Essay: I’m Turning Into My Parents and I’m Proud of It

When I moved into my apartment in August, my dad stood off in the corner of my new bedroom and performed Carl Sandburg’s poem “Chicago.” The recitation wasn’t well-received by his wife and daughters, who were painstakingly putting together a bed frame. 

When I informed my friend Andromeda about this, they were unsurprised. 

“That’s where you get it from,” Andromeda said, referring to what they describe as my “enigmatic” nature.

A thought that had been sitting in the back of my mind suddenly crashed over me — I’m turning into my parents.

Soon after, a second revelation followed — I’m proud of it. 

In the media, turning into your parents is illustrated as a disappointing inevitability. Progressive Insurance’s Dr. Rick tries to save customers from becoming their parents while selling them insurance.

I’m an outlier in this loathing of transforming into one’s parents — I’m 50% Christian Meyer, 50% Alison Meyer and 100% proud of it.

An addendum — proud for the most part. 

I’ve picked up on some habits I could stand to lose. This isn’t to say my parents have bad habits — the blame falls on me in how I’ve manifested some of their quirks.

Growing up, my dad didn’t have a television set — a fact he brings up frequently. When my mom makes mentions of her childhood shows, posing them as relatable stories, my dad furrows his brow and sighs, “I didn’t have a TV, Alison.” 

My childhood was one of abundance — including a TV — so I never thought I’d mimic this behavior. I underestimated the petty grudges of a kid having even one thing withheld from them.

Family trips to Chicago meant being able to walk through the American Girl Doll store in Water Tower Place, but never purchasing a doll. My only solace was found in our DVD of “Kit Kittredge: An American Girl.”

My roommate, Cece, on the other hand, grew up with an American Girl Doll. This matter rarely comes up in conversation, but when it does, I huff and scoff and roll my eyes.

“I didn’t have an American Girl Doll, Cece,” I complain, kicking up a fuss.

Safe to say, American Girl Dolls are no longer discussed at our dinner table.

Instead of inheriting my mom’s fastidious nature, I take after my dad’s bathetic one — a word characterizing sentimentalism we once read in Merriam-Webster’s “Word of the Day” and have used ever since. 

Old books that no longer fit on my bookshelf litter my floor in piles. Donating them is out of the question — the memories they hold are too great to discard.

“Creating piles doesn’t count as cleaning your room,” my mom tells me. “You’re just like your father.”

But beyond childish grievances and overly-sentimental hoarding, my pride in my parental-based personality is palpable.

A couple weeks ago, I bought a pure wool coat from a second-hand shop in Andersonville — black with brown buttons. I paid a pretty penny for it. 

My purchase could be written off as an investment in a heavy, well-made winter coat — but really, it was bought with my dad in mind. Ever since I was young, my dad has worn a black wool coat during wintertime. 

Day by day I become more swaddled in my parents’ clothing — my dad’s hand-me-down cashmere sweaters hang loose on my frame and my mom’s old earrings swing on my ears.

“You look like your mom,” Cece once told me as I dressed for a celebratory banquet.

I felt beautiful.

My hobbies and interests mimic those of my parents as well.

David Sedaris, Barbara Kingsolver and Ian McEwan have quickly become my favorite authors, thanks to my mom’s recommendations. We sit side-by-side on the beaches of Lake Michigan, pointing out which David Sedaris essays made us laugh the most.

The other day, I purchased a copy of Billy Collins’ book of poetry “Picnic, Lightning” only because Collins is my parents’ favorite poet — dooming me to love him. 

I’m unable to contribute to group playlists, lest I confuse and ruin the general mood with songs from Leonard Cohen, Van Morrison and Lyle Lovett — my dad’s three musical prophets. 

There are other habits I’m sure my parents wish I inherited from them, but I absolutely didn’t. 

My mom grew up wearing prescription glasses like me, while my dad aged into them. They’re both meticulous in the cleaning of their lenses and the wearing of their frames. 

I let my glasses smudge and slide down my nose, much to their great annoyance. Last time my family visited me in Chicago, I was dragged kicking and screaming into the nearest Warby Parker, where my glasses were cleaned and tightened. 

Between the good and the bad habits, I cherish all the parallels between my parents and me. I am my mother’s and my father’s daughter, cut from the same cloth, just sewn together slightly differently.

And I’m eager to continue growing into their shoes.