Vulnerability

Here is the short version of a piece that I wrote for my EngComp class Professor. Professor Deuel has his magical way of making people feel comfortable opening up to him. Because of his constant encouragement, I wrote this piece about vulnerability and I've never felt more euphoric from writing about myself. I've debated whether or not to post this piece, but it's only fitting to post as a way of being "vulnerable". Thank you, Professor Deuel.

photo by Kirsten Marie on Unsplash

Vulnerability is defined by Oxford Languages as “the quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally.” As a kid growing up in an East Asian family, the patriarchal beliefs of men as the dominant figure was always a constant reminder. Not knowing the consequences it has on me, I watched my father and my grandfather everyday for ten years, learning how men are and are not “supposed” to be.

Are we not supposed to be happy with a second place medal just because the first place was being held by a girl? Are we not supposed to cry even though we feel the need to release all the emotion that’s been bottling up in our chests? Are we not supposed to ask for help because that’s a sign of weakness?

When I moved to the US, I was struggling to adapt both in school and at home. But no one really knew because I was becoming a master of disguise. For the first two years at school, I often found myself in situations where I simply felt helpless and left out. I wanted to cry for help, but NO.

Men don’t cry.

I would pinch myself in the inner thighs until the pain suppressed the urge to cry. For two years, when I looked down my legs in the shower, I would see new purple marks that weren’t there the night before. Each one representing a token of manhood, I thought. For years, I’ve been burying my own emotions and struggles in the deepest part of my memories, locked away in a place only I knew existed.

I can’t remember exactly what happened the night when my secret place was no longer sealed. Maybe because I was tired of repressing what I wanted to say or maybe because there were simply too many emotions that were flowing like an overstuffed candy jar. While sitting next to each other on the bed of my dimly lit bedroom, I invited my mom into my memory and the floodgates opened. When I told her about my experiences at school and how I dealt with struggles, my mom got mad at me. Not because I was showing emotions, but because I was hurting myself and kept her oblivious. She extended her arms and leaned in. The hug was something that I needed a long time ago, but was too afraid to ask.

I made myself vulnerable that night and found love and support. It's still not easy for me to open up to people as they say old habits are hard to break. I don’t blame my family for my past. I’m just happy to find comfort by being vulnerable. I was hesitant to reveal so much of myself on a mini assignment for a class, but I was glad to take this opportunity to work on opening myself up to people. As I’m writing this story about vulnerability, I’m also inviting you into my memory like I did with my mom. Vulnerability is defined as “the quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed loved, either physically or emotionally.”

It’s good to be vulnerable.