My grandmother likes to tell me a story about when I got my first injections as a baby. I was only a few months old and due for a routine set of shots. When my whole family got to the hospital, she was the only one brave enough to sit in the room; my two parents, she says, were outside crying because they couldn’t stand to see the needles pricking my skin.

This story is among my grandmother’s favorite stories about my childhood because it’s telling of how much my parents care about me. She remembers how they took me to Disneyland twice, how my dad would play with me for hours and hours, how my mom used to deal with my tantrums.

But in the past few years, as my rebellious adolescence set in, I forgot these stories and chose to only remember how my parents didn’t let me stay out late, how they demanded that I focus on my schoolwork all the time and, most importantly, how they told me that journalism could not be a career for me.

My parents never doubted my capability in journalism, but they always saw my passion as a hobby, something in the way of my true destiny of pursuing medicine or computer science. They had raised me with an emphasis on STEM, from Math Olympiad in fifth grade to calculus in eleventh. They could not accept journalism, and I hated them for this.

Through this hate, however, I was blinded. I forgot about the time that my dad spent a whole day performing cartwheels for me so that I’d learn myself. I forgot about when my mom would stay up every time I got sick and prepare all kinds of home remedies for me. I forgot about how I used to talk to my parents for hours and hours about everything in my life. Instead, I obsessed over the few things we disagreed on and shaped my perception of them based on that.

When I went to India this past summer, my aunt told me that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and that my parents worked hard for it to be that way. I brushed her off then, but now I understand.

It wasn’t until recently that I realized I owe them an apology. A month ago, I was really stressed about school and they drove for two hours to take me out to dinner. Last week, I told them how the temperature in my dorm was suffocating and they brought a fan over. Their willingness to drop everything for my sake shocked me. I had gotten so used to all this coddling at home, that I didn’t realize how lucky I was until I left.

With all of our attention to privilege at UC Berkeley, I’ve learned that I benefit from a lot of privileges, even as a woman of color. I grew up in the technology bubble that is the Bay Area, with soaring housing prices and competitive public schools. Beyond my hometown and my model minority privilege, I am blessed with two parents who care about me more than I could imagine.

After a year at UC Berkeley, I’ve learned that many other students are here despite many institutional barriers they faced along the way. Some parents don’t have the time or means to necessarily sit with their children to help them with their homework. Where some of my peers may attribute their success to their own diligence and motivation, I am here because of my parents.

My dad opens up my Daily Californian author page every day and takes the time to read my boring daily stories that I wouldn’t even read myself. My mom calls me everyday, asking if there’s anything she can do for me and planning which one of my favorite dishes she’s going to make when I get home next.

There are so many things we disagree on that I can’t even list them all out. Living in Berkeley, I find myself immersed in radical politics, and my parents are far from that. I still love journalism, and I’m not sure if they’re okay with that.

I don’t know how we’ll reconcile our differences, but that’s okay. Because even if my parents were too weak to stay in the hospital room 19 years ago, I’ve realized that it is their strength that has carried me since.



“Off the Beat” columns are written by Daily Cal staff members until the semester’s regular opinion columnists have been selected.