Having finished my last exam, I can finally breathe in some free and unburdened air. I must also now face the upcoming challenge of moving into my new apartment in Brooklyn, and this will be an entirely new experience for me, especially when it comes to furnishing or decorating my living space.
More on that after the move. I will be away from home during the holidays for the first time, partly because of some commitments here in the city, and because airfare to Vancouver is not as affordable as I'd thought. I've only been away for 4 months, but I've only begun to realize how much I miss Vancouver and my parents.
My mother's birthday was two days ago, December 13th. I dedicate this post to her because not being able to be with her reminds me not to take her for granted, and my experiences here have taught me to cherish my previously strained relationship with her.
One morning about a week ago, I boarded the A express train as usual from Penn Station down to West 4th Street via the 8th avenue subway line. It was an unsurprisingly crowded train, and I was tired from a not very restful sleep. Somewhere after the 23rd street station, a woman and her daughter walked in. Her clothes were dirty and tattered, her hair matted and her gaze weary. With her left hand, she was dragging her daughter,who could be no more than 5 years of age, along the subway car, and her right hand was waving a sign, scribbled in poor penmanship, that read: "Need money to help pay rent". I instantly recognized them to be the same duo who regularly sat next to the turnstiles at 42nd St Bryant Park station: homeless, desperate and dejected, chewed up and spit out by an increasingly remorseless city.
Despite being a victim, I picked up a defiant glint in her mother's tired eyes. She relentlessly pushed through and jostled through the crowds, all of whom ignored her pleas. I was witnessing a mother's love and determination. She did not throw in the towel and accept her lot. The burdens of the city and the contemptuous of its inhabitants did not waver her.
That was not the first time that I've witnessed a mother's love, however. I can't claim to know how it feels to be homeless or live in extreme poverty. My life, though not as painful and miserable as theirs, is a testament to the universal truth of a mother's love. I can claim that I'm a product of such unconditional love, and I wish to share a little about my mother's love for me.
My mother's love for me knows no boundaries. She epitomizes the vigilant mother, always watchful of my education, companions and activities. During my adolescence and teenage years, this has been a source of conflict and friction between us. I accused her of being overprotective, she defends herself by saying that I'm not as independent as I think I am. I soon realized that her worry and care for me stems from a boundless love, and now I'm comforted to think that 'too much' care is just as absurd as 'too much' love. Only the insensitive and ungrateful would turn away 'too much' love.
My mother's love for me is steadfast and unwavering. She has worked hard her whole life to put me in the best institutions so that I may acquire the best education. Who I am today is a result of her diligence and planning, from kindergarten and my early school years in Uplands; primary school in PCGPS; high school in CLHS and RCS; undergrad in UBC and now law in NYU. Throughout my entire academic career, she has been sacrificing so much to make sure that tuition will not be an issue in my schooling, and she continues to facilitate the achievement of my goals and dreams. I am eternally grateful for this labor of love and can only hope to someday repay her for all those long and difficult hours or assure her that it was all worth it.
My mother's love for me is unconditional. Truly, I'm not the model son nor do can I claim to be a loving son. My attitudes to her have been inconsistent, ranging from filial child to disowned bastard. I'm known to be argumentative and she bore the brunt of it as I bombarded her with rhetoric, especially when we negotiated finances or back in the day, curfew hours or girlfriend issues. I was (and still am) a rambunctious youngster, and I regret to say that I'm not proud of my bellicosity in my interactions with her.
I'm happy to say that being away from home has taught me to value Mom's love for me. I am deeply moved by the sacrifices she's made for me and I wish to someday make her proud and satisfied with all her work and investments put into me.
From the bottom of my heart, happy birthday Mother.
I love you!
More on that after the move. I will be away from home during the holidays for the first time, partly because of some commitments here in the city, and because airfare to Vancouver is not as affordable as I'd thought. I've only been away for 4 months, but I've only begun to realize how much I miss Vancouver and my parents.
My mother's birthday was two days ago, December 13th. I dedicate this post to her because not being able to be with her reminds me not to take her for granted, and my experiences here have taught me to cherish my previously strained relationship with her.
One morning about a week ago, I boarded the A express train as usual from Penn Station down to West 4th Street via the 8th avenue subway line. It was an unsurprisingly crowded train, and I was tired from a not very restful sleep. Somewhere after the 23rd street station, a woman and her daughter walked in. Her clothes were dirty and tattered, her hair matted and her gaze weary. With her left hand, she was dragging her daughter,who could be no more than 5 years of age, along the subway car, and her right hand was waving a sign, scribbled in poor penmanship, that read: "Need money to help pay rent". I instantly recognized them to be the same duo who regularly sat next to the turnstiles at 42nd St Bryant Park station: homeless, desperate and dejected, chewed up and spit out by an increasingly remorseless city.
Despite being a victim, I picked up a defiant glint in her mother's tired eyes. She relentlessly pushed through and jostled through the crowds, all of whom ignored her pleas. I was witnessing a mother's love and determination. She did not throw in the towel and accept her lot. The burdens of the city and the contemptuous of its inhabitants did not waver her.
That was not the first time that I've witnessed a mother's love, however. I can't claim to know how it feels to be homeless or live in extreme poverty. My life, though not as painful and miserable as theirs, is a testament to the universal truth of a mother's love. I can claim that I'm a product of such unconditional love, and I wish to share a little about my mother's love for me.
My mother's love for me knows no boundaries. She epitomizes the vigilant mother, always watchful of my education, companions and activities. During my adolescence and teenage years, this has been a source of conflict and friction between us. I accused her of being overprotective, she defends herself by saying that I'm not as independent as I think I am. I soon realized that her worry and care for me stems from a boundless love, and now I'm comforted to think that 'too much' care is just as absurd as 'too much' love. Only the insensitive and ungrateful would turn away 'too much' love.
My mother's love for me is steadfast and unwavering. She has worked hard her whole life to put me in the best institutions so that I may acquire the best education. Who I am today is a result of her diligence and planning, from kindergarten and my early school years in Uplands; primary school in PCGPS; high school in CLHS and RCS; undergrad in UBC and now law in NYU. Throughout my entire academic career, she has been sacrificing so much to make sure that tuition will not be an issue in my schooling, and she continues to facilitate the achievement of my goals and dreams. I am eternally grateful for this labor of love and can only hope to someday repay her for all those long and difficult hours or assure her that it was all worth it.
My mother's love for me is unconditional. Truly, I'm not the model son nor do can I claim to be a loving son. My attitudes to her have been inconsistent, ranging from filial child to disowned bastard. I'm known to be argumentative and she bore the brunt of it as I bombarded her with rhetoric, especially when we negotiated finances or back in the day, curfew hours or girlfriend issues. I was (and still am) a rambunctious youngster, and I regret to say that I'm not proud of my bellicosity in my interactions with her.
I'm happy to say that being away from home has taught me to value Mom's love for me. I am deeply moved by the sacrifices she's made for me and I wish to someday make her proud and satisfied with all her work and investments put into me.
From the bottom of my heart, happy birthday Mother.
I love you!
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