“No, I don’t want it. It hurts my jaw,” I curtly responded to my mom as we stood in line. I crossed my arms, leaning into my left hip as I let out an audible sigh. My eyebrows furrowed as I looked around the all-too-familiar bánh mì shop, eyes squinting angrily into the fluorescent light. Why do we always come here? I thought, seething with teenage angst.
As we sat down with my brothers at our usual table by the window, the three nearby TVs overhead blared, broadcasting insignificant sports games, incessant local news, and unamusing TV shows. I slid into the cold metal chair in my crumpled school uniform, feeling jaded from a long day of eighth grade, brooding over geometry, complaining about how I hated my bottom locker.
Around us, other Vietnamese customers sat at tables: parents seated comfortably at their usual tables watching their plaid-jumpered kids press their small hands upon the glass of the baguette-making room and groups of middle-aged men talking in low voices among themselves. Overhead, prerecorded voices announced order numbers. “Số ba mươi bốn,” declared a Vietnamese woman with clear articulation. “Number 34,” announced a deep, clipped voice, repeating the order in English.
My brothers bounded to the counter to retrieve our order, returning with bright red trays stacked carefully with long, brimming baguettes. The bánh mì sandwiches sat neatly in a row like soldiers in a line, their uniformity interrupted by my croissant sandwich. My family ate their bánh mì, crunching through the crusty exterior of the baguette to the tangy, salty, buttery fillings of grilled meat, pickled daikon and carrots, fresh cilantro, and thinly sliced jalapeño.
Casting a look of disdain in their direction, I settled deeper into my slouch and broodingly unwrapped my ham and cheese croissant. It took little energy to bite into, with straightforward flavors of salt, butter, and ooze.
What an annoying teen I was, feeling only anger, exasperation, and impatience at so many moments that should have simply been pleasant.
As I grow older, I can see how my parents saw it all, probably weary from a difficult day of work, their minds thinking of their four children along the way. They wanted a comforting and easy dinner, willing to give in to their kids’ whims — an extra smoothie with their sandwich, some dessert packaged at the register to finish off their meal.
As a child, my brothers and I abhorred eating vegetables. I don’t think I ate more than two cups of cooked vegetables until I was thirteen. We would sit at the table, theatrically gagging as my mom scolded us for not eating the scant pile of broccoli on our plates. Finally, after some prodding, we would agree to eat them, swallowing the florets whole to avoid the “horrible taste.” My poor mom was just trying to keep us alive and healthy.
I still can’t fathom the amount of love and sacrifice it takes to be a parent. To endure those teenage years, to put on the “everything is under control” parent face everyday, to do the thankless work of raising an annoying child.
Near the end of my high school years, the reality of all that my parents sacrificed came crashing into my mind. College acceptances and scholarship packages inundated my inbox and the calculations did not add up as I had hoped. After looking through my options, I felt profound dread. My carefully developed plans of a debtless, dazzling future crumbled before my eyes, as I felt crushed by resounding guilt for the costs of my future upon my parents. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, I thought, as I lay in bed staring into the vast darkness. My parents reassured me that they could afford my college tuition, but the number staring back at me from our calculations seemed to shake its head in dismay.
How can you ever repay parents for the decades of supporting your existence? What if I was a massive investment for which there have been little returns? Was I a financial burden, hurling snide comments at my parents? Why didn’t I just eat the bánh mì?
Sometimes the best I can do is to share a meal with my parents, share my life with them, and sit as they share theirs. And for the first time, I begin to understand them as people instead of guardians.
Now, when I come home from university, I always return to Lee’s Sandwiches . I’ll order my thịt nướng bánh mì if only to experience all the colorful flavors that my family enjoyed while I glumly consumed my ham and cheese croissant. I’ll bring some orders home and happily crunch on the sandwiches across the table with my family.
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