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Illustration by Beck Deresse
“It’s only $8, mom,” I pointed out, while staring at the delicious bento box.
“Too expensive. We’ll get it somewhere else.”
But we didn’t end up getting anything else. We ended up walking back to our Airbnb, dejected. Instead, our family ate instant ramen that night in Osaka, Japan, a city renowned for its diverse food. It was an annoying reminder of the mindset of my immigrant parents.
I, my wife, our two young children and our four elderly parents were on a month-long exploration of Japan and Vietnam. My wife and I had spent months planning this trip so our parents could see new places in their golden years, and – if I’m being honest with myself – so I could soothe (my) nagging sense of filial piety.
But we were frustrated. Everyday. With every purchase.
Our four parents are Vietnam War refugees. My parents had each lost more than four siblings to the war and fled the country in overcrowded refugee boats. They landed in rural Quebec in the 1970s with the help of the Red Cross. Those early years were tough; they barely made ends meet and swept floors for work. Slowly they saved, started their own machining company and helped put their two children through university.
The Canadian Dream, I guess.
But it wasn’t as dreamed. Even after five decades, there is something about being confined by “otherness,” afraid of loss, and forever chased by insecurity. That insecurity, as I’ve since learned from others, is often a dominant fixture in the immigrant mindset.
Sometimes, it shows up as haunting nightmares. Sometimes, it manifests as a deep discomfort in being idle and not contributing – for fear of being removed, once again. Often, though, it lurks ominously, resonating through families and generations.
Growing up, I resented that mindset since it highlighted the scarcity that seemed so unique to us.
Because it meant walking for an hour, sometimes in the snow with bags of groceries, so we could save on a 65-cent streetcar ticket. It meant that I found discount toiletries in Christmas stockings rather than action figures that my friends had. It meant wearing mismatched thrice-hand-me-down clothes, usually with patched holes, and looking like I didn’t belong.
Ultimately, that mindset contributed to a brooding sense of insecurity in my own early years as a preteen: I felt I wasn’t enough, because we did not have enough.
In response, I felt I had to prove to myself that I was both enough and – foolishly – that I could do what my parents had done. That meant throwing myself at my career so that I could provide for my family and stand on my own two feet, just like my parents. That meant a determined (my mom would say “stubborn”) fixation with being independent and not relying on others, just like them.
I’m now a father to two curious boys under four. I sometimes wonder how that mindset – unconsciously shaped through generations – will affect my kids. How do my wife and I teach them about our history in an honest yet gentle way, with all its sorrows and triumphs? I wonder if they have enough – or have we robbed them of opportunities by giving too much? And I ask myself how do we grow from the lessons of the past, without being limited by the past?
Increasingly though, I find myself reflecting on whether the immigrant mindset is a gift or a weakness. Perhaps this intergenerational baggage is something to be cherished.
I just need to more intentional – by embracing it instead of shunning it.
After all, that mindset is anemic to entitlement and privilege; it prizes grit, hard work and relentlessness above all else.
For many Canadians, that mindset also means paying it forward and helping those who come after.
That mindset further serves as a reminder that every dollar spent wastefully is a dollar less for others and the future. And that material things should not be taken for granted, let alone venerated over people and ideas. My mom used to tell me: “They can take everything from you – except your values, your knowledge and your family history.”
And our family history, like a long colourful tapestry, has since been altered to create something different; something new from something old. That mindset does not define the tapestry, but it is now interwoven in the threads.
Now, I regularly rely on that mindset. It is a daily reminder that I should not waste – and contributes to an appreciation for today’s abundance because of yesterday’s scarcity.
Embarrassingly, I only realized this far too late while travelling with our parents.
They didn’t need lavish Bento boxes or fancy travel; they just needed time with family. Because for them, family meant security and fulfilment.
Later on that trip, I found myself idly wandering into a glitzy electronics store. A new phone caught my eye and I felt the appeal of a new toy, the promise of a dopamine hit. Instinctively, I glanced at the price tag.
I paused. A fleeting memory of the past. A reminder of what’s important.
“Too expensive,” I whispered to myself – before walking back to the Airbnb, and my family.
Tom Du lives in Toronto.