My Dad's Spaghetti

My Dad’s Spaghetti

Written by abigail tangonan

art by abigail tangonan

While studying abroad, there were moments when I couldn’t appreciate what was happening around me. I’d ask, “Why me?” At first, the question wasn’t loud, barely audible inside my own mind, and I was happy. After all, when would I ever be 19 years old in Paris during the Olympics again? Never. So it would be best if I were to just shove that question into the darkest closet of my mind.

But then I had my first pasta dish in Paris, and I remembered the taste of my dad’s spaghetti sauce.

And slowly, because the closet could barely close any longer the thoughts began seeping out, along with the memory of the taste of the sauce.

Somehow, my homesickness transformed into guilt. Guilt for being the only one out of all my siblings to study at a four-plus-year private college and having the privilege to study abroad. The privilege to have parents who are willing to financially support me.

Why me? Why me, and not them?

Each time I bit into a pain au chocolat the chocolate was sweet, but then I’d realize I don’t have someone next to me to take the next bite, and the sweetness would turn bitter. Not the tolerable kind, but the kind where you accidentally bite into a spoiled piece of broccoli (I do not recommend biting into spoiled broccoli—you will most likely get food poisoning). Then as I chewed the pastry it would turn toxic, contaminating my thoughts easily, jerking me away from being grateful for the opportunity to study abroad, to being overwhelmed with guilt.

How dare I find this taste to be bitter? I am the one who is fortunate enough to even hold this pastry in my hand. Unlike your family members, unlike your friends who do not share your privileges.

Though each new experience was something worth remembering, it felt as if I was being chipped away at, unable to truly comprehend what was happening inside my mind. It was bright and exciting to be filled with such new knowledge of what it is like to live in a foreign country, however, the brightness grew dimmer as I continued my stay.

For the last few weeks of this trip, I struggled communicating with my peers or my family on how I was feeling. I was alone, despite being surrounded by those I considered to be my friends; there was no one that I could truly be authentic with. I yearned for that authenticity, the desire was all-consuming. Instead of reaching out, trying to find the comfort of authenticity in those who surrounded me, I let myself sink further into my thoughts. I let myself be swallowed whole by the sheets of my bed and lost in my French grammar lessons.

I knew that if I were to reach out it would ease my ailment of being homesick, but I felt as if it wasn’t possible. Since everyone was so focused on their French classes, especially me.

If I didn’t have to attend any classes, I stayed in bed. And to wash the bitter taste away in my mouth, I would have a glass, or two, or three, of wine each night, just so I could attempt to sleep without the image of my loved ones gathered around our kitchen table having a bowl of my dad’s spaghetti come to mind.

Any food I made tasted bland, sometimes sour—nothing like my dad’s spaghetti sauce. On the late nights I would spend drinking, I’d sit alone at the dining table in the provided apartment, listening to others gather and celebrate their time in Paris. They’d laugh about their days and recount how lucky they are to be alive. But I sat, feeling undeserving of this experience, asking the same question:

Why me?