“And why not?” she said. “They make the highest salaries. Why would you not want that?” When I didn’t respond immediately, she clucked her tongue. “You think when I came to this country I wanted to go around cleaning other people’s behinds? No! But we needed the money. All this time you are in medical school, are you going to throw it away to be, what?” She paused, considering. “A psychiatrist?”
“Maybe!” I said. A woman drying her hair at the counter met my eyes in the mirror, and I lowered my voice. “I don’t know. Can we talk about this later?”
“Fine,” Momma agreed. “But I want to make sure you have a plan. You’re almost finished with this first paper, then? What are you working on next?”
I hesitated. I could avoid the question, but Momma had her nose on me and would call me out. I could tell her that I hadn’t picked my next project, but then she would berate me for being unprepared.
Or you could hang up, Tabatha would say. But if I hung up, I would have to pay for my intransigence in pounds of flesh later. So, instead, I told the truth.
“Actually, I’ve been working on a research protocol for a new project.”
In spite of myself, I found myself describing the project in detail, going into depth about the interview questions that Dr. Reed and I had drafted, the intense IRB approval process, our proposal for funding that was due in less than a month. To my surprise, Momma didn’t interrupt, and as I spoke, I felt something warm and unfamiliar blossom in my chest. I was excited, I realized, and about research. Research had always been a means to an end, a thing to dip my toe in to get to the next step in my path, an activity done out of begrudging necessity. But here was a project that I had conceived myself, that had arisen out of a need that I had identified—
“Is this one of Dr. Wallace’s projects?” Momma said when I was finished.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
“No, but—” I started.
“Because it sounds a little . . .” Momma paused, searching for the word. “Fluffy to me. Why haven’t you picked one of the projects on her list? I think that would be better.”
Her words slashed through me like a knife across my chest. It was like my own mother had sat back and listened to me speak, licked her fingers, and put my enthusiasm out like a flame. And she had done it so dispassionately, with the same regard that she crossed an item off a grocery list. This wasn’t the first time, either. I remembered coming back from school and holding up the poem I had written for our county’s literary contest. My high school English teacher had held me back after class. Angela, she had said, I knew that you were a strong writer, but this? This is incredible. She’d given me a list of local competitions and scholarships for aspiring writers and encouraged me to apply. I had come home beaming with pride, validated for once in a subject in which there was no best answer, just one that felt right.
Momma had taken one look at the list, balled it in her fist, and thrown it in the trash.
“How many SAT practice questions have you done today?” she asked instead, her face smooth with passivity.
It had been a decade since that day. Since then, I had moved out. Gotten my own place. Taken on $258,000 in medical school loans, paid my own bills . . . and yet nothing between us had changed.
“I’m not a person to you,” I said softly.
Momma sputtered.
“What are you saying?” she said.
“I said,” I started, too far gone to turn back now, “you don’t think of me as a person. That’s what this is all about.”
“Ey. Why are you speaking to me in that tone? I’m trying to advise you, and you are getting emotional?” she accused, her voice dropping in pitch. “Your future is not about emotions, Angela. Sometimes you have to hear things that you don’t like. Your father and I are only trying to do what’s best for your success—”
“Oh stop it,” I snapped. The woman at the counter looked at me again, but this time I didn’t care, too overwhelmed with frustration. “My success? I’m in medical school; I’m not going to go broke. Stop making this about me and my emotions and be honest with yourself. I’m not a person to you. I’m just a puppet for you to live your dreams through.” I ground my teeth. “That’s why you treat me like this, right? Like nothing I think or want matters?”
Momma kissed her teeth, and the sound was like gasoline to my fire.
“American children,” she scoffed. “Always finding ways to blame their parents. Since when have I said that what you think doesn’t matter, eh? Since when?”