Challenge Essay 1: Ren Diller's Ultimate Guide to Surviving Alienhood

Essay 1 from the #Flashback2School College App Blog Challenge. Rules here.

“If you could be raised by robots, dinosaurs, or aliens, who would you pick?”

I’d choose to have aliens as parents. Here’s the thing, though—my parents are already from another planet.

Okay, back up. Let me explain.

I was the birthday girl who proudly toted a tray of ice-cream-cone cupcakes to school in second grade. My mom had struggled with what to make for the occasion. We didn’t “do” cupcakes at home, so I felt extra-special as I bestowed a cake-filled cone upon each of my classmates. As the kids around me bit into their frosting-free treats (no frosting, my mom didn’t do frosting, either), I began to hear exclamations of disgust. “Eww! It looks like poop!”

My mother had had the inspired plan of sprinkling the cake batter with peanut M&M’s. Festive, right? As the cupcakes baked, the colorful candy shells melted off, leaving gooey brown lumps lodged between crumbs of golden cake. Sure, they didn’t look so appetizing. But what right did my classmates have to say so?

I was crushed. Some of the kids finished their cupcakes, no harm done, but many of them discarded theirs after the first bite. Who could blame them? There were images of poo-cones dancing in their heads.

At home, when my mom asked how her cake cones had gone over, I just mumbled a few unhappy words and went to go hide my disappointment inside a book. She never tried to make them again.

It wasn’t just that we had different languages. It was hard to pass along customs. How do you explain your traditions and culture when they’re the only ones you’ve known? To an alien, these seem automatic and natural, not something you teach. In our house, the right way to receive compliments was to put ourselves down. With my mother, this extended to accepting gifts. Every single birthday gift, Mother’s Day gift, holiday gift...she found something about them to critique. She refused them; she returned them. I grew up with a distinctly warped way of reacting to gifts that didn’t win me any new friends. In fact, I may still owe a few apologies.

My alien parents were a source of frustration, and occasionally mortification, for most of my life. My childhood is filled with stories of awkwardness, of unintended rudeness, of brazen why-are-you-two-so-unreasonable arguments.

It wasn’t until I became an expat at the age 28 that I began to understand all of these inexplicable events of my childhood for the first time. I knew theoretically the life of an alien was hard. I had seen how my parents struggled to make simple requests while shopping. I saw how they shied away from school events, too embarrassed by their English skills, too proud to make some unknowing social faux pas.

I saw that they favored businesses, teachers, and doctors where their language was spoken. There, they felt at ease. They could communicate elegantly; they could be understood perfectly. Not just their words. At other establishments frequented by aliens, people understood their background and family history, their customs, their fears, and the challenges they faced. There was no “being alien.” Not among your own people. But I didn’t understand just how frightening it is to be an alien until I became an alien myself.

I’ve navigated over 30 years of culture shock, language barriers, different customs, and strange beliefs, all within my home. Outside my home, that was an adventure, too. Things that were simple for my friends—what to say when ordering eggs, what to wear to a dress event, the right things to ask during a college interview—they weren’t easy for me. I didn’t have coaching. It was like everyone around me had gotten their own user manual for living life, but I could only check mine out of the library. But the funny thing is, I think everyone feels this way, maybe just a little.

I got used to being a little “weird,” a little out-of-place. I never quite fit in, but I didn’t mind. I grew to like it. I found that I didn’t really care what others thought of me. This became a wonderful gift—the gift of freedom from judgment, from expectation. I can break away from the conventional. I’m not afraid to voice the unpopular opinion, to make my own choices.

And other bonuses? I’m curious about other aliens. I learned to view “different” as exciting, not threatening. I can share my alien-ness with others.

Yes, my parents are aliens. In the best sense.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Did you enjoy my essay?  Check out my fellow challengers' essays below. Better yet, join us and write your own!
Challenger Susan
Challenger Elizabeth