Is having children worth it?

I asked myself that question after having passed my self-imposed deadline to make a decision. I had punted for a long time because I hoped that, at some point, I would know. Having watched friends and other people have kids, they seemed to always really want children, or maybe it was just the next inevitable life stage. I always thought that I would have children too, the same way that I knew I’d go to college, graduate, get a job, and get married. Steps laid out from the beginning, modeled, and reinforced ever since I started to learn how the world works. So the only question that remained was when.

My late 20’s sounded like a reasonable time when I was planning out my life. That would give me time to figure out my career and to settle into it before having children. I was determined to have a career, and by extension, an identity outside of children. I was never able to reconcile the person who I wanted to be with being a mother—I had never seen it. I feared being consumed by motherhood so I wanted to wait until I felt confident enough to withstand the onslaught of children. The timeline that I had in mind blew by and I still didn't feel the certainty that I needed. I also resisted, in part, because I felt pushed towards it. After I finished college, the questions started about when I’d have children. It was a mystery to me how others made that decision. I had never heard anyone talk about it with any gravity. Most conversations involving children were superficial, either the joyous affirmation of the wonder and blessing that is children or facetious jokes about the incredible sacrifice of parenthood. One person with adult children grudgingly admitted with a shrug, when I pressed, his ambivalence about having had children. It was the first time that someone had given me a nuanced, if less than enthusiastic, answer about being a parent. All the other unsolicited advice that I had heard over the years didn't help.

Take all the things you want to do in life, list them out and toss them in the garbage. I heard several variations of this and could never figure out if this was meant as reassurance or deterrence?

Did you know that the likelihood of genetic diseases is higher if you have kids in your thirties? So I should have children out of fear before I know if I’m ready?

Freeze your eggs now because it might be harder to conceive later. I was in my twenties so this was just bizarre.

There is no right time to have children. Very reasonable and sound, but it didn’t do anything to allay my anxiety around becoming a mother.

Asking others about what was right for them to figure out what is right for me was, in retrospect, futility. I never did hear a satisfactory answer to my question. I didn't want to have children just because it was expected, but I also didn't want to avoid children for the same reason. Well, I decided to go for it despite my anxiety. The only advice that I had heard after that made any sense to me was of a man who, in response to his wife asking whether or not they should have kids, replied “either way, we’ll regret it”. It was strangely reassuring.

Once I became a parent, I was asked that same question and, in the throes of new motherhood, gave the succinct answer: “nope”. There are so many ways that having children just doesn't make any rational sense so I couldn't honestly say otherwise. So I spoke my truth, but that truth didn’t sit well. I replayed that conversation over and over in my head and my answer didn't feel right. I had given an honest answer and didn’t feel guilty about that, but it was lacking somehow; it was as unhelpful as all the advice I’d received about becoming a parent. It took me a long time to figure out why my answer didn't feel right. It was the wrong question. I had asked the same wrong question when I was trying to figure out whether or not to have children. It was a very intellectual question, but being a parent is very much an emotional experience that no intellectual answer could convey with any satisfaction. I had never been able to figure out the answer because I had been asking the wrong question all along.

What is the right question? I’m still not sure. It is a personal decision and would have been difficult for anyone to advise me who didn’t truly understand my ambitions or fears. Although I asked the wrong question, I had deliberated and questioned for so long that made it clear to me that the decision I made was a thoughtful one, chosen with great care and one that I know for sure, I did choose for myself, despite external influences. That brings me comfort and joy. Even during the most tired and difficult moments of being a parent, I can look at my son and feel, I chose you.

When did we begin to fear?

Did Fear accompany Shame and show up the first time when someone whom I loved and trusted mocked me publicly for writing a poem?

Was it the second time in which the girl I admired and wanted to have as my best friend instigated my ostracism at school?

Maybe it the third time when my feelings, transformed and weaved into stories, elicited pity?

Or was it the time when a teacher greeted my writing with indifference? Or when one attempted awkward sympathy? When did those experiences begin to weigh and constrain and persuaded me to hide a piece of myself? Writing became an anxiety-inducing ordeal instead of joyful self-expression.

When does it end?

I need to find my way back. Like a toddler with a crayon, I've started scribbling with increasing abandon, letting loose grammatically incorrect sentences, constructing unplanned testaments to the world that exists within. Ever so slowly, I catch glimpses of Peace and maybe even Joy in the distance.

Today, I am a writer. Someday I'll be a great writer. The only way to get there is to begin. And so I've started to reveal and, hopefully, one day revel in my dreams, despite ever-present Fear.

https://www.dreamlet.org/

What’s the price of a name?

Is it possible to have an identity crisis in elementary school? Growing up, I hated my name, actually—names; at one point, I had three. I felt little connection to my birth name, which I only heard during the first three years of school and from my older, proper relatives. The rest of my extended family called me by my childhood nickname, which I didn't mind too much because it had a nice backstory—my mother named me after a giant, sweet, tropical fruit that she ate before she went into labor. The name that I currently wear is a variation of hers and one that I had adopted when I started school in the US because it was pronounceable by English speakers. I much preferred it to my given name because it was closer to my nickname; even so, I hated it.

Tina Nguyen.

I might as well have been named John Smith. That’s how ordinary it is. Try Googling it (I have). You won’t find me. Tina is probably the only Vietnamese name that still sounds like what it should when spoken in English; likely the reason why many Vietnamese women use it, even if their original name bears no resemblance. To add to the averageness of my first name, nearly half the Vietnamese population has my last name (I exaggerate, but not by much). That sums up the ambivalence, and sometimes disdain, that I felt for the name that I wear. As a child, it didn't bother me much that my last name was difficult to pronounce. How generic it was in combination with my first name was heinous because I craved uniqueness and originality. Over time though, the constant distortion served as a reminder that I was other.

Wen. N-win. N-gu-gen. Nu-gent.

How do you pronounce it? However you want to. Because it didn’t make any difference that I showed people how to pronounce it, unless they were native Vietnamese speakers, they were unable to, despite their best efforts. Eventually, I just shrug and brush it off when people earnestly ask me. Heck, even I pronounce it wrong and have Americanized the pronunciation; it’s just too tiring to fight the same battle over and over again, always losing. Worse was when someone needed to write down my name or look it up: Tina N-g-u-y-e-n, I answered their question even before they ask.

I couldn't wait to get rid of this last name. As many girls did, I practiced signing my name in various ways and daydreamed about what it could be someday. How do girls in America change their last name and not have it be arbitrary? M-a-r-r-i-a-g-e. My future last name was going to be pronounceable (and so likely white). I didn't care about my family name; there wasn't any great legacy to perpetuate. I didn't want to be that different and was looking forward to when I wasn't. Before that could happen though, I developed an attachment to my last name, quite unexpectedly.

The first time that I realized my name meant something was in college. I attended the local community one where there was a large population of immigrant Vietnamese students, many not fluent in English and had a reputation for cheating (not entirely unfounded, but probably wasn't more than that of the general student body). I had made the Dean’s List one quarter and my picture, along with others, hung inside this building that served as a gathering place for many. I was perusing the wall when a stranger struck up a conversation. He had noticed my picture and commented on how nice it was to see a Vietnamese person being recognized for something good, defying the stigma. I was dumbfounded by his sentiment. To me, it was a forgettable honor, but it had meant so much to him.

I never meant to be an example to anyone. That a stranger felt pride in my achievement simply because of our shared origin was bewildering. An enormous responsibility that I hadn’t felt before weighed on me. At that time, there weren’t any notable Vietnamese people in American pop culture, that I knew of; it felt like we lived on the fringes and were just lucky to be in this country. I had never thought about it that much, let alone want to change it. That led me to wonder how many others felt as he did, which I surmised was a kind of shame and needed the lift that only others who shared their identity could provide? A mundane moment in my life had a positive impact on someone, how much more might that impact be if I did something great? That I had the power to change the way people saw themselves stayed with me. The only problem was that I'd have to keep my last name and continue to be other.

I had always thought that it was a given that my name would change someday; I was looking forward to it. I didn't anticipate that it would be a difficult decision. Adopting my husband's name would erase my Vietnamese identity. If I accomplished anything notable, it would be unremarkable to Vietnamese people. I was used to being other in this society so it wouldn’t be different to continue being so. What made it hard was that this feeling of otherness would include my son; a small separation, just barely out of reach.

To mitigate this separateness, I contemplated the usual options:

1. Combine both names using a hyphen

2. Using my last name as his middle name

3. If I had two children, one could have my last name

4. My children could all have my last name

The first two options felt like borderline child abuse given how both last names are difficult to pronounce; together, they’d be atrocious. I know someone whose parents decided on the third option. Equitable, but I didn't want to pass the buck to my children and have them feel other from each other. The fourth option was farfetched and was not something I seriously entertained given that I didn’t love my name. I could have bridged this otherness with my son if I had paid the price of my ancestral identity.

I chose to pay with otherness instead, in hopes that someday, my name would mean something—something to make a lifetime of otherness worth it.