Summer: The Season of Escapism
I asked myself, would she be happy with how I chose to spend this summer?
She spent the last days of the school year dreading summer. Summer meant constant wishes of escapism flowing into every inch of her mind, weaving itself into her brain like Rapunzel’s hair done by Flynn Rider. School was her solitude, her key distraction, while summer always went by so slowly.
I’m located in the United States, where people dread their upcoming birthdays and insult friends who were born a minute earlier by calling them granny. It’s so interesting to observe, as I’ve always looked forward to growing older. Having more autonomy, exploring more of the world instead of staring at the ceiling, spending hours repeatedly playing a song and fantasizing about what the day could've been.
It could be the dust in the room, a stray hair in the hallway, or grass peeking through the cracks in the driveway. No matter what it was, it was enough to frustrate my dad and he’d make it perfectly tidy again. But too many frustrations got my dad screaming at my mom. My mom would yell back, but she grew tired of her words landing on deaf ears. This normal occurrence resulted in the formation of Pattern Number One: Make Sure Everything is Tidy.
They never agreed on anything either. My dad insisted on using a broom and dustpan to sweep, because that’s the proper way. My mom insisted that I use a cloth with my feet, because less tools were more efficient. My dad refused to leave food on the table, calling it wasteful. My mom didn’t believe that food shouldn't be forced into the stomach, especially when there was no more room in there. My dad tried his best to hide his infidelities, putting on a happy family act. My mom aired all of his misgivings to me, constantly laughing at how acted in front of my face. This other normal occurrence resulted in the formation of Pattern Number Two: Medians Don’t Exist.
One day, I asked my mom why she stayed with my dad. She explained how hard my dad’s life was. He was the youngest of 6 siblings, who all constantly moved around the Philippines, staying with different relatives who took care of them with varying degrees. My dad’s mom, my Lola, passed away when he was young. Meanwhile, my Lolo was out in the US, washing dishes day and night, doing as much as he could so that all his kids came over. My dad was a recovering alcoholic and smoker, which is why his brain was so messed up. Her answer told me nothing and everything at the same time.
The gears turned in my head, and I realized that the less time spent in the house, the better. Unfortunately, growing up as the eldest daughter in a household of immigrants, this wasn’t so simple. Where are you going? What are you doing? Are any boys going to be there? You’re lying, so just stay home. How are you doing in your classes? Where is your report card? You’re on track to graduate, right? You’re nothing without a college degree and a stable career, so just stay home. Of course, this was the one thing my parents agreed on, and this ever growing resentment constantly pounded inside my head.
The summer after I graduated high school changed me. I was finally allowed to get a job, spending many hours of my time trying not to mess up customer’s drinks. My dad made it his top priority that I get my driver’s license, and I was fortunate enough to have a car to even drive. Both parents even accepted that I was going to community college, instead of wondering why I didn’t get a scholarship to a 4 year institution.
Saving money was imperative to me, but realizing that my parents started to get used to me going in and out of the house was absolute bliss. They never stopped by my workplace, specifically looking or asking for me. I told them I would go out to work, and started using that excuse to go hang out with friends more than once every few months. Even better, I explored random new places, which is what she always wanted. That first summer of exploration was so real to me.
This summer, I went all out, craving sunlight and new places and too many iced lattes. I made myself busy again, enrolling in classes, working my job, and running around the many places that my internship introduced me to. This summer was full of enrichment and joy, and just like that, summer was a season that I looked forward to. Instead of being in the critical eye of my parents, I fly away, fulfilling her dreams of staying out of the environment that harmed her so badly.
But of course, that’s only temporary. At the end of the day, I come home and she revives, on edge for any signs that Patterns One and Two may arise. My parents speak through my younger sister and I whenever possible. Each gets irritated by the other one and complains, their voices loud and clear.
Similar to my dad, I get angry when my desk is too cluttered and the frustrations from the day hit me. Similar to my mom, I understand people to a fault, forgiving people’s wrongdoings even when they aren’t excusable. My emotions overwhelm me, and trying to get comfortable within this sea of turbulence seems impossible.
We all have things to do, duties to fulfill and burdens to shoulder. I’m a full-time student, keeping my grades up while working 20 hours a week. My mom commutes an hour back and forth everyday, still making time for cooking, shopping, and laundry. My dad drives from the crack of dawn, coming home and staring at the bills that we have.
Day after day I look for a reason to go out, to get away. Being less prone to scrutiny is a true blessing. But nobody in this household is healing. We all focus on what’s going on now, rather than opening up those old wounds and understanding how these wounds happened. The way things are going, this cycle of trauma will continue.
Summer is ingrained into our heads as the season of fun, a time of reinvention and happiness. I never understood that, but now I do, which I’ll forever be grateful for. But while I’m happy, and while she’s happy, would she recognize that I’m ignoring all my problems instead of trying to heal from them?