Math Homework with My Father

I didn't find the parent-child relationships in Sarah Vowell's "Shooting Dad" and Brad Manning's "Arm Wrestling with My Father" very relatable. Growing up, my father and I rarely shared our opinions on matters of politics or hobbies, and certainly never arm wrestled. In fact, we still don't communicate much to this day, due to a combination of cultural, lingual, and generational divides.

Despite our lack of conversation, my dad and I have reached a mutual understanding. I suppose it's similar to Brad Manning's relationship with his father, although it manifests itself in different ways.

Throughout elementary school, my dad loved to help me with my math homework. He would always attempt to teach me something new, and I would usually become frustrated because I just wanted to finish my homework. Looking back, math was one of the few ways he could spend time with me, and so he took every chance he could get.

As I grew older, I also grew more independent--"a rebel in the household" (Manning 5), you might say. I refused to ask my dad for advice, believing I had everything under control, and becoming annoyed when he asked me questions. Only recently have I come to realize that his intrusions meant he wanted to help, that his frequent lectures about medical school are his way of showing affection. And so we've been reconciled: I still don't particularly enjoy his lectures, but I understand he just wants me to succeed in life. He doesn't ask for much in return; I suspect he'd just get embarrassed if I tried to tell him this. 

It's a peculiar kind of love, but as Manning illustrates, love isn't restricted to verbal communication.

The Gulf Stream

Winslow Homer, The Gulf Stream (1899)

The man on the boat is wearing nothing but
pants, stranded in the middle of the ocean,
staring to the left to avoid seeing the sharks'
gaping maws; he refuses to give them the
satisfaction of tasting his fear. He's beginning
to lose hope as he hears the howling whirlwind
slowly approaching--in fact, it seems the closer
it gets, the slower it moves, until everything 
comes to a 
stop.
The burning sun sears his skin, but the light
gives him strength; he stoically accepts his
fate as his mind begins to wander: what did
he do to deserve this, and 
what will happen to his family when he's gone and 
what will happen when he dies, and 
by God, if he makes it out of
this alive he'll never drink again, never
neglect his kid, never
argue with his wife, never...
It's funny, he thinks, how suddenly
there's so much time, enough to do anything
in the world, if only it weren't for the
crashing waves, the ravenous sharks,
the wailing whirlwind. He's seen
the distant ship--is it a ship, or a cloud, or
a figment of his imagination?--but
he refuses to stare at it, he
doesn't believe it will bear the weight
of his faith, he knows there's nothing more
torturous in the world than
a false hope.

Hyphenated Americans

Amy Tan is definitely not alone in her wish to be American. The urge to fit in is universal. 

Second generation immigrants like Tan often have the most difficult time, pulled between two cultures. For example, she describes her Christmas Eve dinner using words like "appalling," "slimy," and "disappointment," which I thought was a bit excessive. At the end, however, she states that dinner was comprised of "all [her] favorite foods" (8). It became clear to me then that her previous exaggeration was a parody, a way to poke fun at her younger self. It took Tan "many years" (8) to realize the truth of her mother's lesson that her "only shame is to have shame" (7).

Personally, I've never faced the issue Tan describes. I attribute this to living in Troy, where there are many other Chinese families. It never occurred to me to be shameful of my race, since so many of my friends were the same as me. Growing up in Troy sheltered me from the pressure to conform to American culture, ironically, by pressuring me to conform to Chinese culture. 

Her story makes me wonder, though, what would have happened if I had stayed in Connecticut. I lived in Branford before I moved to Troy, as one of a few Chinese Americans. Even back then, I had already started to assimilate: all of my friends played baseball, so I played baseball (except I was terrible at it). I can only imagine that I would be very different today--and I definitely would have faced the tough choice of being part of the group vs. sticking to family tradition.

The environment we grow up in, it seems, drastically changes our self-identities.

On a side note, this is rock cod, and it is delicious.

Champions?

Maya Angelou's "Champion of the World" provides a glimpse into a community of African Americans, and the fears and hopes that unite them.

Even after emancipation and subsequent securing of rights, there were few situations in which an African American was truly equal to a white man. Boxing is one of these rare environments. As seen in "Champion of the World," the black community latches onto Joe Louis as a way to redeem its pride. The unbeatable Brown Bomber, "some Black mother's son," Louis is a testament to the fact that his race is not inferior, despite many years of being treated as such (Angelou 3). He carries the expectations of his race into every match; when he's winning, there is "murmuring assent," when he's losing, his "race [groans]" (Angelou 2). Each victory is a small blow to white society, a restoring of dignity.

That said, there is irony in the last paragraph when Angelou states "it wouldn't do for a Black man and his family to be caught on a lonely country road..." (Angelou 3). This sentence reveals the grim reality--even though Joe Louis won this fight, not much has changed. In the long run, there is still racism in society.

The last phrase struck me as odd, when Angelou says "Joe Louis had proved...we were the strongest people in the world" (Angelou 3). This seems a bit audacious to me, only serving to offend and promote more conflict. What happened to turning the other cheek? Perhaps it's a way to restore the pride lost by admitting that they haven't won much.