Three More Years Passed, but I'm Still On My Way Home

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Yuko. Yuko grew up in a foster care center, a place for orphans, abandoned children, and abused children to find refuge. She was sent to the center because of abuse.

Yuko usually wore only long-sleeved clothes to hide the scars covering her arms. When she was still living with her mother, small mistakes--like forgetting to put her shoes in the shoe cabinet immediately after coming home, not washing the dishes right after eating, or failing to finish her homework on time--would make her mother angry. When her mother got angry, she would hit Yoko with a clothes hanger. If Yuko cried, her mother's punishment became even more severe, burning Yuko's hands with cigarette butts or scalding them with hot water. Eventually, an elementary school teacher noticed the unusual scars on Yuko's arms and hands. Although her mother claimed that she was merely disciplining her daughter, officials from the child welfare institute intervened, taking Yuko away and placing her in the foster care center.

Four years later, Yuko's mother, accompanied by a lawyer, appeared at the foster care center. She claimed her abusive behavior had been due to an illness she could now control and that she wanted to take Yuko, now a junior high school student, back home. Although the social workers at the center were uneasy about the mother's record, the lawyer argued, "it was four years ago, and Yoko's mother has changed." On top of that, local politicians pressured the foster care center, leaving the social workers with no choice but to agree to let Yuko go "home."

On the day Yuko returned, she wore short-sleeved clothes for the first time, revealing her scarred arms and shocking everyone. When asked how she felt, Yuko replied calmly, "I'm not worried about my scars being seen. We have to acknowledge the past and learn from our mistakes. If we keep hiding it, we'll never make changes, and neither my mother nor I will be able to move forward."

But Yuko didn't know her mother hadn't truly changed. Believing Yuko had embarrassed her in the public by showing her scars, her mother flew into a rage. As soon as they got "home," she poured boiling water all over Yuko. When the police arrived, Yoko's mother screamed, "Let go of me! It's all her fault! She embarrassed me and made me angry!" Yuko, with severe burns covering her body, was rushed to the intensive care unit amidst her mother's outbursts.

Yuko's story was documented by Japanese writer Yuki Ishikawa and later adapted into the graphic novel Fourteen Days in Shonan by manga artist Tooru Fujisawa. In the book, Yuko was rescued by "GTO" Onizuka Eikichi and transformed into a fashionable girl after undergoing a clever skin grafting surgery. But Onizuka-sensei exists only in manga; the real Yuko was far less fortunate.

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I had a similar childhood experience to Yuko. As a child, everything I did--weather quarreling with my sisters or bringing home poor test scores--seemed to make my mom angry. When my mom got angry, she would hit me with a cane or a clothes hanger. If I cried out, the punishment would become even more severe. After the cane cracked and the clothes hanger bent from repeated beatings, my mom often still couldn't calm down. She would grab my hand and bite it. When a pediatrician noticed the scars, my mom insisted I caused the injuries by fighting with other kids and even claimed that I was a lying child with delusional tendencies.

My dad wasn't much better. He is often angry, too, and when he's angry--whether or not it was related with me--he would pick up a hammer and told me to get out, or he'd beat me to death.

But I was much more fortunate than Yuko. My injuries were not severe enough to send me to an intensive care unit. When I finally reached adulthood, I managed to escape from that horrible "home" and came to the United States for school and work. After having Little J, I felt reconciled to my parents and hoped to rebuild my relationship with them. So when Little J was three years old, I mustered up the courage and take him to my parents's home in Taiwan for the first time during the Lunar New Year.

I made significant efforts to empathize with my parents, show concern for them, and rebuild our relationship. But just like Yuko's mother, my parents only wanted to bury the past. The only way to live peacefully with them under the same roof was to act and pretend that nothing had happened. I really don't know how to reconcile on that basis.

Three more years passed, and my relationship with my parents remained unchanged. Their behavior did not change either. Earlier this year, I took Little J's one-year-old brother, Baby J, to Taiwan on a business trip and stayed at my parents' house. Every time Baby J cried, my dad would yell, "Can't you do something about the baby? Get out and don't come back. You're so annoying!'

As a result, I had to take Baby J everywhere. During meetings with my publisher, my editor watched Baby J for me. When I appeared on a talk show, a college friend who lived nearby watched let Baby J hanged out at her place. I could only take Baby J back "home" when he is quiet, and even then, my mom would justify my dad's behavior be saying he scolded me only "for my own good."

It was all too familiar--the countless times I was chased, threatened, and kicked out of the house as a child. The difference now is that I've grown up. I know I did nothing wrong. I know it's unreasonable to as a one-year-old baby remain quiet all the time. I no longer blame myself, nor do I believe my parents' excuse that they scolded and beat me "for my own good."

I failed to reconcile with my parents. I think the reason of my failure was my expectation that my parents would change, and I could open up do them and discuss the past. After three years, I realized such expectations were unrealistic. I still want to try again, but I'm also preparing myself for the possibility that I may have to let it go someday. Many things cannot be forced. For estranged family members, even maintaining superficial harmony takes a lot of effort. At least my efforts gave Little J and Baby J an opportunity to know their grandparents like other kids. For now, that's good enough.

When I took Little J to my parents' home for the first time, I was determined to make it work and wrote the blog post It Took Me Thirteen Years To Go Home. Now, I realize that I have not yet return "home." and maybe I'll never will. Over the past three years, readers and friends have written to me--some encouraged me, some ridiculed me, and many shared their traumatic childhood experiences while asking for my opinion. I want to thank all my reader friends who have encouraged me. To those who, like me, hope to reconcile with their parents: Even though I failed, it doesn't mean you will. Please don't be discouraged. This is something worth striving for, so please persevere as long as you can.