Learning to Dream Again
“What is your dream, Heidi?”
My eyes widened and I looked up at my Dad in shock. This was not a question that I had been prepared for. Our family dinner was suddenly blanketed by an awkward silence as I sat in a stunned stupor, mouth stuffed full of turmeric flavoured chicken.
Was this a trick question?
Am I meant to answer honestly?
Are dreams even allowed?
“My dream is to come home every day to my husband and dog, and I want us all to be happy,” I responded nervously, sneaking a quick glance at my husband who looked bemused by my answer. After all, he had spent the last two years encouraging me to ‘aim higher’ and to not bury my gifts and talents out of fear.
My dad’s question took me by surprise because I had grown up believing that dreams were selfish and unnecessary. As the eldest child of a struggling immigrant family, it was expected of me to make responsible decisions that would guarantee financial security and bring honour to my family’s name.
As a family who endured racism in the 1990’s, my dad believed that the only way that an Asian woman could gain respect was to have a respectable job title. His dream for me was to work in an air-conditioned office where people would call me Madame or Doctor. I find it funny that one man’s dream can be another’s cage.
“What is your dream?”
If my dad had asked me this question when I was sixteen, I would have had so much to say, and if I had received his blessing, who knows where my starry eyes would have led me? But here I was as a thirty-year-old, hiding under a glass ceiling that had been built by a lifetime of unspoken rules and painful rejections.
Although no one in my family has a musical bone in their body, I have always loved singing. At school, I was part of the choir and when I was ten years old, I was chosen to audition for a solo performance at the Opera House. My parents couldn’t take me to the audition, so my choir teacher offered to give me a ride.
I remember this gesture because I grew up being told that the arts were an unnecessary waste of time; a pursuit for the incompetent and the lazy. I wanted to nail the audition, not so much for myself, but because I wanted to make my teacher proud. Unfortunately, when I stood in front of the judges I was strangled by nerves and my throat closed up.
In the car ride home, my teacher persisted in affirming my voice and encouraging me to try again, but I couldn’t hear any of it. My audition was a joke; a weak and raspy mess. Although my teacher didn’t see it this way, I felt like my failure to perform brought shame to myself, my family, my teacher and even my school. That night I decided to stop singing. Nobody had told me that dreams could hurt so much.
In high school, I excelled in drama and theatre. It was the one place where my wild emotions and elaborate facial expressions seemed to be warmly welcomed! For my Higher School Certificate, I wrote and performed a monologue called ‘True Beauty’. It was told from the perspective of Cinderella’s Ugly Stepsister, because deep down, I’ve always felt like a villain without a voice. I wanted to give women who failed to meet cultural standards and norms, a chance to share their story.
My monologue received high marks, but it was the act that marked the end of another dream. Upon applying for university, my dad told me that Asians will never be respectfully represented in Western media, and at that time he was absolutely right.
“What is your dream?”
How can such a simple question make me feel so many mixed and confusing emotions? Perhaps, after so many years of rejection and disappointment; I had forgotten how to dream.
Back at the dinner table, I was desperate to change the topic of the conversation. I felt anxious and vulnerable; as though expressing any sort of personal goal was just setting myself up for failure. To my relief, my dad steered the conversation back to himself and he began to share instead.
“When I was young, I wanted to be a policeman or a sailor.”
What? My dad’s dreams are so random!
“I’m very adventurous and love being outdoors, but I knew that my mother would never approve of a career that was dangerous or risky. When I failed the physical test for the police academy, I studied a sailing course in secret.”
What? My dad chased dreams in spite of opposition from his mum?
“When I told my mother that I wanted to sail the world, she got so angry at me. I hated that. She was always stopping me from doing the things that I loved.”
I almost spat out my chicken. My hyper-filial dad admitting to hating characteristics of his mother?
“I dreamed of a life of travel and adventure, but instead, I was boxed into a factory for thirty years in Australia.”
My dad’s honesty began to calm my anxious heart. I realised that just as I had never been asked for my dreams, my dad had never been asked for his. It was comforting to know that my dad could resonate with me; that he too struggled to obey his mother and has felt the disappointment of unrealised dreams.
“So, what stopped you from chasing after your dreams?” I asked earnestly, fascinated to hear more.
“In my day, if our parents told us to do something we have to obey. In Australia, ‘being yourself’ and ‘chasing your own path’ is encouraged, but if I did that in Hong Kong, I would be shunned by society. Nobody would dream of dishonouring their parents that way.”
As my dad explained the challenges of his cultural upbringing, the inner conflict that I felt as an Australian Born Chinese started to make more sense. Although I was born into an individualistic culture where it is noble to pursue dreams, I was brought up in a communal culture where we’re expected to sacrifice for the larger community. As an Australian Born Chinese, I have often felt paralysed by opposing expectations, not wanting to be a disappointment to either.
“Is writing a book your dream?” my dad asked again.
“Maybe,” I responded hesitantly, not wanting to appear selfish or demanding, “but even if it never happens, I’m still going to be happy with how I’ve lived my life.”
“If your dream is to write and your parents support you, you have no reason not to try. Don’t live your life in regret. We support you.”
As words of empathy and encouragement swept across the dinner table, my anxious soul sighed with relief. Even if I pretend to be uncaring, deep down, I’ll always feel like the little girl who wants to make Dad proud; the Ugly Stepsister who wants to feel worthy of being seen and heard.
I’m still trying to work out what my dreams are, but that night, something special happened. The little girl who was once shamed as ‘Lazy Susan‘, learned to dream again.
