Covid conversations

“Good morning!” I yell and wave.

It is the middle of the night on my side of the phone. The blinds are down. The light is on. It’s quiet with the television off.

My son went to bed about an hour ago. He should be asleep unless he is reading secretly. It’s almost time for me to get to bed after another quiet day at home.

“Good morning!” my mother yells back from her side of the globe. She has been up for a little while.

“Honey, it’s our daughter,” she thrusts the phone in front of my dad’s bleary face.

He is a night owl and takes a little while to get up. He takes the video call though.

“Good morning,” he croaks back.

Usually the television news is blaring in the background. The sun is up. They are about to start another day.

We chat about how they are. Dad says he’s well. He is always okay. Even when he’s not. Mum has her good days and her bad days. They are in their seventies and their body is catching up to their age. I think there are times when their limitations frustrate them.

They came to Tasmania with us in tow in the mid-1980s. It felt like we were the only Korean family living in Hobart when we arrived. I think there was another family on the other side of the state. But we didn’t have much to do with them.

They worked hard for our future. We adapted and settled as best we could into this unfamiliar home. I tried to speak English as perfectly as I could with a soft Australian accent. It protected me from the judgment of others. My parents were not so lucky.

But they live there still. They call it home and were so proud when we all became citizens of that country. Over the years they’ve managed to gather a lovely group of friends around them.

It still doesn’t change the fact that they are as far away from London, where we currently live, as you can get.

They tut-tut their concerns about my health, weight and face to let me know they still love me. I need to be careful now that I am in lockdown and not moving as much or my health will suffer, they say. I need to try and avoid sweet, fattening foods like muffins, pastries, and cakes.

“But I like muffins…” I tease.

“No!” my mother responds. “They are the worst.”

I need to be careful of sunlight, they go on. I’m already getting freckles. There’s a great sunscreen they use.

No. Mum is insistent that SPF 15 from my foundation is not enough. It needs to be SPF 50. She’ll WhatsApp a photo to me later. I should try and find it in London if I can.

I understand some friends who have grown up in a western family might find this form of care somewhat confronting. But I have never taken it to heart. I knew, have always known, their best intentions for me.

There were times when their idea of what was good for me wasn’t what I wanted. I went along with it for a time and I’ve somehow ended up with a law degree I may never use.

The dutiful Asian daughter striving to meet her family expectations is a stereotype, but sometimes stereotypes exist because they’re true.

A small part of me felt I could never quite measure up. And as I grow older, I feel a little sorry that I’ve let them down. I’m sure what they envisaged for their daughter was not what they got.

It’s too late now.

I’m too happy where I am.

“Just be happy,” my mother says these days. “That’s the best kind of care you can provide your parents. To live a happy and fulfilled life.”

During the pandemic, as the world locked down and human touch became an act of courage, I called my parents once a day. It wasn’t for very long. I just wanted to check to see they were ok. And usually they were.

We may have been half a world away from each other, but with a little effort we could still remain close.