a midnight reflection for the digital captives and password children
Sometimes, we just need to be seen, even if it means crying into the void.
My mother and I had a fight last week.
Actually, not a fight, but an argument*. See, I put an asterisk because I had no intention of having an argument. Rather, what I thought was merely a conversation stating how a series of interactions had left me feeling. However, discussing feelings with parents at best doesn’t go anywhere, and worst is construed as one placing blame on them.
In short— I was not feeling very seen by my family. Instead, I felt like an overheated Microsoft chatGPT. An artificial intelligence at the ready to perform a task that they couldn’t be bothered to complete themselves. This is a… lonely, sort of existence, don’t you think? And I said as much. Alas, my mother was not open to receiving this. Receiving my feelings. And while I understand boundaries and burdens, I was definitely looking for her to hold space for me in the way that I feel I do for her.
So what’s a kid to do when they don’t feel like they’re being heard?
I wanted to stamp my feet, ball up my fist, bang ‘em, and shout “NO MORE QUESTIONS! I’M BABY”. I wanted to shake my wrist free of the digital native shackles that bind me to the neverending requests to perform ‘tech support’ that everyone has deemed too time-consuming or complicated for themselves. I wanted to boot-up the computers in front of my equally digital-savvy siblings and say “tag, you’re it”. I wanted to do a lot of things. But I’m me, and I’m frustrated, so I cried.
I cried a lot, like really cried. That big kind of labored wailing, hyperventilating, can’t speak through the sob, blubbering kind of crying. And for all the memes that I post about boyfriends giving logical answers when you’re looking for emotional support, Drew did indeed come correct that day. He listened and consoled me, let me cry in a manner that felt like it would never dry up or end, and filled the silence when I was too stuck in my head. It helped.
A little background on me (a rarity, you’re welcome): I am one of four offsprings and I share the middle. I’m also the only girl, so you can fill in the blank ad-lib style on what that might’ve looked like growing up.
There’s the painfully accurate joke on the internet about being the oldest daughter, particularly in an immigrant/1st GEN household. You are the keeper of your siblings, and in many ways, your parents, too, and occasionally you are gleaned over or temporarily forgotten. It can be rough. But I suppose it’s not all difficult.
I consider myself one of the lucky ones, lucky that both my parents– hard-working, immigrants turned US citizens– have always let me be, and dress as who I wanted to be, as far as my interests and profession go. My brothers and I have all pursued work in art-adjacent fields, and they have never once asked or put pressure on us to do something more “practical” or high-earning, so yeah, I consider myself one of the lucky ones.
All of that said, my parents are not perfect. They have a lot of faults, as any parent would, and I operate now under the mantra that, they’re all people doing this for the first time in their lives. Just as it is my first time being the password child to parents who struggle with technology. It’s their first time being potentially out-witted by the state of the data processors behind these compact, glowing screens.
Besides, I can’t blame them entirely. I spend so much time on social media between my interest, my love of research, and my literal job, so it’s no wonder that every fortnight I’m trying to curb the unquenchable desire to delete everything. Delete everything and feign ignorance in the way that I imagine my brothers do. You reap the seeds that you sew after all.
In the end, I did end up speaking with my mum. Reconciling from a fight you didn’t know you were having it surprisingly hard, but necessary. Moments of vulnerability like the one I confronted serve as a reminder of our shared humanity. We all crave connection, understanding, and sometimes it takes a good cry (or adult tantrum) to remind us of that. So here’s to not shying away from our messy emotions, and seeking support from others when we need it.
Happy dressing (and maybe a little crying) xx
Devi