Wanted: An All-American Family

I thought I had found the picture-perfect family that I so desperately craved but never had

Photo by Chandradas Balan on Unsplash

In elementary school, my family lived in an idyllic apartment complex I still remember clearly. It was in southern, sunny California. The buildings were clay brown, and the neighborhood had ample grassy areas, hills to tumble down on like roly-polies, while cackling at the hilarity of it all. Huge olive trees grew yearly, erupting many neighbors’ (and my family’s) seasonal allergies.

It was a lovely community, family-friendly, with people from all backgrounds and immigration histories: a ton of Korean Americans, which probably attracted my parents there in the first place. Pools, hot tubs, and recreational areas were constantly bustling with excited children playing outside, while their parents were chattering amongst themselves, but also vigilantly keeping one eye on their children at all times. This neighborhood was one of the few things I enjoyed about my childhood.

It was a reprieve from my dad’s temper, where he would often yell and threaten to hit me for normal child behaviors, like when I imagined the walls of our apartment were a canvas for my crayon-induced coloring fantasy. I thought I was an artiste; turns out I was the bane of my dad’s existence. I could see the swelling rage in his eyes as I heard him mumbling about how I’d just cost him the rental deposit. I didn’t even know what a rental deposit was. Did I just make my family homeless or something? If he wasn’t upset with me, he would pick fights with my mom, flipping over our dining table because she wouldn’t leave him in peace while he ate like the king he was.

I was able to briefly forget my tumultuous excuse of a home, as there was some semblance of safety when I actually played outside. Like a normal millennial kid. Jump roping, skip-it-ing, tumbling, hide-and-seeking!

One of our community neighbors had befriended me, making me feel special as she was the all-American girl whose life seemed as idyllic as our neighborhood. She looked like one of the models in the Limited Too catalogues, wearing clothes that my parents couldn’t afford, except for that one “special” striped, creamsicle colored t-shirt they bought for me from the sales rack. My parents made a big deal about them having bought me a name-brand shirt from the mall. I felt indebted to them, concerned that I wasn’t worthy of a $9.99 shirt, that I must become the best and most well-behaved daughter there ever was. Every time I wore the shirt, it was a reminder to be on my best behavior. It was my favorite shirt for years before it ultimately got torn to shreds in the washer.

My friend had the prettiest White face with blonde hair and large, twinkling eyes. I can’t remember the color of them, but they twinkled, nonetheless. They made my small brown Asian eyes (eyes I've grown to love as an adult but struggled with as a child) feel muddy and murky as hers reflected the bright outdoor sun. She was a couple years older than I was, and I don’t believe we ever hung out with each other at school. To be honest, I can’t remember if we went to the same school. That’s how bad my memory is. I can’t even remember her name. For the sake of this story, though, I’ll name her Prue, after one of the most powerful eldest sister characters on the TV show Charmed.

We became fast friends and would often visit each other’s apartments, as we were only a two-minute walk, or a one-minute hop-skip-and-jump-away from each other. I distinctly remember one afternoon, when she visited me. We were in my room playing some derivative of Pictionary and the category was “TV show.” Prue drew on my white board multiple pictures that looked like either a baby bottle or a hat. (To be honest, it looked like a nipple, which made me realize just how much cooler and mature my friend was compared to me. What kind of shows was she watching?!). It turned out to be a bell. The answer was Saved by the Bell, which I barely knew.

As an Asian child of immigrants, I wasn’t hip to most American TV as a youngster, and shows about those “crazy, rebellious” White teenagers were quietly frowned upon in my family. My parents didn’t have to explicitly tell me not to watch “those shows.” I just knew not to, except on occasion when I would sneak a peek at taboo channels while my parents were distracted by other things. To this day, I think parental controls are still on for the FX channel whenever I go to my parents’ house. God forbid I want to watch some American Horror Story, not live it. Prue laughed at my not knowing much about American pop culture, as I sheepishly giggled with her. While I was aware she was teasing me, I didn’t feel bad because I also knew she wasn’t actively meaning me harm. She was my friend, and she was truly kind.

While my parents both identify as some version of Christian, they never actively practiced religion and didn’t take it upon themselves to drag me to church. (Gasp! I know! I don’t have religious trauma like many of my peers. I feel quite fortunate in that regard). So, while I went to church to spend time with my friends, I didn’t suffer much of the Christian guilt, nor did I celebrate most Christian holidays as a child.

But one year, on an Easter Sunday, I visited Prue’s apartment and was welcomed by her and her parents. Her parents smiled brightly at me. Her dad’s bald head shimmering with sweat. Her mom, the perfect Barbie doll, next to her Mr. Clean. The way they were standing there together, beaming at me, made for a pretty picture. They looked like the beautiful White families framed in stock photos that I would see in Walmart, always fantasizing about how perfect their lives must be. My parents could never.

But this wasn’t just a photograph; it was better. It was real. And somehow, I had been invited into their intimate family as one of their own. I had once asked my mom if she would drop me off at a local orphanage so I could find another family who could love me. She was obviously upset at my request, but maybe with Prue and her parents, she’d understand and let me live with the family I was meant to be with? I could see the excitement on Prue’s and her parents’ warm faces, thrilled to have me over because they had planned an Easter egg hunt for me. For me! The ultimate prize would be a big chocolate bunny! Oh boy, was I excited!

I didn’t realize until later in my adulthood just how strange it was that Prue didn’t join me in the egg hunt. Was she ordered to remain on the sidelines, acting like my cheerleader? My hope is that she had her own egg hunt earlier, but the realistic part of my brain knows that most likely wasn’t the case. Perhaps it was part of her father’s plan to portray their family as the perfect, safe refuge in our neighborhood. Or maybe he was playing out his version of the white savior complex.

I giggled and squealed in delight as I completely trashed their front lawn and small excuse of a backyard, hungrily searching for those tie-dye eggs. RIP flowers and, wow, so sorry for kicking dirt everywhere and completely ruining their home. Yet despite my destruction, they continued to encourage me, smiles radiating on their faces as I went on a rampage-fueled egg-hide-and-seek.

Though it was my first (and last) Easter egg hunt ever, I fucking killed it! I found all the eggs peeking out from floral beds, half-assedly placed in the dirt. They couldn’t hide from me and my chocolate rage. I would win that Easter bunny; I would be triumphant! And I was. I was victorious.

Since then, I’ve had a funny affection for candy bunnies. One of my favorite memes is a picture of two chocolate bunnies, facing each other, with dialogue bubbles. One bunny says, “My butt hurts,” while the other bunny replies with, “What?” Turns out the former bunny’s chocolate rump was bitten off, while the latter bunny’s confectionary ears were chomped away. Hilarious.

To this day, every Easter season, I can’t buy myself a chocolate bunny. Not because I don’t want one, not because I can’t afford one, but because the idea of eating one, consuming its sugary flesh seems so cruel, so wrong.

A few weeks after my very first Easter egg hunt, when I’d fully considered Prue’s place my second home, I found myself sauntering over to their apartment again on another average, whatever, not-so-special day. The weather was calm, the sky was blue, and I was excited at the thought of being able to have more fun with Prue.

But when I got to her apartment, she seemed preoccupied. Nervous. I saw her mom quickly walk out from one room into the next. And while I could tell something was off, I still asked, “Hey, wanna play?”

I can’t remember who said it, but either Prue or her mom responded, “Not now. We can’t.”

“Why not?” I whined. I felt rejected, and it activated my brattiness. I didn’t like being silenced, nor did I appreciate the lack of attention that was usually so abundantly given by this family.

“Shh! Be quiet please! We’re running away!” Desperation filled the air.

That was when I noticed the suitcases on the floor. Half-filled luggage with clothes hastily strewn about. I just thought they hadn’t had time to clean up. I didn’t realize that the mess was because they were running for their lives. I looked up and saw Prue’s mother had a black eye. Those same sparkly eyes my friend had inherited, except one of her mother’s was framed by dark bruises. At first glance, I thought it was 90s makeup gone wrong or a recent fad I wasn’t aware of. Too much purple eyeshadow. I was mistaken.

“Please be quiet! We don’t want him to hear us!” one of them attempted to shush me.

At that point, I still didn’t fully understand the gravity of the situation. But I had enough tact and had probably learned from my own trauma when to stay silent to be safe. I left, but I can’t recall when or how.

Did I say goodbye? Did I run home? Did I hug my friend one last time? Did I say that I’d call her later? Did I realize that would be the last time I’d see her?

Did I make too much noise that my friend’s father found out, and she and her mother couldn’t get away? Did my dumb childishness put them in even more danger? Was he even in the house while they were frantically packing their belongings? Or were they packing because he wasn’t there, and they knew this would be their best chance at freedom? How dangerous was he? Who was he? Was he even Prue’s father? Did my friend and her mom escape? Safely? Where did they go? Where are they now?

Are they alive?

My little self knew it was a scary, dangerous situation. Yet there was a part of me that somehow didn’t find it surprising at all. This was just another example that confirmed to me that men are supposed to be feared. That men are dangerous. That men are not safe. That men are monsters you eventually need to escape from. I knew that feeling. Because I had packed up a suitcase before, too.

My mom had mentioned something once about leaving my dad. I’m not even sure she meant for me to hear. Maybe it was an off comment she thought she had whispered to herself. Regardless, she didn’t need to say more. I immediately got my little pastel pink and blue Lambchop suitcase out from my closet and prepared for our getaway. But all I could think of to pack were a doll and a pair of pajamas. Those were my prized possessions.

I never got to use my suitcase because my mom stayed. And since she stayed, I had no choice but to stay, too.

What did my friend pack? I don’t remember seeing any toys in her suitcase. I guess she truly understood how much danger she and her mother were in. I hope she’s okay. I hope she’s safe somewhere. I hope she’s thriving. Her family life was also frightening, life-threatening, and yet she was always intentional about making me feel loved, like I belonged, that I deserved to feel safe. She was the older sister I never had but always wanted. I hope she knows how safe she made me feel when my dad made me want to run away, ready at any second to pick up my pastel suitcase and head off to nowhere.

Parker Jin (a pseudonym) is a Korean American mental health therapist living somewhere in the netherworld of the United States. She’s passionate about spreading awareness about Complex trauma/PTSD, learning more about humble and decolonized approaches to therapy, and helping others in their healing journey. She’s currently writing a memoir to share her own experiences with Complex PTSD. In her spare time, she likes to take naps where dreams blend between her unconscious and reality, reading, and cuddling with her menace of a rescue pup, who is the love of her life.