Bittersweet - Happy Bird

This memory stood out as a definitive touchstone of my identity. It was the original inspiration for the concept of this series. This particular memory always evoked a bittersweetness, marmalade on slightly burnt toast. It was more sweet than bitter and similarly, this was more happy than sad. It captured a sweet moment with my family, but also the sudden realization about the relationship I would always have with them. This memory resurfaces whenever I find myself questioning who I am.

The meaning of your name can hold a lot of significance, but then, so can your horoscope, I guess.

Happy Bird.

As with most memories of my family, this one began without fanfare—a routine weeknight dinner. The specific details escape me, we probably had leftovers, nothing extraordinary. The one constant rule in our household was that dinner was family time, a shared moment at the table. When my brother and I were at home on school nights, unable to drive or venture out without parental supervision, we always gathered for dinner. Typically brief, these dinners followed the expected script: my parents discussing work briefly, asking about school and homework. My brother and I aimed to finish quickly, eager to return to watching TV or surfing the Internet, in a time before social media and cellphones.

During dinner, I recounted my day at school, sharing how a classmate attempted to write my name in Chinese for fun, since I didn't know how. The endeavor, I discovered, was more complex than anticipated, with multiple ways to write my name based on subtle pronunciation inflections.

I was excited to relay that the Chinese characters she chose translated to 'forgetful water lily,' a phrase that sounded dreamy and romantic. My father scoffed dismissively, the way I expected him to react if someone got a tattoo of what they thought were meaningful Chinese characters, only to end up with the word "tofu" in permanent ink on their body. This reaction immediately cast doubt on where the real meaning of my name was headed.

He then, matter-of-factly, stated, "Your name means happy bird."

That's not too bad, I thought. But before I could acknowledge my lesser but still acceptable alternative, he continued that my brother's name meant something along the lines of emperor that could never be conquered. This extinguished the dwindling excitement about my name. How did my brother's name elevate him to a powerful king, while I was merely a creature blissfully unaware of its simple existence? Why couldn't I have been a tragic, forgetful water lily Chinese maiden sitting by a lake?

In an attempt, perhaps, to appease my deflated mood or extend the rare participation in dinner conversation, my father threw out in a joking, almost flippant manner, "Your name is true for you. You're only happy when you're flying away."

There was something about his choice of words that lingered in my mind, resurfacing each time I encountered this memory. I've documented it in my journal, discussed it in therapy, and find myself writing various versions of this story. This particular version brought tears, an unexpected welling of emotions. It wasn't what he said; it was the way he said it. Intended as humor, it revealed a truth about myself that he had observed from a young age—that I always wanted to leave, to be elsewhere. His use of 'flying away' versus 'flying free' stayed with me; it wasn't about freedom but simply departing, not being there. This revelation occurred years before I moved to New York, before I permanently left the family dinner table.

On certain days, my father's off-handed remark, likely forgotten by him and assuredly insignificant at the time, feels like a heavy burden—a foretelling of my future, almost a curse. On other days, it is the one truth I hold on to, an aspect of me my own family understood from a young age, a name I was born into.