LINK: borrowed dreams
Currently listening to: Arcade – Duncan Laurence
I spent all of the love I’ve saved
We were always a losing game
Small-town boy in a big arcade
I got addicted to a losing game
Ooh, ooh
All I know, all I know
Loving you is a losing game
ian m dudley is sharing night photos as open prompts. I thought I would partake in this.
Growing up, I was a big time dreamer. I had a head full of things that I wanted to do. But in my house, dreams were considered distractions.
I learned early on what was expected of me:
- don’t talk back
- be humble
- do not burden others
- do not fail, this brings great shame to the family
- respect your elders
- do what you’re told
- go to church
- the importance of having an education
- be number one
- be perfect
- get a job
- get married and have kids
- work till retirement
- then die
When I didn’t follow the blueprint right away, I became the problem child. Rebellious, difficult, and ungrateful. I was a disappointment. When I spoke up or pushed back, I was told that it was for my own good. When they pointed out my failures, tears would flow from my eyes. My mom, especially would tell me that she only said these things because she loved me. That pointing out my flaws was being helpful so I could correct myself. Yes, criticism is meant to motivate, according to my mom.
What they couldn’t see was that I was drowning.
I was suffocating under their expectations. Being raised by immigrant parents meant my baggage was heavier than most of my peers. I wasn’t just living for myself, I was living for the sacrifices they made, the people they left behind and the lives they gave up so that I could have a chance at something better. Success wasn’t an option.
I know that my parents had their own struggles when they came to the U.S. I can’t fully imagine what they endured, just as they couldn’t understand what I was going through. We were standing on opposite sides of the same struggle, trying to survive, but we weren’t able to communicate with one another.
When I was in elementary school, the kids didn’t want to play with me. I was different. I often sat alone on the bench day after day, watching the other kids run around, laughing, chasing each other without a care in the world. I yearned to be like them.
They looked free.
They looked happy.
Free to go to each other’s houses.
Free to watch TV.
Free from helicopter parents.
Free to dream.
Free to be who they wanted to be.
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