海角大神

Parents, everywhere I turn

It鈥檚 not exactly cool to be living with your parents at age 26.聽

The last time I lived on my own was for a few months after graduation, when I went to Washington, D.C., for a job. In December 2017, I moved back to my parents鈥� house in Cincinnati to prepare for a stint in the Peace Corps.聽

But even after flying 4,000 miles from home to start my service in Senegal, I soon found myself snared in the international conspiracy of parents. I would spend most of the next two years living with a host family. And while I may have swapped my childhood bedroom in the suburbs for a thatched-roof hut in a village, I was still living with parents.

When the pandemic sent me and every other Peace Corps volunteer back to the States, I was once again back in my old bedroom. I鈥檝e been here ever since.

Earlier this summer, as my biological mother and I caravaned to a family reunion, it felt like a more comfortable version of clambering into taxis, buses, and horse-drawn carts to attend host-family functions in Senegal. The destination this time was not a remote village or the bustling capital of Dakar, but a small cottage on a lake. Still, some things were the same: the second cousins with forgotten names but familiar faces; my inability to come and go on my own; trying to stay off my phone so as to appear polite and attentive; rearranging my schedule to be in town for the get-together in the first place.

That鈥檚 not to say I don鈥檛 love visiting family; it鈥檚 just different when it鈥檚 not my idea or on my terms 鈥� when you live with parents, host or biological, not a lot is. In Senegal, I鈥檇 alert my family to where I鈥檇 be, whom I鈥檇 be with, and when I鈥檇 return, even if I was just going into town for the day. I ate whatever was prepared, whenever it was put in front of me.

And here in Ohio? I may have swapped the village for the suburbs, but parental surveillance remains. No cows chew on the roof during the dry season here, and I have a bit more latitude about what we eat (so long as I prepare it), but each time I leave the house, my parents know where I鈥檓 going, whom I鈥檒l be with, and when I鈥檒l be back.聽

Is it love or obligation? The same question applies to family events:

Rearranging my schedule to be in town for a family reunion to oblige my mom and dad seems no different from showing up out of pure love 鈥� at least on the surface. Either way, I鈥檓 there, making small talk, catching up with cousins, and discreetly asking my mom, 鈥淲ho鈥檚 that again?鈥� But am I choosing to be here? Or am I here because I can鈥檛 really say no? As in Senegal, so in the States: The question is moot. No matter the answer, I鈥檓 there.

The irony is, given a choice, I wouldn鈥檛 change much. I wouldn鈥檛 dare not tell my biological or host parents where I was going. Telling them may make me feel like I don鈥檛 have a life, but not telling them is selfish and cold.聽

In the end, that lack of autonomy is a price I鈥檓 willing to pay. Over the past 3 陆 years 鈥� whether juggling the demands of Peace Corps service or the challenges of the pandemic 鈥� being surrounded by family of one kind or another has been a blessing. The cost of rearranging my schedule, keeping everyone informed, and eating whatever is served doesn鈥檛 come close to outweighing the benefit.聽

Soon I鈥檒l be moving back to Senegal, this time to live in the capital, in an apartment. I鈥檒l no longer be parent-adjacent. When I visit my families, in a village or suburb, some things may still feel constraining. But I鈥檒l finally have more say.

And yet I can鈥檛 help thinking that, when I鈥檓 alone in my Dakar apartment, I鈥檒l miss that benevolent parental panopticon and the joy it can bring: recounting stories over dinner, seeking advice, telling jokes, or just shooting the breeze.

When I texted my host mom to let her know I was moving back to Senegal, she said she was excited. But before she told me how happy she was, she asked, 鈥淗ow are your mother and father?鈥� An international conspiracy of parents, indeed.