The Way My Parents Love Me
By Devna Panda with art by beatrice handlin
Moms are the sensation of sleeping soundly through the night, nestled comfortably in a warm blanket. Warming your chapped hands on the kitchen stove. Rounding the corner onto your neighborhood block after coming home from a long journey.
Dads are the feeling of comprehension after finally internalizing a difficult concept. Driving during a storm, impervious to the rain. Seeing a familiar face in an unfamiliar city.
Every morning, when my Mom dropped me off at preschool, I would tear up at the thought of spending the morning apart from her. As tears filled my eyes, I would turn to my Mom and declare that I’d make her proud. With a small smile, she would squeeze my hand and leave the classroom.
I have always felt very connected to my parents, so naturally being away from them when beginning college was challenging. On the first night, as my parents’ car pulled out of the Middlebrook Hall parking lot, despite being a mere twenty-seven minutes away from my hometown, I sobbed like a child wandering around aimlessly, lost in the aisles of a supermarket. The notion that I had moved out of my childhood home and would likely never live with my parents again was incomprehensible.
As is the story for many immigrants, my parents left their home and family in India for the opportunity to pursue upward economic mobility in the States. I have seen them take solace in their cultural community in America and appreciate all that this country has to offer. Even still, I know how they must miss the country they spent their formative years in. I have seen it in their inclination to opt for Indian food any time we travel or go out to eat, searching for India in every corner of the world we are in. I have noticed it in my Dad’s dedication to his weekly call schedule with his parents or my Mom’s desire to make payesh on birthdays as her mother would do for her when she was growing up. They moved to a foreign country in their twenties, forgoing many comforts: the luxury of holding an identity that is aligned with that of the majority or being close to their own parents. This sacrifice on their part is not lost on me. And yet, only when I actively count my blessings do I stop to consider how lucky I am to have such supportive parents. As much as I love my parents, I take my relationship with them for granted.
What’s more is that I can be quick to express frustration with my parents: for instance, when they insist on taking a picture together every time we go to a restaurant or when they ask me to retell a story. In these moments, I will remember how my parents kept up a constant stream of encouragement while teaching me to ride a bike until I was finally ready to my training wheels off. I will remind myself of how my Dad patiently pointed out that I could easily stand in three feet of water when I was terrified of stepping into a swimming pool. I will consider how they kept their cool during the painstaking endeavor of explaining negative numbers to me no matter how heated I became. As I transition into adulthood, when I am faced with a new challenge or obstacle, my parents are my first call.
As they themselves navigated adulthood in a foreign country, my Mom and Dad prioritized holding my hand through every new experience. The least I can do is return the same patience and kindness they have given me. I know there is no other form of love I will experience in this life that will compare to a parent’s love.