Fake Mom

By Ziying Jian

HONORABLE MENTION

Listen to Ziying read an excerpt of her essay.

Most days, I act like a fake mom. And I’m good at it, too.

On winter mornings, I’m good at wrapping my younger sister, Emma, in warm jackets and fluffy scarves before venturing out with her to build ice castles and snowmen. On summer afternoons, I’m good at helping her solve arithmetic problems in her quest to ace summer school. And on nights when a small quarrel in my parents’ room explodes, I’m good at reading bedtime stories and ignoring the shouts in the other room, even if they may scare me, too. When my sister is lacking a mother the most, I do an excellent job of faking a strong front to replace that role. Because that’s what you do as a mom. It’s more than just providing for your kids’ physical needs. When they need you the most, you’re there for them.

I like to call my mom, Mama. Mama is older than me but sometimes, I feel like the adult here. Whenever Emma is pestering Mama while she’s on a business call, Mama will launch into an outburst on how important her work is before pleading for me to take Emma out of the room. When we first started living in America, Mama was so cheerful and hopeful for our future. But as our family grew, she’s been overloaded with more responsibilities. Years of handling my dad’s temper, years of dealing with my grandma’s cancer diagnosis, years of trying to resolve family conflicts — and, when that didn’t work, years of trying to make everyone happy has left her emotionally exhausted. She does occasionally plan familial bonding activities, such as museum trips, and is never one to reject a birthday party invitation. But that’s where her obligations end, as far as her children’s emotional needs are concerned. She’s always managing someone else’s problems, leaving her no time or energy to fulfill her own parental responsibilities. In her absence, I feel those same responsibilities unload onto me.

Emma has always been sensitive to other people’s words and Mama has never been afraid of being callous. A couple months ago, Emma and a few of her friends were playing on our porch. I was upstairs in my room when I heard them chasing her and berating her with words like “dumb” or “stupid,” causing her to cry.

I could hear my sister wailing when she entered the front door. Mama could surely handle temperamental children, I thought. I was completing schoolwork, and it didn’t make sense for me to run downstairs if my mom was already there.

“MOMMY, NICHOLAS AND SHIRLEY ARE BEING MEAN TO ME,” Emma said between gasps.

“别跟他们玩! 就回家吧。” Mama shot back. Don’t play with them! You should have just come home. 

“BUT THEY’RE BEING MEAN TO ME,” Emma cried. “CAN YOU MAKE THEM SAY SORRY?”

“Just don’t go outside. Shirley and Nicholas—they not nice you know,” Mama replied in her broken English, as if Emma hadn’t understood her the first time. 

Emma wailed harder. I could hear Mama’s tone grow coarser. The argument kept going in circles. I couldn’t help but feel frustrated at how they wouldn’t listen to each other. The fix seemed so simple. 

When I went downstairs, Mama was standing there helplessly, not knowing what to do and wondering why her daughter couldn’t understand the simple idea of staying home. Mama’s emotional deafness ran deep. In her mind, keeping Emma inside meant Emma wouldn’t have to interact with the source of her problems. It was logical. But emotions aren’t logical, and eight-year-olds even less so. Mama was so stubborn that she didn’t even consider that maybe, all her daughter needed was someone to acknowledge her hurt. I had to step in.

I admit, I never imagined how good it would feel to make two eight year olds apologize. The apology didn’t mean Emma’s “friends” were going to change their behavior overnight, but it provided Emma a sense of closure. 

While I understand that Mama had to be tough and independent in order to achieve the immigrant’s dream, I’m saddened by how, in the process, she lost touch with the emotions that characterize our lives. She has always had an iron wall surrounding her heart. To her, emotions were a weakness meant to be overcome in order to get things done. Whether she knew it or not, that thinking acted as a double-edged sword: confronted with other people’s feelings, Mama doesn’t know how to handle them, much less accept them.

Mama is selfless. She makes trips to Chinatown to buy fresh groceries, takes care of my grandparents’ medical conditions, manages all our finances, and keeps our family together after we come to blows. But I also get the feeling she’s tired of being responsible for everything that goes into making our lives so comfortable. Whether she knows it or not, she’s slowly handing the torch down to me, the torch that lit a path for my family in America. I’m expected to continue the legacy. But I’m only sixteen. I may have lived for years longer than my sister, but I’ve lived decades less than the people I look up to and for whom I will eventually be responsible. 

I’m a fake mom. Fake in the whole sense of the word. I’m unqualified to handle anyone’s emotions when I struggle to handle my own. I’m still lost and confused on how to navigate my own life. It feels unfair to help to provide for my family’s. But as Emma’s incident shows, I may be a lot more competent than I realize. I’m already starting to demonstrate my maturity, and I have hope that with time, I’ll find my real strength through it all.