My favorite childhood memories that encapsulates the essence of my relationship with my mom are of a particular kind of road trip.
We didn't drive cross-country to see some spectacular crater or visit loud, distant relatives. The road trips don't even involve a pit stop at some wrecked restroom in the middle of nowhere.
Our family road trips treks all the way over to the good ol' city of Los Angeles. The reason? To accompany me or (more commonly) my sister to an audition. There's so many of these snapshots of our family past that they've all jumbled together but I'll paint you a scenario.
We're on the road. My father's driving, my mother's in the passenger seat. My sister and I are sprawled along the back. It's a usual sunny Californian morning.
"Have you memorized the script?" My mom asks my sister.
"Almost," she replies and hands the script back to me. I pretend to be any of the variety of characters she has to play opposite; a lovesick boyfriend, a wise old teacher, a snide best friend.
We rehearse until we get sick of our voices and the car silences for a moment.
"Are you guys done? Hmmm... you need to start practicing singing then. Why do you always wait for me to tell you to sing? Why don't you sing yourself?" My mom turns on the radio and a crude rap song pops on.
In chinese, my mom laments, "This is ugly-sounding to death" (aka“ 難聽死了”）She shuts off the damn thing. Okay, you guys sing now. Janice, you sing first."
In my annoyance, I purposefully whine my way through a Mandy Moore ballad. I can't carry the high notes, I forget parts of the song, I trail into a whisper after only a few lines.
And that's when the trigger goes off.
My mom starts yelling at me for not caring enough. Her voice is shrill and high and pierces the ears. I stare out at the window and wonder when the dogs will come. I yell back about why she always wants me to sing when I don't want to be a singer. In my anger, what starts off as Chinese collides with words, pieces, then whole sentences of English. My sister interjects. My mom yells at her. My dad chimes in with his own observations of his poor excuses for daughters. Some tears are shed, some voices are lost, mention of my fatness is brought up somehow, all tempers are fuming.
After a few minutes of deadly silence, I begrudgingly apologize. I say I will try harder. Mom tearily says that everything she does is for my own good. "If you weren't my daughter, I wouldn't care if you were dead or not." I tell her I understand.
We get to the audition and my sister does her thing. But not before my mom fusses or complains about why she didn't choose a different top to wear, how she needs to straighten her back, how she needs to give the casting director three different photos of herself. Finally, with an annoyed look on her face, my sister goes in, my mom and I trailing after her. My dad waits in the car. He has this (cute - or rather sad) superstition that his presence is bad luck at auditions. Or maybe he just feels uncomfortable around all the perky blondes and surfer boys. Or maybe a family of four walking into an audition room is a little bit uncomfortable for everyone else?!
As we wait for Jessica's name to be called, all three of us Jann women glance around the audition room, whispering - or speaking loudly in Mandarin - about how there's a majority of blondes at the casting call or how we recognize another actress on a Disney Channel show. Despite not having an agent, my mother pushes me to try out for the role as well. I sigh and sign myself up. Better than to make a scene.
We both try out. Afterwards, my mom asks for every detail of our audition --three times. She has to reiterate, replay and repeat every part of the experience in order to fully absorb it. I didn't perform too well and my mom is disappointed but never discouraged. She lists all the things I should have done that she's certain would have guaranteed a call back. I roll my eyes and say, "okay, okay, next time." After a long silence, my mom sighs. "Yea, okay. Next time. Next time you'll get it." We go get some McDonald's.
As we sit at the golden arches, my mom with her chicken nuggets, my dad savoring his oft-dreamt about, not oft-gets to eat Quarter Pounder, me with a fish fillet and my sister sipping her ever-present Coke as fast as she can so she can get another refill, the dynamics have completely shifted. We chit chat and joke. We get ready to go home, and on the car ride back, my sister and I sleep as our parents listen to some 80's Chinese pop. To the outsiders, we're an enviable family. We're telegenic, we're bubbly and we look like we genuinely enjoy each other's company.
My parents are the cutest when they dance...
The truth is, we really do. We're not putting up a front. A family can be like that. There are good moments, there are bad. The dynamics go up and down like a roller coaster.
I never dwell on the dissonant times. I always miss the road trips. My sister and I both drive now (and more often than my parents) and I'd almost give up my license just so we can revisit those days when our family would all go to support one daughter on her one audition of the day.
And when they hold hands with each other down dark alleys.
Yes, my mom has to pick at every single fault of mine like it's a hard piece of booger. Yes, she has changed my Chinese name 3 times in the past 3 months. Yes, sometimes she makes me stand against a wall to develop straight posture. But she also cooks me special meals and makes my favorite soy sauce braised pork when I used to come home from college on the weekends. She goes shopping and always looks for stuff she'd think I'd wear. She gets really giddy when I go on dates. (Maybe because those are rare occurrences?) And she's really really
really pretty. At the end of the day, I know that all she wants is the best for me. She loves and cares for me and just wants me to reach my highest peak. I can't wait for the day when I'll buy her a big ol' house with 30 maids obeying her every whim.
Don't you just hate it when your mother is always right?
The life of a reporter, no matter how glamorous, is notorious for paying jack. That's why it thrills us to no end when we get free stuff.
The Homer
That is, like, a car and shoes rolled into one!
That is, like, a car and shoes rolled into one!
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