But, Mom, I’m not your little boy anymore

This past spring, I had a difficult conversation with my mom. I was discussing my summer internship plans with her and the topic of driving came up.

You see, even though I have a license, I’m not a particularly good driver — which looked like it might pose a problem as I had accepted a summer position as an intern for the Post-Gazette and would need to drive to assignments.

When the subject arose as to how I’d be able to get up to speed, so to speak, in terms of my driving ability, my mother suggested I just give up on the PG internship and look for another opportunity.

“Something else will pop up,” Mom told me, in a sullen but optimistic tone.

I couldn’t believe the suggestion. You can’t just put your name in for something and pull out. Your reputation is everything in this world.

Even more so, the PG internship was a good opportunity, one that could help me build a career in communications or many other fields. Why couldn't she understand that?

Besides, who is she to tell me what to do with my life? I’m 23. I love my mom, but I’m an adult. I make my own decisions and, if she doesn’t agree with them, that’s too bad.

Annoyed, I told Mom exactly that — that I’m an adult, and that her role at this point in my life is to give her blessings should she choose to do so.

This tension between parent and child, between setting one’s own course or fulfilling the expectations of others, is common to young adulthood, but expecially so for second-generation immigrants who also are pulled between their native and newfound cultures. (My parents immigrated to the United States from Haiti.)

When I told a classmate that I was writing an essay on this subject, she told me about a friend from Miami who got into Harvard but whose parents wanted her to go to the University of Florida and stay close to home — because that’s simply what’s done in their culture.

Similarly, a childhood friend (whose family is also from Haiti) has gone to community college because his mother insisted that he wasn’t ready to live on his own, even though he’s 23.

I don’t think my parents really understand what I’m doing as an undergraduate studying liberal arts and interning in a city where I had never been. Throughout my high school years, my dad pressured me to apply to an accelerated medical-school program — and lamented my decision not to apply to one well into my college years.

As I get older, though, I’m gaining more and more appreciation for the fact that my parents love me, even though they don’t vocalize or demonstrate their feelings in outward displays of affection.

My tuition is paid for in full every semester. Whenever I need something, like a coat or shoes, they buy it for me. My mom calls me every week to see how I’m doing.

So maybe that’s the most important thing that being an adult is all about — appreciating the love you have been given and learning to love the people around you for all their flaws.

For the record, I did take some driving lessons before my internship started. But I’ve been Ubering to all my assignments.

Mom knows best.