My mother is a dragon lady. I say this with the fear, love, respect, and reverence from a first born Asian child.
My mother is the type of mother who wouldn't have accepted less than the best. She would survey my offerings and find the tiniest faults, even if 90% of what I had shown was good. She would give me the bare minimum pocket money allowance, telling me that I didn't need all the material goods I thought I needed. She would ground me if I stepped out of line and fashioned curfews that were so unpopular for teens who wanted to go to parties. She made sure I went into a professional degree course after spm, shaking her head at anything less than a titled profession.
I used to sneak out at night all the time. I would grab spare change around the house to buy stuff like snacks or drinks for my hang outs. I would borrow her clothes whenever I could. I would write down angsty journal entries of how she never understood what it's like to be a youth in the 21st century. I felt trapped pressured to perform, never quite good enough or never really myself, whatever myself was supposed to be.
My mother rarely apologised. She knew hat she was giving as we grew up. How she worked 3 jobs during her PhD to support us. How she brought us on camping holidays and gave us a good, proper shot at education. How she made sure we had food on the table, and brought us to carboot markets for clothes because we did not need high street garments. How she treated me to my first car, a second hand kancil, because I was a 19 year old who only needed to get from point A to point B. There was no one that I should need to impress. Neither did she.
My mother wouldn't settle for wishy washy types. She was determined for us to stand on our own two feet in life, and made sure we knew it. I am not going to conclude this essay by carving a recently-realised, perfected, reiterated version of her. Because as I grew older, I think I already knew it was okay that our family wasn't ideal, that none of us were cookie cut depiction of our roles. I was never the perfect daughter. She was never the perfect mother. But we love each other, and it works.
A big part of growing up is understanding how the adults you looked up to are not the wholesome human beings you thought they were. How your own mindset and viewpoint as a child, and as a maturing person, can be ill suited and volatile too. This is a fundamental in life - we are humans, we come in diverse makes. What matters is that my mother did her best in raising me. And that I shall continue to love, respect and cherish her. I sit here writing this on a gadget, with a roof over my head, food on my table, and an interest in life - all signs showing that she has raised me, and raised me well enough that I could spread my wings and soar.
Because to be honest, I'm growing up to be a mini dragon myself.
My mother is the type of mother who wouldn't have accepted less than the best. She would survey my offerings and find the tiniest faults, even if 90% of what I had shown was good. She would give me the bare minimum pocket money allowance, telling me that I didn't need all the material goods I thought I needed. She would ground me if I stepped out of line and fashioned curfews that were so unpopular for teens who wanted to go to parties. She made sure I went into a professional degree course after spm, shaking her head at anything less than a titled profession.
I used to sneak out at night all the time. I would grab spare change around the house to buy stuff like snacks or drinks for my hang outs. I would borrow her clothes whenever I could. I would write down angsty journal entries of how she never understood what it's like to be a youth in the 21st century. I felt trapped pressured to perform, never quite good enough or never really myself, whatever myself was supposed to be.
My mother rarely apologised. She knew hat she was giving as we grew up. How she worked 3 jobs during her PhD to support us. How she brought us on camping holidays and gave us a good, proper shot at education. How she made sure we had food on the table, and brought us to carboot markets for clothes because we did not need high street garments. How she treated me to my first car, a second hand kancil, because I was a 19 year old who only needed to get from point A to point B. There was no one that I should need to impress. Neither did she.
My mother wouldn't settle for wishy washy types. She was determined for us to stand on our own two feet in life, and made sure we knew it. I am not going to conclude this essay by carving a recently-realised, perfected, reiterated version of her. Because as I grew older, I think I already knew it was okay that our family wasn't ideal, that none of us were cookie cut depiction of our roles. I was never the perfect daughter. She was never the perfect mother. But we love each other, and it works.
A big part of growing up is understanding how the adults you looked up to are not the wholesome human beings you thought they were. How your own mindset and viewpoint as a child, and as a maturing person, can be ill suited and volatile too. This is a fundamental in life - we are humans, we come in diverse makes. What matters is that my mother did her best in raising me. And that I shall continue to love, respect and cherish her. I sit here writing this on a gadget, with a roof over my head, food on my table, and an interest in life - all signs showing that she has raised me, and raised me well enough that I could spread my wings and soar.
Because to be honest, I'm growing up to be a mini dragon myself.
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