Spring 2020

My mother and I stopped talking for a month last year just before my departure to South America for a two-week research trip. The change might have been gradual, but it was noticeable even for me, as someone who’s not very good at keeping in touch with my family. It wasn’t natural, either. The reason for this silence was that I’d be staying in AirBnBs during this trip, which according to my mom was on the list of things I should never do, right up there with asking to get my drink spiked at a bar or handing out my social security number. The last time we talked went something like, “don’t call me if you get in trouble because you’re making reckless decisions! Why can’t you listen to what I say instead of going on these trips?”

I remember wanting to explain myself. The trip wasn’t even a real research trip, it was to talk to LGBTQ+ activists and compile an oral history project based on their testimonies. Our AirBnBs were going to be absolutely harmless, no cameras lurking behind the mirror or shady hosts pretending to put up luxurious condos for rent. I wanted to go because I’d been selected and had secured funding, the subject meant a lot to me, I wanted to practice my Spanish, I’d never been to South America before... none of these reasons mattered.

The trip was besides the point. “I know, I’m sorry my choices disappoint you, but I’m going regardless, sorry...” I answered, not really knowing that this would be the last time we’d talk on the phone before my return to the United States six weeks later. At the time, I concealed my embarrassment at having this kind of relationship with my mom behind nonchalance. It hurt that she wouldn’t speak to me, but I was so sure that it would hurt more for me to be the one to cave.

One morning in Argentina though, I swallowed my pride and texted her. Looking back now, it was probably not a good idea to end my silence by asking my mom for the Amazon two-factor authentication code, but I did. The decision weighed on me — she would see me as cold, utilitarian, and unemotional, when really all this time I’d been questioning what kind of daughter could have landed in such a situation. We had clashed so many times while I was growing up, and I caught myself thinking that I’d almost rather be screaming at each other than not talking. With that text, I wanted to try making things normal, pretending that we could put our disagreements behind us with a benign action.

Seeing that she was not answering, I sent along some pictures of my team and me, smiling at the top of San Cristóbal Hill in Chile. I matched the photos with a message about how I was sending the photos even though I knew she probably didn’t want to hear from me at the moment. All of it was useless — I found a workaround so I wouldn’t need the Amazon code and I tried to contain myself as I received hurtful messages from her. She’d given me such conflicting impressions before all of this, so how was I to know that I was supposed to have been updating her on my whereabouts? That showing respect as a daughter meant checking in with her every week? Most of all, how was I supposed to communicate with someone that I genuinely thought didn’t want to be hearing anything from me?

After I read those texts, I secluded myself in the bathroom, trying not to make it obvious to my trip mates (who were now close friends) that I was crying. I apologized to my mother over Whatsapp texts, defending myself, telling her I’d call more often once I returned to campus. She wasn’t having any of it, and I gave up after a spiteful goodbye. I could taste my own resentment.

Growing up at the crossroads of cultures that are so different, especially when it comes to family, has marked me by how I struggle to fit family into my identity. Not having found a way to merge individualism with modern filial piety, I instead get the worst of both ends. I don’t get homesick easily and relish the independence gained from no longer living at home, yet I don’t expect that to come at the expense of my bond with my family. I probably should.

Besides the sightseeing and wonderful conversations I got to experience, I spent the next few days in Argentina trying to rebuild my relationship with my mother. I sent her more photos, turning off my phone immediately after so that I could gather the mental strength to read her snappy answers later. Like all the other times, recovery was slow. From picturesque landscapes to delicious meals to group photos, I sent her everything that would prove that I was being safe and having a good time (I didn’t send the one of us in the club at 6am). I wanted my mom to know that I was having the time of my life, and more insidiously, I almost wanted her to be jealous for it. I don’t like the part of myself that felt that way, but acknowledging it motivated me to make things better.

Over the rest of the trip, we warmed up to each other. The peak came when she wrote, “I’m glad you’re having a good time but it could have ended very badly as well. You wouldn’t want your sister to take such risk!” No I wouldn’t, I thought, but I was having a blast and the risks were so minimal compared to that. But the first part of the sentence was what gave me hope that we could rekindle our closeness. It was there, I felt, just dormant.

I don’t even remember our first phone call after this falling-out. In fact, it probably wasn’t memorable because it was so normal. Most likely, I told my mom about how incredible I thought our project was going to turn out to be, how tiring my return trip to campus was, or how I might’ve been happy to speak to her again.

There’s a Mitski song that goes, “Mom / Would you wash my back? This once / And then we can / forget it all...” It’s about Mitski as a young singer, trying to convince her mom that pursuing a career in music was worth it. Those lyrics specifically come out in a heart-wrenching, sorrowful wail, and in listening to it now, I realize it’s just like what I had felt. I wish I’d known about the song back then. I used to think about how hard it should be to forgive my mom for how she made me feel, but now, I’m more careful to not to hurt her feelings either.

Maybe we won’t forget this, but maybe now that it’s happened, we’ll let it linger behind us, the way our voices hang in the air around us after a phone call.