Hold my Hands BAO TRAN PHAN

Overtime, I witnessed the story of my mother's hands, paintings of the Mekong River map, etched with the scars of countless knife cuts. Layered upon these scars were rugged patches of skin, evidence of hours spent toiling over heavy chores. Her hands grew coarser and drier from the repetitive tasks of hand-washing clothes and dishes, activities she considered to be a mark of "authentic labor." Some days, her nails took on shades of yellow on cucumin; on other days, they turned to brown from gardening. Yet to her, the colors bore no significance.

My father's hands mirrored my mom’s in many ways. They were weathered, broad, and dry. But it didn’t come from the same detergents or dishes that my mother used. Instead, it was due to his daily encounters with the maintenance diesel required to keep the CNC laser machines running. Over time, his hands, too, developed dry patches adorned with the occasional tiny calluses.

Mine, on the other hand, were different.

I was exempted from all kinds of chores. Not because I resisted, but because my parents were certain that these hands of mine have other pursuits. They are made for academic and artistic purposes. And to my parent’s expectations, even after years of playing the piano and...