Recently, I received an angry voice message from my Auntie B. “What do you think you are doing, telling your little cousin to disobey me?”
Nobody does melodrama quite like my auntie. She’s committed. She’s the kind of person who would search “sad violins” on YouTube to ensure her tirade had a soundtrack. She probably rehearsed her speech in the mirror. It contained all the standard Asian drama touchpoints – rant, mumble, “disrespect”, rant, mumble, “shame on the family” – before the inevitable brass-section finale: “You’ll regret this when I’m dead!” A masterpiece, really.
I’ve been thinking about this message a lot. I’m not concerned that I upset my aunt by helping my younger (but fully grown) cousin get a tattoo, but rather by what came next: “I just worry,” she said calmly, having exhausted herself. “Is she doing it because she’s angry? She won’t speak to me. How do I get through?”
In my community especially, there are firm rules about how the family is organised. The young ones are to be seen and not heard, and the elders respected at all costs. And though I sometimes kicked against it, arguing that respect doesn’t always mean blind obedience, it didn’t make any difference. As far as family life was concerned, I was a younger one, and I was on mute.
But at some point my mic must have been turned on. It caught me unawares. After years of being ignored, yelling about family life from the sidelines (“I bet that samosa is not sustainable!” or “Being an accountant is for wankers!”), I was playing the game, on the pitch, able to take a shot. Could there be any better marker of arrival at the promised land of adulthood than an elder asking your advice?
“Erm,” I replied. “I guess you could send her an Instagram message?”
