Content Warning: Explicit language and parental violence
The problem with overachievers is that they expect people, especially their family, to be on par if not better than themselves. It’s part of their pride and joy to be claim that their offspring are just as brilliant if not more brilliant than those around them. My father had always been a man of impossibly high standards. Born into a poor family with 4 other siblings, he has always struggled hard and worked hard to make ends meet. He obtained his master’s degree in Canada at the ripe young age of 26, despite not being able to utter so much as a word in English when first arriving, and even graduated as Valedictorian of his year. He became a Certified Financial Analyst at 28 and had taught in one of the top 5 universities in Hong Kong and had a long and fruitful teaching career. He was the type of person you would look upon with utmost respect but never approach: this was a feeling my sister and I knew all too well.
So, you could imagine his disappointment when I failed to complete a task as simple those in a copybook. I was a two and a half years old with barely any attention span when I was assigned this seemingly herculean task. It was my first ever test and, naturally, my father would be there, his vulture eyes watching with anticipation. My refusal to perform this task had frustrated my father, who was desperate to prove that his child was intelligent, and grabbed me by the hand in an attempt to guide me back onto the right track. His endeavors were eventually rendered futile, and my first homework session ended with the sound of a slap across a tiny porcelain face. After my first failure, father still tried hard to make me realize that I was a “prodigy” through a decade of punishments involving scoldings and beatings, every single one of which my mother was a witness to.
10 minutes past curfew on one fateful day, a key could be heard turning in the lock. The heavy iron gates creaked and groaned as I pushed them open.
The instant I set foot in the living room, a searing pain slashed across my left cheek. I reeled back from the impact, the mark of my father’s fingers imprinting on my face.
“Pukgaai, where have you been?!” he cursed in harsh Cantonese, “Fucking around eh? Doing drugs? Out causing trouble like a hamgachaan?”
I kept silent at the false accusation; a decade of experience taught me better than to talk back.
Another slap came flying across the same side of my face, “Answer me!”
I heard nothing but a roar of anger in my head, words stuck at the back of my throat like hot flowing lava, making it hard to swallow. I feared that if I opened my mouth they would have spilled right out, drowning out any voice of reason that was left in me.
My father’s irrational lashings continued, criticizing me and humiliating me at every possible turn. His face had contorted into the very color of wrath, veins protruding and pulsing as if they were about to burst open right then. Over time however, every word of abuse that was hurled my way had slowly quelled the deafening roar in my brain into a defiant silence, until I heard nothing but the steady beat of my heart.
“…seichauhai, if you wanna stay outside so much, get out!”, my father raged.
That was the final straw. Without another word, I walked straight into my room and locked the door behind me, while the rampaging madman continued cursing outside, pounding on the door demanding me to open up. I could feel his anger boiling stronger with every second I stayed put and I enjoyed each moment of his pointless suffering.
If my mother had not persuaded him to take a breath and a shower, the old man might still have been trying to break the door down. Little did they know, I had begun packing my bag the moment I had barricaded myself in the room. When the tap started running, I seized the moment to make a dash for the door I had walked through almost an hour ago.
My mother caught me as I was entering the lift. Dark shadows plagued her wary and tired eyes, and she looked at me through a veil of muted pain.
For the first time I saw her clearly: vulnerability, and hopelessness written across her face for the whole world to see. I had never seen her as a mother. Every time my father beat me, she was always there, watching from afar with a glazed expression. She had never spoken up about it, or tried to stop him, even if I cried out to for her to help me. But at that moment, I understood the power the man had over us and I knew he would never hesitate to raise a hand against a woman who dared oppose him. She was a victim just like me.
“Please don’t go, it’s cold outside”, she pleaded.
“No mom, I can’t stay.”
We stood in the hallway in silence, gazes interlocked in a solemn conversation.
“At least take a jacket then,” she said, quietly passing me a hoodie.
“Okay.”
It was past midnight by the time I was a significant distance away from my home. I had nothing but my wallet, my phone, and a small bottle of water. The chilling wind hit me in all possible directions, but I didn’t feel the cold. I kept walking, one steady step after the other. There was no destination in my mind, I had no idea where I was going or any plan of what I was going to do next, but still my feet marched on without a conscious thought.
Millions of questions ran rampant in my head: Where could I stay? What would happen next? What would happen to my mom and my sister? Would things ever go back to how they were?
It was not until I had walked all the way from Shatin to the Ma On Shan Promenade did I think of stopping. It was at that moment that the weight of the situation sank in. I no longer had a 'home' but for the first time in 18 years, I felt like I was free. I had nowhere to go but it was the surest I had been of my path up until that point. I felt like the shackles that my father and my family had imposed on me had been shattered.
That was the day I burnt a bridge and learnt how to fly.