Returning Home (and more)

Eye-Opening Moments are real-life stories of adversity, encounters, and perspectives intertwined. In this episode you will hear about Returning Home and That's Not Why I Got a Master's.

Website: https://inspiremereads.com
Books: https://amazon.com/author/emily-kay-tan.2021_

Transcript

Hello and welcome to episode #98 of Eye-Opening Moments where you’ll hear real-life stories of adversity, encounters, and perspectives intertwined. They are moments that can lift your spirits, give you some food for thought, or move you. For the introspective mind that likes to reflect, discover, and find solutions or meaning in a complex life, this is for you. I’m your host Emily Kay Tan. In this episode, you will hear about Returning Home and That's Not Why I Got A Master's.

Returning Home
One summer, I decided to return to where I grew up. None of my relatives lived there anymore, but I wanted to take a look. The old five-story apartment building I lived in had transformed into a posh luxury apartment complex. The home I knew was no longer, and its new face made me also realize that I, too, had a new face.

My friend Sonny drove me to Shawmut Ave, the street where I grew up. Sonny lived nearby, so he was familiar with the area. I didn’t know him growing up, and he didn’t live nearby when I was growing up there. And here we were, on the street, familiar to both of us. I sat in the car, surprised to see that the face of my apartment had changed even though it had been over ten years since I last lived there. Sonny informed me that all the flats on the street had been renovated for a richer class of people. It was a poor neighborhood when I lived there.

Finally, I got out of the car to walk up the few steps to the apartment building. It had two large tall doors to it. There were still five doorbells. I used to live on the fifth floor. How could I forget? I had to walk up five flights of stairs for nearly ten years. Sometimes, I had to run up the stairs as my puppy love barged in the front door and chased me up the stairs after school. Now I find it amazing that I once could run up five flights of stairs because I can no longer do it in my middle age.

As I peered through the double door with barred windows, I saw marble floors and steps. It used to be warped wooden floors that creaked. The banister was black and shiny; it looked so smooth that you could slide down it. It used to be a painted green wooden banister. As a kid, I never needed to hold on to it, but I saw Grandma hold on and slowly walk up the stairs every day. 

The doors were locked, so I couldn’t get into the building. I proceeded to look at the exterior. The doors and barred windows were black with gold accents around the window frames. It looked new and gave you a feeling that this was where the wealthy young professionals lived. I doubt older people could live there since there was no elevator to the fifth floor.

I wanted to enter the building, but no one opened the door. I wondered if the new tenants on the fifth floor left their shoes on the stairs that led to the roof of the building. We were a family of eight with plenty of shoes on the steps. If you could open the door of my fifth-floor apartment, you would see a large living room with a small bedroom at the front right corner, where Grandma and Grandpa slept. It was small but cozy. The living room looked big. Maybe because I was little, or perhaps it was because there was a row of bay windows facing the street. To the left of our front door was a hallway leading to one bathroom, two bedrooms, and a kitchen in the back with a small room leading to the fire escape.

How did we manage one bathroom with eight people? I remember some nightmares when someone needed to go in a hurry, and someone else was already in it. The loud pounding on the door would wake everybody else up. I remember when I had to go, and Grandma Sandy sat on the toilet. I told her to hurry up, and it didn’t seem like she was coming out. I begged and pleaded. Then I used profanity; Grandma Sandy got angry and hurried out to scream at me. She huffed, “You want to f*** me? You tell your grandpa you want to f*** me!” I thought, how gross! I was using profanity without it meaning anything other than anger. How did my old immigrant grandma even know the F word?! It might be funny to laugh about today, but it was no laughing matter at the time.

I feel most fortunate to have the bathroom available to me 24/7 at home now. No more waiting and being awoken in the middle of the night by someone pounding on the door!

My two aunties had a small bedroom together, while my three uncles had a larger bedroom. Since my three uncles had the bigger room, I slept in that room on the bottom deck of a bunk bed. I had my own space with the stuffed hippo I made in a class project. I was a happy camper with my little piece of heaven looking out the window at the head of my bed. 

After a few years, my aunties thought I should move into their room because I was getting bigger, and they didn’t trust my uncles or wanted to keep me safe. Moving in with my aunties, I got a folding bed. Once folded down, there was no space to walk in the room comfortably. You had to walk sideways to get out. Each morning I would have to fold the bed back up so there would be space to get around in the room. Since it was a folding bed, there was no solid or hard bottom under the mattress. My bed was not the most comfortable to sleep on, and I had to sleep on it for a couple more years before we moved.

Sleeping on a queen-sized bed now with plenty of room on both sides of my bed to get up from seems like a luxury because I didn’t have that space in the past. But that is how you appreciate what you have, so I am thankful for both situations.

Ah, the kitchen was big if you didn’t have eight occupying the same space. With the sink, stove, refrigerator, and dining table each against a wall, space in the middle made it look spacious. However, when it came to dinner time, we would have to pull out the rectangular dining table to the center to seat eight people. Once we did that, the kitchen felt crowded. Sitting at the dining table, you could easily reach the sink, refrigerator, or stove. Though there was little space, I think it was a warm family with Grandma and an auntie cooking up a storm to fill the dining table with many dishes. Our hungry mouths emptied all the plates and bowls by the end of dinner.

The kitchen also gave me the most dreadful memories in that apartment. Sometimes, you could see cockroaches crawling around. If they were big, I’d scream, and one of my uncles would smash them while we were eating dinner. Other times, we might see a few rats crawling around. My aunties and I would scream, and we’d all look to see the rats scurry away. I believe our screams scared them away, but how could I continue to eat? After cleaning up in the kitchen and going to bed, I might occasionally get up in the middle of the night and go into the kitchen for a drink. Turning on the lights, I’d see more cockroaches and rats than ever before. I learned that going into the kitchen in the middle of the night was not a good idea. It was too frightening for this little girl.

How fortunate I am now to be free of rats and cockroaches. They are such small animals compared to my size, but they still frighten me. Luckily, I can now live in a better, rat-free, and roach-free place.

I thought traveling down memory lane to the old apartment where I lived would be fun. It wasn’t altogether fun. The cramped space, the five flights of stairs, the shoes displayed on the steps, the one bathroom, and the rats and roaches gave me a chance to see how far I had come. The changed exterior, the marbled flooring, and the stairs of today also remind me that things have changed and can improve. 

Despite all my struggles and challenges, I must acknowledge that there have been improvements in me. The physical exteriors are easily noticeable changes that also show the difference between poor to middle-class life or that I have transitioned from them. The interior modifications may not be so apparent. The basic structure of the building is the same as the foundation of who I am is still there. However, the infrastructure has strengthened itself, and additional details have built more character into my person. You can’t see the courage, tenacity, resilience, and creativity that have developed to create the me of today, but I know it is there. More improvements can happen gradually or overnight, like the changing faces of buildings or homes. 

Who could have guessed that returning home would be a reflection and examination of the self? And there could be a connection between a building and a person’s interior and exterior. Both exteriors could easily be altered and appear different, but the basic foundation remains. Any changes to the interior of each include many details. While the interior details could be seen in a renovated apartment, the internal changes in a person are not so obvious. They come gradually, but I know them from self-observation. Returning home has brought appreciation and acknowledgment of the person I have become. Home again is not a bad thing after all.

That's Not Why I Got a Master's
"The statistics are that one in five teachers will quit teaching within the first five years," said my first professor in the teaching credential program. Though he was discouraging, his statement made me think I'd better have a backup plan. I decided that I would later get a Master's degree to increase my options in the education field. 

Since I needed to finance my graduate school education, I worked full-time by day and went to school by night. From the start, my research professor said, "You will need to devote your time to classes and to write a Master's thesis, which would be like a full-time job. You will not be able to finish in two years if you have a full-time job." Only six of us were in the class, and we all had full-time jobs during the day. We said we couldn't quit our jobs because we needed the income to support ourselves. I was glad everyone was in the same situation; I was in good company. The professor then said, "It will take you longer if you have a full-time job." It was only the first day of class, and I felt like she was shooting us down and giving us no encouragement. We said we were determined and would do our best to finish the Master's thesis within two years.

I began graduate school with two discouraging professors, but maybe they presented a reality about the education field. Nevertheless, I entered it hoping to make a difference for children. I wanted to do something for children because I never forgot the kid in me who wanted someone to help me, hear me, or save me from feeling unheard and unwanted. I thought those were my reasons, but it was not altogether accurate.

Getting a Master's degree was no easy feat. It wasn't so much the work itself, even though I thought it would be hard work. Instead, the challenges were several.

Juggling work and school at once was a challenge. Teaching full-time had homework to correct student work and write lesson plans. Going to school at night as a student had assignments, too. I spent Saturdays completing all the homework. The juggling was a must as I was unwilling to give up either. Work was necessary to pay tuition and the bills. Going to school was essential to move forward in my career. And when I set a goal, it had to be done as soon as possible.

Sometimes I wished I didn't have to worry about money all the time, but because I had to, it did produce some positive and unexpected results. I learned to manage time and money efficiently and discovered they were good skills. Teaching and learning simultaneously gave me clarity on the purpose of my job. I was on a mission to make a difference for children.

I was finally graduating with a Master's degree, and I discovered the reason why I wanted the Master's degree so badly. It was not simply that I wanted to get a higher degree to give myself more options in the education field. It was not even just that I wanted to make a difference for children. It was a five-year-old child's reason. It was too embarrassing to let anyone know the truth.

On the day I graduated with a Master's degree, my youngest sister graduated with a Bachelor's degree in the same city as me. Mom and Dad flew into town to attend my youngest sister's graduation. Grandma Sandy, who raised me since I was five, sent me a jade ring; she knew I loved jade and knew it was no easy feat as I paid my own tuition. Auntie Tessa flew in and bought me a dozen roses because (in the past) I mentioned that I had never received a dozen roses in my life. Auntie Tessa and one of my best friends came to my graduation. Mom and Dad did not come; they chose to go to my youngest sister's graduation. Though I was not surprised as I was sent to live with Grandma Sandy at age five, and they long rid their responsibility of me, I was still hurt. 

Fighting back the tears, I suddenly remembered hearing Mom say something many years ago. "I wish someone in the family got a Master's degree," Mom said while cooking in the kitchen. I don't know why she said it, but I know I heard it when I was fourteen; I kept it in mind. 

I became the first one in the family to earn a Master's degree, yet Mom and Dad did not come to my graduation. They didn't say congratulations, nor did I hear or see them anytime that day. A pang of emptiness hit me; my heart was hollowed out. How could I have such heartless parents? What did I ever do to deserve such treatment? I never knew the answers. But the fourteen-year-old me appeared. She wanted to get a Master's degree to grant her mother's wish, but it looked like no matter what she did, she was not going to please her. Why did that little girl want to please her mom? Since she was sent away at age five, she concluded that she was unwanted and unloved. All she wanted was to be wanted and loved by Mom and Dad, but she never got it, even on graduation day.

Despite hidden tears and unseen pain, I moved on. On the outside, I showed strength, resilience, and courage to achieve many goals. You would never know my pain if I didn't tell you because I refused to show it. The only clue you might have had was looking at the frowns on my face. At any rate, I became an exemplary teacher. Because I felt unheard, unloved, unwanted, and unseen as a child, I knew the exact things to give children. And I gave them all to my students. Colleagues asked me why my students loved me so much. What was my secret? Indeed, I had a secret. My childhood trauma of being sent away to live with Grandma Sandy at age five gave me the secret ingredient to allow my students to feel seen, heard, wanted, and loved.

The Master's degree I worked hard to get to secure my career or to please Mom became of less significance as I realized something else: Making a difference for children was more important than mom's treatment of me.

Key Takeaways: Though I returned home for fun but was dismayed at what I saw, I discerned that the apartment building had correlations with me. Like the apartment, I have grown and changed on the outside and the inside.

Though I struggled and worked hard to get a Master's degree, I discovered that it was not just a backup plan to secure a position in my career, but the young child in me wanted to grant Mom her wish.

Next week, you will hear two new real-life stories called How to Stop Wasting Time and Only She Understood. If you enjoyed this episode of Eye-Opening Moments, please share it with others, support the show by clicking on the link in the description, or go to www.inspiremereads.com and leave a message. Thank you for listening!