I began this 40 day journey to my 40th birthday with reflections about my mother on Tuesday.  Then, yesterday, I went to see Crazy Rich Asians with my dear friend Tami (I know, not opening weekend like most respectable Asian Americans, but in homage to my immigrant upbringing and increasingly introverted self, at a mid-week, matinee showing with a gift card, sneaking in contraband milk-tea and Taiwanese pastries).  Honestly, I only went to see the movie because it’s such an important hallmark of representation for the Asian American community.  I had read the synopsis and spoilers and I really didn’t think I was that interested, but, you know, for the good of the people.

I saw it. I liked it. I laughed. I cried. I saw so much of my story on the screen.

I mean, I’m not married to someone who is crazy, rich or Asian, so not the central romantic plot of the story, but Constance Wu’s Rachel Chu was so familiar to me, an academic, raised by a single mom, who hadn’t ever been to Asia (so it seemed) until her adulthood, and who struggled with her Asian American identity.

Then, this morning, at 5am, with my 3-year old (who had crawled into bed at 4:22 am) lying on my chest, I began to cry.

By 5:10, it was a full-on shaking sob, loud enough to awaken my husband who, with some alarm, thought our daughter had smacked me a good one across the face in her sleep (this was a viable possibility as this has happened many a time in the past) and offered me an ice-pack.

Then, my daughter woke up, also thinking she had hit me, and wanted attention of her own because suddenly her hand hurt, perhaps from the impact of thinking she struck my face.

So, I took a few deep breaths and went from grieving daughter mode to competent mommy mode, and took care of her.  I told my husband why I was crying and he gave me a big hug. There were lots of hugs before the family left this morning, but also no more real tears because mornings are hectic when you’ve got to catch a 7am bus (my son) for school and it’s one drop-off for the Papa carpool of kids.

But now, it’s 7:17, which seems like a perfectly appropriate time for reflection before an 8am call and the start of a workday where I’ll need to be in competent academic mode. In those 10 minutes between 5-5:10 am when mist turned to sob, here’s what I was thinking.

The parts of Crazy Rich Asians that touched me the most, perhaps unsurprisingly, were the few scenes with Rachel and her mother.  [Note: If you haven’t yet seen the movie, you may want to skip to the next paragraph, although I’ll try not to put many plot spoilers here] In the first scene with the 2 of them, Rachel’s mother tells her that though she has a Chinese face and may speak Chinese, in her head and heart, she is different.  And in that moment, I felt named what I have experienced most of my life.  (Jenn Fang, of Reappropriate, writes about this beautifully in her Washington Post article) Later, just after the climax of the movie, Rachel asks her mother about her past life, and apologizes to her because of the impact she feels she’s had on her mother’s life direction. Her mom says to Rachel that she (Rachel) doesn’t need to be sorry about her (mom’s) past life because all of her past life led to her best thing–being Rachel’s mom. I don’t really know if those were the exact words, but that was the sentiment, that all the sacrifice, change, risks, trials that Rachel’s mom had gone through had been worth it because of how proud she was to be Rachel’s mom. And, that was my mom, too. I know that this is how she felt about me, and I have felt so many times (as a child and teenage, and as an adult) regret for the way that I shifted her life, and a desire for my success to make-up for her sacrifices.  This was my heart on the screen.  Finally, in the pivotal Mahjong game towards the very end of the film, as Rachel is walking out of the parlor, after powerfully claiming her right to be “good enough” despite attempts to shame her because of her (and her mother’s) past, she proudly takes the arm of her mother, who gives one direct look at Eleanor Young, before walking out with Rachel and preparing for their journey home.

I couldn’t process this yesterday, but in the early hours of the morning, I felt deeply the loss of my own mother, not just the physical loss, in that she will never be there to walk in during the most painful, beautiful, and important moments of my life, but also the loss that comes from not knowing who my mother was as a whole person.  Rachel didn’t really know her mother’s story.  I didn’t know my mother’s either.

While I was probably the person who was closest to my mother for the last 15 years of her life, I was a child, who was uninterested in who my mother was as a person, because, honestly, who cares who their parents are as people when they are trying to develop who they are as a person? Developmentally, that comes later. It comes when you go through those adult moments and want to know what it was like for your parents in that moment (particularly your same gender parent). It has come so many times in the last 23 years.  But my mom hasn’t been there to ask the questions that only she could answer.

So, this morning, I thought that the time has come to piece together who my mom was, as best I can.  I know it will be imperfect, but it will be better than having no memories.  This morning, I resolved to ask people who knew her to tell me their memories and stories of her, to help me to know who she was as a person, to help me to get a piece of myself back through getting some of her back, before it’s too late. I know it’s been almost a quarter of a century since she died, but I am hopeful.

For my brother’s 40th birthday, 10 years ago, I asked that people send me letters or stories for him and put together a book.  For my own 40th birthday, I am asking that people who knew my mom or who know people who knew my mom, Ming-mei (Lois) Chen Hsieh, to tell me their stories, to bring my mom home for my birthday.  To give my children a chance to know their grandmother who they will never get to meet in this life.  Please, even if they are small stories, and if you could pass this blog along if there are people I don’t know.  I’m easy to find on the internet and Facebook and happy to share my e-mail address if people message me.

I did not know the road to finding who I am would lead me here, or perhaps that it would lead me here so quickly, but this would be my greatest gift.

Sometimes you open yourself up, and you break.  And you reach out to community (some of whom you don’t even know) to help put you back together.  I know my mom made a difference in people’s lives.  I need those stories now more than ever.