Growing Pains

By Adn Mudassir

Towards the end of my sophomore year of high school, my mother suggested I apply as a teaching assistant at the preschool where she worked. At first, I was unsure. My job hunt had started out of a desire to acquire some financial independence, and with it an opportunity for self-growth outside of the protected confines of my family system. This seemed like just another way for my mother to keep me close to her. But I figured I had to start somewhere, so I reluctantly agreed. 

My first summer on the job, I assisted my mother in her own preschool class. I saw for the first time the whole-hearted, raw dedication my mother pours into her job. It was disarming to work in such close quarters to her, seeing a side of her life and a passion I’d never been privy to before. 

One day during my first couple weeks, the office admin, Francis, asked me to make copies of a few worksheets for the classes while she was busy somewhere else. 

“Do you need me to show you how the copy machine works?” 

“Uh… no thanks, I’ll figure it out. Thanks! I rushed to answer, not wanting to reveal to her that I had never used a printer in my life before besides the ancient, now-defunct piece of junk sitting under our computer desk.

I stepped into the cluttered front office. Desks lined three of the four walls and were almost invisible under piles of binders, paper, art supplies, and standard office equipment like the dreaded photocopier. It was sleek, with a large screen, and I stood there for a good 5 minutes trying to figure out how to navigate (to me) the mysterious icons on the home screen. Finally admitting defeat, I made my way back to Francis, feeling both pride and embarrassment.

When Francis saw me return empty handed, she laughed and smiled understandingly.

“No worries, it can be kind of hard to figure out at first” she said, walking me through the many functions of the copier. 

My first couple months were continuous incidents like that—constantly forgetting about important transitions and assistant tasks, attempting to answer parents’ questions I was clueless about, and generally just trying to seem like I knew what I was doing. Overall, I became incredibly aware of my complete lack of confidence and practical life skills. I was awkward and terrified interacting with parents, I didn’t know how to deal with kids, I had never had to disinfect tables with bleach or sweep the floor after the combined lunchtime mess of 20 three-year-olds. I didn’t even know what made a genuinely good resume and cover letter, seeing how I walked into my interview basically already having the job. That discomfort pushed me to perform at my job as efficiently and effectively as possible. 

Over time though, I found my footing in the school, making connections with the kids and understanding their individual temperaments and interests. During my second summer there, another girl my age, Erika, joined the classroom for a few weeks. One day, as we sorted the kids’ coloring pages completed the day before into their bags, she told me about her previous job experience as a camp counselor.

“Yeah, those kids were a little older so obviously they could do more but… man, Eleanor is such a good listener! She’s what, four years old? And so independent!”

“….yeah, she is…”

I did not think Eleanor was a good listener at all, or all that independent. But this interaction, and many others with coworkers, made me cognizant of how much my expectations differed from theirs. I did lose my patience with the kids earlier than Erika. I gave them tasks some coworkers thought unreasonable to expect of them. I was surprised when they dared to say no to their parents’ and teachers’ faces. Because certain things were just expected from me growing up. That’s what I saw my younger brothers being taught to do. That’s how we were raised, and so, what I see as normal.

More unsettling, I saw so many of my habits—the way I communicated with the kids, my desire to please, my almost compulsive conscientiousness—echo my mother’s. I’d always been aware of our similarities, but brushed them away as quirks I would easily shake away with distance and maturity. I associated all of my flaws with others, particularly my mother, justifying them as reactions to external pressures rather than internal character traits. So, being confronted by her tangible influence on my personality was spiral inducing. 

The next couple weeks, I couldn’t help mentally kicking myself every time I raised my voice at a kid, which, to my distress, I found happened much more frequently than I’d been aware of. To me, being raised to unconditionally heed the word of every authority figure in my life, any pushback or stubbornness was vexing. Over time, I sat with the realization that I had more in common with my mother than I wanted to think. It took me some time to accept that many of the traits I saw and disliked in others were rooted in an unconscious identification with them. In past situations where my shortcomings were highlighted, I blamed them on my environment or upbringing, renouncing any control over my own behavior. While those are undeniable factors that morphed me into the person I am today, they don’t take away from my personal autonomy, now or then. Seeing more clearly the disparity between the person I was and the person I wanted to be, I knew I would need to put in the effort to lessen the gap. No one else was going to come into my life to magically make me more put together. I had to care enough to do that myself. As I grow older, I become more and more conscious of my values and outlook on the world, and how they differ from those of my family and others I care about. I was raised to believe that when a parent or teacher tells you to do something, it’s not an option to say no. But seeing firsthand the benefits of giving children some leeway and space to assert their boundaries was bittersweet to experience. I can’t help feeling a little resentment towards my family, because I know so much of the way I view myself has been morphed by them. At the same time, I worry that years from now, they’ll look at the person I’ve become and react with disapproval, or worse, disappointment. They’ll think, where did the Muslim girl who listened to everything her parents said go? The one who applies to medical school? Who studies the Quran and covers her shoulders? The one who will join us in the Hereafter? I want to honor their wishes, but I also want to choose what aspects of their life I would rather learn from than repeat. My job was the first situation where I came face-to-face with this unrecognized opportunity. I admittedly still am itching to gain control over my life and distance myself from my traditional upbringing. However, being put in a situation where I am an authority figure and caretaker has shown me how much I still need to learn and come to terms with myself.

Adn is an aspiring creative studying psychology at the University of Washington. When not drowning in papers and deadlines, she enjoys writing, crocheting, and enjoying the natural beauty of the Pacific Northwest.