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Michigan in Color
Monday, April 22, 2019 — 3A
wq“Kayleah...
Kayleah…
KAYLEAH.”
My mother always repeated her
statements in threes, louder each
round, without any care if I had
responded or not. It didn’t matter
to her whether it was at the dinner
table, the grocery store, in the quiet
aisles of the library, or while driving
on the freeway with me in the
car… sitting next to her.
And with every repetition, I
became equally impatient and
irritated.
“Mom… MOM… WHAT DO
YOU WANT?”
I admit, I’ve lost my temper
at times when my mom and I
simply talk – merely because of her
severely prolonged explanations
(repeated several times, of course)
that would drive me insane.
“Get to the point,” I would tell
her. “Stop talking so loud,” I would
yell back. I became frustrated: Was
it her difficulty in speaking English?
Was it her personality? Or was it
because of her home culture?
I searched for all the possible
rationales to explain her ceaseless
echo of thoughts.
“Sorry ddal *…” she would
apologize.
Afterwards
rolled
in
an
uneasy silence that left both of us
awkwardly shuffling our hands at
the dinner table, the grocery store,
in the quiet aisles of the library, or
while driving in the car.
“It’s fine, but mom –– explain
clearer,” I would say. Then I would
sheepishly smile. But I always felt
bad.
Ensuing our altercation was
always this look on her face that I
couldn’t describe: Sorrow? Guilt?
Embarrassment? Frustration?
I could never figure out.
For my entire life, I’ve always
assumed
her
gradually
loud,
repetitive demeanor was a fusion
of her immigrant experience and
lack of knowing English. Her long-
winded commentary and responses
would prime my ignorance; I would
berate her with a harsh tone, hoping
to stifle her monotonous discourse.
However, it’s taken years for me
to realize that it’s women who come
from backgrounds where they’re
not heard –– women of color –– that
have learned to speak louder to get
their points across. Consequently,
her life as a maternal figure,
housewife and stay-at-home parent
nurtured and shaped her voice,
while simultaneously muffling her
inherent range of expression as
a human. Within the East Asian
culture that perpetuates the male
dominance
and
subordinate,
inferior women, I realized her loud
and discursive conversations was
not to overpower others, rather
for someone to simply listen to her
thoughts.
So mom –– I’m sorry for getting
mad at you. I’ll always try my best to
hear you out.
Whenever you need me,
I’ll always be listening.
Love,
Kayleah
Diminished voices,
speaking loud
What’s in a name?
When parents and teachers bully kids
Sylvia.
Silvia.
Sylvie.
Sophia. Sofia. Sophie. Saliva.
Okay, maybe the last one
isn’t as common as the first
couple examples, but you get
the point. All of these names
have graced my Starbucks
cups, have been called out
by GSIs and professors in
class roll call, and sometimes
even have slipped out of the
mouths of both friends and
family members at one point
or another. For the last 20
years of my life, I have lived
with a name that gives off
major old lady vibes and
seems to confuse pretty much
every person that has the
unfortunate job of reading it
out loud (don’t even get me
started on my last name).
But
regardless
of
these
(mostly)
minor
inconveniences,
I
can’t
imagine being called by any
other
name.
The
history
behind my name and its
quirkiness fits my personality
to a tee. My parents were
expecting a boy and had the
name
Maximilian
picked
out and ready to go. It was a
surprise when I showed up
a week after my due date not
only late, but also a different
sex than they were expecting.
They played with the idea
of keeping “Max,” but felt as
though it didn’t quite fit their
new bundle of chubby cheeks
and mass of black hair. After
much debate (it was a close call
between Sylvia and Noelle),
I was given a first name after
my
maternal
grandmother
and a middle name that was
a variation of my paternal
grandma. The full name on
my birth certificate is Sylvia
Marie Gisler.
I
absolutely
love
being
named after my grandmas. It
feels as though a piece of them
is with me always and I am
constantly reminded of my role
models and the type of woman
that I aim to be. One of the best
parts of having the same first
name as my maternal grandma
is the differentiations my
family uses to keep us apart.
My grandma is referred to as
“Big Sylvia” while I am “Little
Sylvia,” which is hilariously
ironic due to our height
difference of almost a foot. I
am constantly in awe of how
strong she is as a person and
the lengths that she’s gone to
keep our family together.
My mom and her family
differ in many ways, from
parenting styles to political
beliefs,
and
there’s
often
tension at holidays and dinners.
But despite these differences,
she’s always ready to keep
the conversation moving and
regroup after a particularly
heated debate. She has learned
how to adapt and live in
America after immigrating
from the Philippines and was
able to give her children the
opportunities and choices that
weren’t always available to
her. I am proud to be called by
her name.
In December 2018, a teenage
girl named Aritry Adhikary in
Bangladesh ended her life after
her parents were insulted by her
teachers. Aritry went to a Bengali
medium school, Viqarunnisa,
and during her exams was found
with her cell-phone,— in violation
of the rules in school. Her parents
were summoned to school the
next day where they spoke to
the class teacher who informed
them Aritry was expelled. Her
father narrated the incident and
revealed that they all cried and
asked for mercy, including his
daughter helplessly begging for
forgiveness at the principal’s
feet. However, the headmaster
remained unconvinced. Aritry
left this scene earlier, and was
found hanging from the ceiling
later in the day.
Following this tragic incident,
there has been uproar from
students and Aritry’s parents
have
sued
the
school
for
instigating her suicide. When I
heard this excruciating story, I
had many thoughts on my mind
and a deepening sadness for a
life that shouldn’t have been lost.
But I found myself horrifically
empathizing with the shame
she felt. There were many points
in my life where I couldn’t see
anything but a bleak future,— a
suffocating image imprinted on
my mind by punitive pressures
exerted from those older than me,
whether they were my teachers
or family members.
Even
though
I
went
to
a
different
school,
penal
disciplinary
methods
were
largely normalized in educational
institutions and in every corner of
the social structure. As suicides
and tragic incidents continue
to happen, it’s not the 66-year
old institute and their policies
that should be held accountable.
There is a larger sociocultural
problem that undergirds such
devastating events. We must
recognize that humiliation and
fear-mongering narratives have
become intrinsically embedded
in schooling and parenting, and
we have to come to terms with it.
During my formative years,
some teachers were the most
caring individuals I’ve ever seen,
but others were not. I have seen
more teachers bully students
than I have seen peers bully each
other. I still remember a teacher
slapping the most notorious kid
when we were in first grade.
When insulting a student for
poor grades, references were
made to family backgrounds.
Teachers routinely yelled and
we were expected to silently
swallow our shame even when
the most insulting words words
were fired upon us. They were
our educators, and in respect to
their service, we were expected
to obey without question. We
were taught to be stoic; in our
uniforms; we were somehow
expected to be the same human
being — robotic, methodical and
straight A students. The value of
academic success was taught as a
matter of life and death, not as a
concept that serves our lives and
our personal passion.
This sort of policing was not
only limited to formal education.
Many of us had private tutors,
and
we
attended
“coaching
centers” for private tuition. When
I was fifteen, I joined three of
these tutors’ private classes with
my peers for chemistry, physics
and math. The Physics teacher
had a great track record: “All his
students get As in the IGCSEs.”
Prior to joining his class, I asked
parents of other students what
was the key to his success? Some
forty-year old mothers boastingly
informed me: “He is very strict.
He hits you with a scale if you
score less than 80.”
In reality, it was never this
“hitting” that made me study. I
stopped going to my math tutor
after he hit me with a scale. I
stopped going to Chemistry class
after the tutor grossly insulted
my parents for my absences. I
revolted to my Physics teacher
for hitting his students, and when
he listened to what I had to say,
I stayed in his class. I learned
nothing from those who belittled
me. I learned that I never want
to see their hateful faces again
— which is a very “normal”
reaction. I received good grades
by disciplining myself to study at
home. I learned when my father
sat with me to discuss Demand-
Supply
curves
with
current
events, and when he handed out
excel sheets with a timetable
to help me study for my exams.
Violence and humiliation can
never enforce discipline. It only
cooks fear that is never effective
in the long run.
But the question is why is this
sort of behavior allowed from
adults? Why is this considered
productive?
And
why
do
parents so readily accept it? It
is because many parents also
believe degradation is key to
train children. Most of us, South
Asian kids, have been bullied
by adults, and beaten up by our
parents. In Kindergarten, my
teachers complained about my
handwriting and short attention
span. They scolded me in class,
and mother physically abused me
for it as though I was on trial for
first degree murder. Most of my
friends can empathize with such
treatment from adults. Fifteen
years later, my handwriting is
now worse than Kindergarten,
and it makes no difference to my
academic performance or my life.
And I still have a short attention
span, except I now know it’s
called ADHD. I also learned I can
get treated for it and I don’t have
to kill myself because I couldn’t
concentrate and got a seventy-
percent in my fourth grade math
exam.
For the longest time, my family
members said: “It’s for your own
good, you’ll learn when you are
a parent.” I can assure you I
won’t need to choke my kid to
make them eat and study. I can
assure that there is zero logic in
nurturing my worst impulses.
About five years ago, mother
apologized and owned up to
her mistakes. I don’t resent my
mother for what she did because
I always understood it was a
societal problem and not her
personal issue. I even consider
myself lucky for my mother’s
realizations, because most of my
friends’ parents still continue to
believe that abuse was the right
method. In other words, irrational
violence
and
humiliation
is
normalized under the fallacious
umbrella:
“Authority
of
the
elderly.” And the most dangerous
element
to
this
pernicious
normalization
of
violence
is
recycling it intergenerationally.
Many friends of mine believe that
you need to hit and yell at kids to
make them listen, which shows
how ingrained this problem is.
The irony of all this is that
parents
and
teachers
who
adopt
destructive
techniques
actually do it out of love and care.
Intimidation and punishment
has become standardized as the
most effective form of training
to the extent that it has become
difficult to see the problem with
it. It is difficult to look beyond
the system and realize that you
cannot teach kids to respect
others by disrespecting them.
And as I write this, a part of me
still fears that those older than me
will read it and I will be labelled
as the delinquent girl, who went
to the United States and became
too foreign. Yet, all I’m trying to
say is don’t bully kids, just don’t,
and that shouldn’t be an invalid,
ungrateful or belligerent tagline
when kids are out there feeling
hopeless and ending their lives.
Adults need to be vigilant, they
need to lighten up and stop
nourishing their own anger at the
cost of a child’s mental health.
KAYLEAH SON
MiC Columnist
SYLVIA GISLER
MiC Columnist
RAMISA ROB
MiC Columnist
Constructed: Living in a body of color
ANURIMA KUMAR, DANYEL THARAKAN, SAMUEL SO / DAILY