Interviewing My Parents

In the last week of October, I went back to Changsha on my own and stayed with my parents for a week.

Compared to my younger brother, I’m really calm and distant with my parents, always keeping a deliberate boundary and distance. I even call it “independence” with a bit of pride — financial independence, intellectual independence, family management independence. I often cite Genesis 2:24, “That is why a man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife, and they become one flesh,” to show the orthodox and faultlessness of my beliefs and actions.

Raising kids, facing those “matter-of-course, heartless little brat” moments, Yanbing and I often cling to each other and sigh: Why are parents so dead set on being selflessly good to their kids? What’s the point?

After sighing, we naturally realize: our parents were also selflessly good to us in the past.

Empathizing with them, thinking from their perspective, I gradually feel I don’t have love for my parents, let alone intimacy.

As my brother would say, “Every time we go home, our parents treat us like guests.” Every Chinese New Year, our parents take good care of us and cater to our every need, and a week later, they send us off nicely. There’s hardly any friction or unpleasantness, but also hardly any deep or intimate communication.

I also deliberately keep my distance from my parents, only sharing the good news. Since my first year of work, I’ve never told them about my finances, which does put their minds at ease. But with them, there’s hardly any deep or meaningful conversation, just superficial check-ins.

There should be plenty to say between parents and children, many things to talk about, many feelings to share. If years of living together remain only on the surface level, it’s really a regret. At least, as a parent, I don’t want this kind of relationship with my children. For my relationship with my parents, I hope for more substantive change.

I often see in my parents’ eyes, in their expressions, their desire to learn more about our lives; I also want to understand more about their pasts, their current thoughts, their hopes for the future. I especially want to share the message of the Gospel with them. But somehow, I’ve never been able to break through that wall, take that step.

It’s just 1,200 kilometers between Shanghai and Changsha, about an hour and a half flight. Unlike the usual “homecoming” for Chinese New Year, this time, I wanted to experience their life, eat together, talk.

One day after dinner, the three of us sat around the table. As usual, after a silent moment, just when we were about to leave to do our own things, I suddenly said, “Dad, tell me about when you were young.”

And so the topic opened up. My role was kind of like a host, guiding my dad with a few questions to recall and share.

My dad talked about his smart primary school years, being forced to drop out of middle school to farm, laboring for work points at the agricultural production team, the people’s commune canteen with its thin gruel, meeting my mom, getting married, then the hard life supporting the family after splitting from my grandpa.

With the Q&A, nearly two hours went by quickly. These events happened decades ago, yet my dad remembered them clearly and spoke vividly. He seemed genuinely pleased to share them with me.

This surprised me. An ordinary, humble person also has stories and treasures them. He’s also willing to share his stories, hoping there’s someone who genuinely wants to listen.

About ten seconds into this “interview,” I discreetly pressed the record button on my iPhone. This conversation is so precious to me, worth keeping.

My daughter Linda often asks, “Why do you always just ask Grandpa and Grandma ‘Did you eat? What did you eat?’ on the phone? That’s so boring. Isn’t there anything else to talk about?” (with a judgmental face)

I suddenly realized, having deeper conversations with parents isn’t that difficult after all.