptiness inside of my heart. Well-- maybe I have. But it inspired a dark, crawling emotion in me that made me so angry.

I never thought about telling my parents about the prejudice and discrimination going on at the school. Maybe it's because I don't trust them either, I don't really want them to know.

I told my sister and she told me to tough it out and get stronger. But I have been trying my best, and it's not enough.

I think that being tired is being weak. I think that showing emotion is weak. I think that I--

--am weak. And thought I may say that I believe you when you try to convince me of my self-worth, I will not believe you. I don't need commentary like that-- it only shows just how much I need pity in order to feel better about myself.

But there's something that makes me steam.

Something that makes me alive.

And it's called love.

I love my parents, my family and friends. I love writing, hoping that things will get better, hoping for another chance.

I love too much-- so much, that that weird inky thing swimming in my stomach acids is stuck in a little box.

And maybe that's what's kept me from going crazy, from killing people the moment I see them.

But that's a topic for another day, and maybe one day, I'll be able to love myself, too.

I am a first-generation Asian American whose older sister is a poet and I deal with discrimination in my middle school. I am distant from my sister. My parents are loving, but do not trust us. They often yell and stress out. My sister is the one who often argues the most with my parents.

My father has spoken much about his death and inheriting things. He's smiled while telling me he'll be gone soon-- the first time that he brought it up, though, was when I was ten. When I was seven or eight, he told me all he wanted was to have a nice family dinner, my mother, my sister, myself and him all at the table and peacefully talking. All he does now is drink, in order to find that dream again, amongst the stress.

I am thirteen years old now.