identity crisis

dear mom,

I think the phrase "identity crisis" always made me cringe a little. It just feels silly - to have a crisis of identity? It seemed odd to not resolutely know who you are.

Recently though, I've been challenged to answer that simple question: Who am I?

I feel like I have writer's block just thinking about this question. Like isn't it obvious who I am? Do I have to answer this question? Yet somehow this question of who I am brought me to the realization that I never really stood behind, and sometimes even rejected, my identities.

Did you know who you were? Were you resolute in your beliefs and committed to your goals? Did you wear your identity proudly? You must've questioned it, but I wonder if it could have derailed you.

Tonight I'd invite you over to listen to my identity crisis.

I made two cold dishes for you, born from ingredients that were calling to be eaten before too late. In the absence of any crystallized plan, I pulled out the spices and sauces I know best - soy, black vinegar, my homemade chili oil. A half used bag of suimiyacai. Chinese homecooking is remarkably simple. I grew up with quick sautees and soy sauce based marinades. Everything has garlic and ginger. I shredded my remaining chicken breast while the mushrooms roasted down to almost a jerky. I crisped up the chicken with the suimiyacai before dressing it in black vinegar and sesame oil, raw garlic and one fermented chili. The wrinkled mushrooms, still warm, go into a marinade of soy, black vinegar, chili oil, and seasoning, then tossed with celery and chopped peanuts, reminiscent of my favorite appetizer: fuqifeipian.

I wonder if you'd tell me that I'm being ridiculous. That maybe it's a luxury to even challenge my Chinese heritage. I'd tell you that I don't reject it anymore. In fact, I embrace it whenever I can. Can't you tell in these dishes I threw together? Do you like it? Are they to your taste?

I don't reject my role as eldest daughter, sister to your sweet round-headed boy. I can't claim to have shaped him into who he is today, but I think his gentle sensitivity was formed in response to my volatile moods.

I am a scientist like you. Not exactly like you in subject matter, but like you in practice. Though I wonder if you loved what you did. Or were you like me and had simply identified that you were just good enough at science to forge on?

You probably remember that I used to shop in the boy's section, finding baggy cargo pants and oversized sweaters to swallow my little pudgy frame. I wanted to blend in with the boys back then, but I've gotten over that. Despite everything, I'd rather be a woman.

Does doing a hobby make me a hobbyist? I don't identify as baker, aerialist, ceramicist, etc - it feels weird to claim how I spend my free time as part of my identity. Don't you have to reach a certain level of skill to claim it? Throughout my childhood, you were always doing stuff. I wish I knew more about what you enjoyed doing. I'm watching all my friends' mom's enter their pre-retirement hobby era, and I wonder if you would be knitting or gardening or painting too.

I miss you so clearly even when I feel muddy,

Amelia