To live, or not to live with our parents, that is the question

Living at home with your parents as an adult has traditionally been seen as a failure in American society. People who did so were often deemed lazy, incapable of being independent, and moochers. Living on your own signifies independence, freedom, and success.

On the other hand, growing up in an immigrant household I was taught the exact opposite. Family is the most important thing in life, and this means living with family or—at the very least—nearby them to provide care. Additionally, living at home is preferred because it saves money. Why pay rent to a random stranger when you can pay rent to your own parents, either with money or by helping them out? In theory, this is a “win-win”.

An ongoing dilemma I have, however, is one I am sure many other young adults have: Are the monetary savings of living with my parents worth the non-monetary costs? Fortunately, I am lucky to have grown up in a loving household, and my parents would welcome me back to live with them. So I should want to live with them right? Yet, there is a part of me that does not want to go back. It is not that I do not miss being around my parents, but more so I do not particularly enjoy the heightened familial obligations, stunted personal growth, and lack of independence that comes with being under the same roof.

When I am home, I am expected to help the family. This means taking on running errands for my mom or folding laundry for my entire family. Honestly, this is not too bad, but pairing this with not being able to stay out late with friends or constantly updating my parents on what I am doing or where I am going whenever I leave the house is hard. It is especially hard to return to this lifestyle when I have had a taste of freedom while living on my own in college and law school. 

Additionally, returning home also means returning to my past self. The old me was the family therapist who resolved conflicts amongst family members and who had to seek parental approval before doing anything. I would be returning to the room filled with my childhood stuffed animals. This is the room with a bed where my feet hang off the mattress if I move a couple inches deeper under the covers. This is the room missing a door since my brother and I broke it when playing at least 15 years ago. My room at home represents the old version of me who felt lost and unsure of herself. Going back after all the growth and independence I have gained while away feels like a regression and losing the progress I have made. 

The flip side to maintaining my independence and freedom is the exorbitant costs of living on my own.  According to data from the U.S. Census Bureau, one in three U.S. adults between 18 years old and 34 years old live in their parents' home. The Harris Poll for Bloomberg reported that more than 60% of Gen-Zers and millennials moved back home in the past two years due to financial challenges. 

Even if I do not move back in with my parents, my familial and work obligations will require me to live in the Bay Area. This means I will pay rent in the Bay Area, one of the most expensive places to live. What's worse is not only would living on my own be unaffordable but there are additional hidden costs of feeling guilty and selfish for not staying with my family when I am so close by.

Throughout college and now in law school, I looked for work to be close to my parents. Previously, there was no doubt that I would live at home to save money because there was a tangible end date for when I would move out and live on my own again. More recently though, thinking about my post-graduation plans that feel more long-term, I am seeing the situation differently. I am lucky to be able to talk to friends my age with varying living situations to help me determine what I may want to do myself. 

I wish I could say I have figured out my plans, but unfortunately, that remains to be clear. I am glad that I  understand the cost of independence and that freedom is more than money before I make any decisions though. In the meantime, I will embrace this period of my life where I have the opportunity to explore my options and be grateful that I am lucky that my family is there to support me by providing a place for me to stay in the first place.

"And thank goodness he isn't Mexican"

"You'll own nothing. And you'll be happy," is a prediction of the near future made by the World Economic Forum in 2018. This is a phrase that has come to mind more frequently as the world becomes increasingly dominated by subscription services, disposable plastics, and rentals. 

Desperate not to be lifetime renters, my fiancé and I recently purchased a condominium in the Greater Sacramento Area and have since been investing all our free time to the renovation and move-in process. Last weekend, this process involved the construction of a bookshelf and its installation into our living room accent wall (see photos below). To make our home improvement dream a reality, we enlisted the aid of my contractor "friend" (who I'll refer to herein under the pseudonym "Mateo" due to his documentation status).

Mateo is a paradox and an enigma, a middle-aged Mexican man with a hardboiled past and an impish sense of humor. Mateo was born in or around the city of Jalisco, Mexico, but with the way he describes it, you'd think he was born into the wild western frontier of the 1890s. In his early years, Mateo courted death numerous times working on neighborhood ranches. He's been kicked by a horse, hung on chicken wire, and has received more than his fair share of cuts and lacerations. I'm convinced his coarse hands are made up of scar tissue more than anything else. Regardless of the threats to his health, Mateo has always been happy to work and earn his living.

Mateo's time in Mexico was eventually cut short when he was forced to leave his pueblo around the age of 17. Alone, and with little money or supplies, Mateo crossed the Mexican-American frontier and survived by taking on odd jobs until he was finally taken in by a contracting company willing to exploit him for him full-time. A few years later, a now 19-year-old Mateo met his now wife while obtaining his GED. They became parents at a young age, an unseen inheritance. One fatherly punch to the jaw, a wedding, and a few years later, Mateo would find himself a respected member of his new family and a successful entrepreneur.

Mateo is an industrious man who values family, hard-work, and durability above all else. He has a very odd form of intelligence that allows him to organize labor, sell his skillset, solve problems and carry out complex renovations while believing with all sincerity and among other things that the world could be flat and that the act of flossing produces cavities. However, there is one odd trait about him I've yet to understand. While he carries great pride in his ancestry, being "hecho en Mexico," he also seems to carry an odd animus against Mexicans.

Recently, his daughter had an intimate courthouse wedding prompted by her now husband's obligation to the military (below, please enjoy a photo of the historic San Francisco courthouse for reference). Later that day, they held a beautiful reception restricted to 50 of their closest loved ones. One by one, her family and friends offered their blessings and shared memories about the bride and groom. When Mateo's turn came, he shared some of the joys and regrets he had accumulated along his life which ultimately played a small part in their union. Notably, he stated that while he was overjoyed by his daughter and her husband, he regretted bringing down his wife's potential in life. He concluded along these lines:

'I am so grateful that [my daughter] did things the right way. They are getting married today not out of responsibility but out of love. And to a great guy. Not like me. And thank goodness he isn't Mexican."

As he delivered that last line, his eyes (along with many others) fell in the direction of his niece's table, at which she sat beside her boyfriend, a relatively tall Mexican man with tanned skin and a wiry frame. After an awkward pause, the microphone and the attention eventually moved on.

Coming back to last weekend, as we drove back to my condo from El Pollo Loco to continue renovating, the topic of immigration and the Trump Administration came up in conversation. Being undocumented himself and a gracious employer to those in positions of need, I assumed he would feel a significant degree of empathy for those targeted by President Trump's authoritarian immigration policies (see, e.g., compulsory immigrant registry, removing sensitive area restrictions on ICE arrests, and contemplating the adoption of a pay-to-win back door for the wealthy into America). Instead, he told me that deportation is simply another consequence of choice.

"If you break the law, you go to jail. If you come in illegally, you get kicked out. You get what you deserve. Why I feel bad because you get what you deserve?"

I was shocked and disappointed, but I had no retort. How can one argue against such a simple, if not heartless, proposition? Even being at risk himself and knowing the collateral harms at stake with each removal, he was able to take the humanity out of the law. 

Mateo's confusing combination of Mexican pride and animosity is unfortunately not an isolated phenomenon. Hispanics and Latinx peoples across the country are shifting towards MAGA ideologies, as evidenced by our most recent national election; and for the life of me, I can't understand why. Mateo's case is especially troubling because, unlike those who voted for Trump this last November and wish to "close the door behind them" as they pursue their American dreams, Mateo "came in through the window."

If this self-destructive trend continues, those like Mateo may just receive the consequences they were willing to have others suffer. If that should come to pass, although he owns nothing, I doubt he'd be happy.

Code-switching

Code switching has been a part of my for as long as I can remember. 

For Context

To paint a clearer picture, from Kindergarten to 12th grade I attended predominantly White, upper to upper-middle class, conservative, Christian schools where there were very few people who looked like me. From Kindergarten-8th grade, there were fewer than five Black students out of approximately 150 students. 

My family does not practice any sort of organized religion and is overall rather liberal. While my parents achieved class mobility, they both came from lower middle class military families and many of the cousins/relatives that I have the most contact with also came from similar class backgrounds. I should also note that I myself am mixed-race. My father is Black while my mother is Creole and Spanish. 

Additionally, outside of school, the demographics that I socialized with were almost the complete opposite of those with whom I went to school. Outside of school my friends, teammates, and cousins were mostly Black. If they were not Black, they were typically some other type of POC. 

Caught in Between

Growing up, it often felt like I was living two completely different lives. Everything always felt complicated.

In order to be able to function in both spaces, I had to learn how to compartmentalize. I quickly learned the concept of “knowing your audience,” and that there is a time and place for everything. There were certain jokes or cultural references that I could not make at school, because my classmates would not know what I was talking about. On the flip side, there were certain musical artists or TV shows that I knew I could not watch or listen to with my friends and family outside of school because they would not like it. 

Jokes, cultural references, and pop culture were not the only areas where I would code switch. One of the most significant areas that would change is in the way I speak. While in my school environments, I would not use certain slang or dialects when talking to my classmates or teachers. Additionally, I recognized that I had to police my tone very differently while at school.  

At school I had to ensure that I smiled or softened my expressions in order to avoid coming off as “angry.” I had to learn how to manage my anger or frustration in certain situations because I knew that I would get painted as “aggressive” even if I was not the one who started a conflict. I had to learn to socialize and engage with others, because being too shy or quiet would lead me to be painted as standoffish. Overall, I had to be very precise in how I presented myself because I was given less grace than many of my peers.

My language and interactions would completely change outside of school. I felt less pressure to conform to the people and culture around me. I would speak freely without carefully calculating how I put my words together in order to ensure that I did not come off a certain way. I could express my frustrations and emotions more, without concern over how I would be labeled.  

Getting Used to It

While it certainly started off as a chore, code-switching has just become a natural part of my life.

Being in these two spaces shaped my interests in very interesting ways. There are very sharp cultural contrasts in the types of media I consume. Whether it be musical discographies, television shows, iconic movies, or other forms of art, I find myself drawn to content that people traditionally associate with both Black audiences and White audiences. However, it is no longer because I am trying to assimilate to the environments around me, but rather because I have grown to genuinely enjoy the content.  

While I have become very comfortable and confident within my elastic identity, there are still some complex questions that code-switching raises. For example, I cannot say whether or not I feel code-switching is an inherently negative thing. I do code switch when I talk about some of my niche interests with certain friends that I went to the private Catholic schools with. However, I am not acting differently out of fear of them judging me. Instead, it is because I do not generally have any other spaces to express those interests, as they tend to differ from those of my Black or predominantly POC friend groups. 

Sometimes I am simply expressing different interests in different spaces, which causes me to present myself differently.

The Real Me

There is one question that has always sort of stuck with me: If I code switch so much, is there anyone who truly knows the “real” me? 

Honestly, I do not know. What I can say is that all of my friends see different pieces of the real me. While my varying friend groups may not see the exact same version of me, I know that they would love and accept whichever one shows up that day without any form of judgment. And ultimately I think that is all that matters.