“My parents are old school. We’re from Bolivia. The daughter isn’t supposed to leave the house until she’s married. But I left when I was nineteen because I couldn’t take the constant fighting about how to live my life. It’s not that I wanted to be promiscuous. I just wanted to explore New York and have black friends and white friends and gay friends. I’ve had a bad relationship with my parents ever since. I ended up marrying a Dominican boy from Corona. He’s been nothing but good to me. But they’ve never accepted him. We got married at City Hall. I’m thirty-three now. We just had our first child. So I thought things would finally get better with my parents. I thought we could relate as equals now that I have my own child. Maybe they’d finally accept my choices. But they’re still the same. My mother helps babysit my child while I’m at work. She does everything her own way. She criticizes all my decisions. When I insist on raising my child a certain way, she gets upset. She starts crying and reminds me that I left the house when I was nineteen. Then my father calls and yells at me for upsetting my mother. It breaks my heart. But I’m realizing that a good relationship with my parents will always require doing exactly what they say.”
