Every now and then I’m attacked. It’s cyclical almost. I can feel it coming.
Parents ask me why I don’t fault children as much as adults; why South Asian Parent insists parents have to change.
Businessmen ask why I don’t sell products on the Web site; “Nobody cares about articles.”
Teenagers write to tell me, “There’s no point. My parents are never going to understand.”
A less optimistic spirit might get disheartened (and I often do). But such is the responsibility I carry for attempting to bring a change in the most pervasive, personal, and sensitive part of our lives: family.
Someone asked a few weeks ago, “Why do you bother?”
Of all the attacks, that was the worst—the realization that a person out there had given up hope; and thought it ridiculous that I had not.
My father might have told him (in a more polite manner, of course), to get lost. Many of his friends used to ask him for advice on parenting; they liked his style. Of those conversations I overheard, one thing always stuck with me: “Children are not born for their parents.”
He used to say the moment you think your children owe you something –be it good grades, a successful career, or financial support –you begin to lose them forever. Influenced by his spiritual beliefs, he truly acted in a parenting role quite foreign to others.
Now before I get attacked again let me clarify—this did not mean children should not be disciplined, guided, or encouraged. We are not to sit back with our arms up in the air and watch them spill milk. No aspect of my father’s parenting beliefs allowed for such permissiveness.
But it was crucial to parent in light of this idea, and at every step of the way to think consciously about whether what you do will shatter or enliven your child’s spirit. My father believed the role of parents was to help children become the best version of themselves, not a better (or worse) version of their parents.
Little babies always took a special liking to my father. They would cuddle comfortably into his arm, onto his stomach, or rather unusually, inside the scoop of his folded leg. They looked into his eyes with as much wonder as he looked into theirs. “Hello there little one,” I could imagine him saying, “What have you come here to teach us?”
It takes no more than a second of looking at a baby smile to know that children are pure. What my father found saddest of all (as do I), is when parents fail to enjoy that perfect innocence of their child’s first years because they are so caught up in feeding routines, child development research, and parenting manuals.
And if you can’t see your child’s consciousness then, at the point it shines through the most, there’s a very slim chance you ever will.
You will be trapped, by the limitations of your own expectations and unfulfilled dreams, to raise a child just like you always imagined—and whatever unique spirit came with that child, with its own purpose and gift, will be suppressed.
It is that suppression—not anything more or less complex—that can lead to teenagers who rebel in horrific ways, students who fail at university, and adults who resent their childhood. It’s because they feel, and have always felt, that they are not being true to themselves. And without the support and safety net of their parents’ unconditional love—they don’t know how to change that.
I admit I have given my father a few shocks in his life; I was by no means a perfect child. But no matter what I said or revealed, the fact that I could meant I knew he would never disown me, un-love me, or refuse to help me.
In times when he was really surprised by my behavior, he was quiet for a few days. He would then calmly tell me his reservations, and offer suggestions. But he would always end it by saying, “It is up to you to decide. If you pray in sincerity, the answer will come to you. We will stand by you.”
The ‘we’ is crucial in that statement, because it was not just my father—but the combined support of both my mother and my father—that made this security possible.
My father loved South Asian Parent, of course biased because it was his daughter’s creation. But also because he saw it for what it was, separate from himself. Although so much of it is inspired by my own parents, they never once attempted to influence anything about it. In a note scribbled on the inside of a print version of the magazine gifted to me on my birthday, just days before my father passed away, he had written:
“To a sweet soul, God Bless you in all you do! We are proud and blessed to be part of your life. We love you.”
Those are the words that counter all the attacks. Those are the words for which I bother.
