I remember being nine and refusing to jump into the water. As a kid, I was convinced that playing in the pool when it was cold out would make me sick. Despite my worry, the four other children had already begun splashing around, joyfully laughing without a care in the world. I remember Gabby looking at me mischievously, before pulling herself and her brother out of the water in order to push me in. I remember thinking it was the end of the world for a couple moments, before releasing the tension in my shoulders and splashing them right back.
At age nine, I lived in a three-bedroom apartment. My mother, my brother and I took the first room, while a single mom and her son, Nathan, took another and a single dad and his two children (Gabby and her brother, Ray) took the last. There were three families with five children living under one roof, lovingly referred to as my “clown car home.”
The apartment was nice, don’t get me wrong; I always had enough room for everything I needed. I just felt more mature and less willing to relax than the others, which in a house of five children, was not an especially endearing trait. I credit it to the way that I’d been raised. Growing up in my father’s traditionally Asian household, I learned to live by a very strict set of rules. I was the eldest daughter, meaning I should be proper and poised, disciplined in education and manners. After my parents divorced, I still lived in his house Mondays, Tuesdays and every other weekend, and I carried that image of myself with pride.
But when those Wednesdays, Thursdays and other weekends rolled around, I was thrust back into the chaos of my mother’s home. I was no longer the eldest child, but rather the middle child of five. Each of our single parents spent a lot of time at work, so the five of us would go on adventures on the rooftop of the apartment. Gabby, Ray and Nathan taught me how to be a kid: they showed me how to play pool and forced me to watch horror movies to help me get over my fear (it didn’t work).
Because of this, I led a double life. At Dad’s, I was the poster child, focused solely on academic success. At Mom’s, I began reluctantly letting my guard down and learning how to have fun as a real kid. I compartmentalized these two lives into separate boxes in my brain, and I really struggled to reconcile both parts into one coherent identity. Growing older, I’ve learned to thrive in the intersection. I only know success today because my father made me sit in front of a workbook and practice math problems after school. Still, I know true childhood because of those long pool days. I’ve come to recognize how lucky I am to have experienced them both.
Just as my identity was built by a particularly strange cast of characters, each person is ultimately the sum of all the unique experiences they have had. Instead of considering yourself as a puzzle meant to fit pieces neatly into place, I implore you to consider yourself more as a goodie bag, filled with trinkets and souvenirs from all those you’ve learned from before. If I’ve learned anything from my clown car home, it’s that life can be contradictory and complex, but that’s what makes it worth living.
To be honest, I have no idea where Gabby, Ray or Nathan are now. At some point, each of our parents found enough success to move out and on towards new lives. Yet, even though they’ve left my life, I will always remember the freedom and resilience that they taught me, and I’m forever grateful that they gave me the confidence to cannonball on my own.
