Next week, I’m traveling to Japan to meet my girlfriend’s parents for the first time.
We’ve greeted each other sweetly on Facetime, and I’ve pieced together their personalities from three years worth of stories. I know about their childhoods, I know what makes them tick, and I know the voices they put on to speak to their dogs.
Two weeks with the most important people to my most important person. Will they like me? My anticipation rolls in like waves—at times I am thrilled, other times wary. But where did I get the sneaking suspicion that something might go wrong?
To meet the parents is an experience at once universal and oh-so-specific. The search for the perfect gift. The anxious journey there. The flips through old photo albums. These scenes play in my mind until I realize that’s exactly what they are: scenes from films. Visiting the partner’s hometown to meet their family is a screenplay starter as old as time. The premise transcends genre, from classics like Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner and rom-coms like My Big Fat Greek Wedding to prestige horror flicks like Get Out.
Why not? Each movie about meeting the parents is a feast of narrative delight. And after watching every version I can think of in a fit of emotional preparation, I think I’ve uncovered the perfect recipe:
- Mix one bad first impression with several humiliating faux pas.
- Stir until the central relationship nearly collapses.
- Incorporate a kind mentor figure and a long-needed conversation.
- Bake until your heart is warm.
Let’s start with the humiliation. No one does it better than Greg Focker in Meet the Parents. During the 1 hour and 48 minute film, Greg knocks over the grandma's urn, gives the sister a black eye, floods the yard with sewage, sets fire to the house, and loses the cat. With each blow, his beloved Pam questions his suitability for her more and more.
"To meet the parents is an experience at once universal and oh-so-specific. The search for the perfect gift. The anxious journey there. The flips through old photo albums."
Meet the Parents is masterful in its ability to make us feel every act of humiliation as if it were our own. The shame crawls around in our skin. We’re glad it didn’t happen to us. But as I watch Greg commit error after error, I recognise the itch. I begin to remember my own indiscretions on trips to meet past partners’ parents.
Once, I traveled west of England to meet a partner’s mum and dad. They were lovely and warm, and welcomed me with hugs and thoughtful questions. After a hearty dinner, I sprang up out of my chair. It was time to demonstrate my manners, my gratitude—I would do all the washing up. But as I scrubbed, something slipped out of my soapy hands. A ceramic jar fell with a thud and shattered into my hands and the porcelain sink.
I couldn’t bear to admit to my accident—so I asked my partner to cover for me. Then, I made a run for the nearest room.
“Mum,” I heard him say as I listened from behind the door, like a child in time-out. “I have some bad news. I broke the white jar.”
“No… you didn’t,” she gasped. “You couldn’t have.” The warmth vanished from her voice. “Your granny made that with her bare hands. It was the last thing she gave me before...” I could hear her gentle tears begin to fall from my hiding place. My cheeks flushed with shame just as my hands began to bleed from the broken shards. Then, I heard her footsteps nearing me. I was about to be caught red-handed.
***
There are almost 7,000 miles between my hometown and my girlfriend’s. We grew up speaking different languages, bowing to different gods. She is one of three sisters; I am the only girl in a family of men. Her family is loud, playful, and direct; mine trades in quiet affection and long-held resentments.
I try to trace my soft to their edges. Will the dogs warm to me? Will my vegetarianism disturb dinner plans? After three years cocooned in sweet love, I want to show off how good we are together. Mostly, I want to feel like a perfect fit.
I picture our days-long journey ahead. It’s not so different from Shrek and Fiona’s quest in Shrek 2—two lovebirds leaving their happy swamp to address the in-laws. Perhaps I will stick out like a sore thumb—or rather, like an ogre among royalty. Maybe I will settle in only to discover there is a more suitable Prince Charming waiting in the wings (I sincerely doubt this). If all goes wrong, I can only hope there will be a Jennifer Saunders-voiced fairy godmother to soundtrack my redemption.
Shrek 2 highlights a common denominator in meet the parents films: the newcomer must be an indisputable outsider. Sometimes there is a racial or cultural divide, as in Get Out or My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Other times class is the issue, like it is for Rachel in Crazy Rich Asians. But often, it is subtle differences in temperament or style that polarize the most.
Take the star-studded Christmas classic, The Family Stone. Sarah Jessica Parker plays Meredith, a tense and self-conscious New Yorker spending Christmas with her boyfriend’s close-knit family. It all goes spectacularly wrong—from dropping her egg-and-cream breakfast strata on the floor to winding up in her boyfriend’s brother’s bed.
“I don’t care if you like me,” a worn-down Meredith tells the little sister one morning. “Of course you do,” she replies with a devilish smile.
The Family Stone is billed as a heartwarming Christmas comedy, but lands in the body like a thriller. Our adrenaline pumps as we watch the everyday nightmares of human connection play out. Meredith is not so much a protagonist, but a vessel for our own fears about likeability. Through her failures, we see the tragedy that can arise from caring too much and trying too hard.
One snowy Christmas in my early 20s, I flew to Paris to be with my French partner and his mother. It was my first time meeting someone’s family, and my first time in Europe. I wanted everything to be perfect. I remember applying makeup and changing clothes as the plane landed in Charles de Gaulle, determined to make an appropriate debut. I presented my carefully chosen gift, wore my carefully chosen outfits, and spoke a carefully chosen French.
Days later, my partner and I had a fight so big that my heart felt irrevocably broken. It is a strange alchemy of the soul to feel such despair so far from home. I tried to hide my sorrow for fear of seeming too sensitive or causing a fuss. But I sobbed so loudly that night that I awoke his mother. She came down in her night robe and stared at me, muttering to her son in French. “What have you done to this poor girl? She is a complete mess.”
I remember wondering if I should try to keep up the charade or just book an early flight home. I had done nothing wrong, but I knew that my Parisian mission had failed. My heart, an eggy breakfast bake on the floor.
***
Our flight is drawing near, and I’ve watched one too many romantic comedies. So what have I learned from all these cinematic trips home, and from reflecting on my own? In many ways, to meet the parents is to embark on a hero’s journey. There is a voyage to take, tests to endure, and revelations to have. In the end, there will always be a homecoming, and the hero will never be the same.
I picture my own homecoming from Tokyo: picking stray dog hairs from my clothes, adjusting back to the London time zone. I know the trip will reveal much to me about my beloved. And I can’t wait to find out the twist—how it transforms me. too.
Next week, I’m traveling to Japan to meet my girlfriend’s parents for the first time.
We’ve greeted each other sweetly on Facetime, and I’ve pieced together their personalities from three years worth of stories. I know about their childhoods, I know what makes them tick, and I know the voices they put on to speak to their dogs.
Two weeks with the most important people to my most important person. Will they like me? My anticipation rolls in like waves—at times I am thrilled, other times wary. But where did I get the sneaking suspicion that something might go wrong?
To meet the parents is an experience at once universal and oh-so-specific. The search for the perfect gift. The anxious journey there. The flips through old photo albums. These scenes play in my mind until I realize that’s exactly what they are: scenes from films. Visiting the partner’s hometown to meet their family is a screenplay starter as old as time. The premise transcends genre, from classics like Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner and rom-coms like My Big Fat Greek Wedding to prestige horror flicks like Get Out.
Why not? Each movie about meeting the parents is a feast of narrative delight. And after watching every version I can think of in a fit of emotional preparation, I think I’ve uncovered the perfect recipe:
- Mix one bad first impression with several humiliating faux pas.
- Stir until the central relationship nearly collapses.
- Incorporate a kind mentor figure and a long-needed conversation.
- Bake until your heart is warm.
Let’s start with the humiliation. No one does it better than Greg Focker in Meet the Parents. During the 1 hour and 48 minute film, Greg knocks over the grandma's urn, gives the sister a black eye, floods the yard with sewage, sets fire to the house, and loses the cat. With each blow, his beloved Pam questions his suitability for her more and more.
"To meet the parents is an experience at once universal and oh-so-specific. The search for the perfect gift. The anxious journey there. The flips through old photo albums."
Meet the Parents is masterful in its ability to make us feel every act of humiliation as if it were our own. The shame crawls around in our skin. We’re glad it didn’t happen to us. But as I watch Greg commit error after error, I recognise the itch. I begin to remember my own indiscretions on trips to meet past partners’ parents.
Once, I traveled west of England to meet a partner’s mum and dad. They were lovely and warm, and welcomed me with hugs and thoughtful questions. After a hearty dinner, I sprang up out of my chair. It was time to demonstrate my manners, my gratitude—I would do all the washing up. But as I scrubbed, something slipped out of my soapy hands. A ceramic jar fell with a thud and shattered into my hands and the porcelain sink.
I couldn’t bear to admit to my accident—so I asked my partner to cover for me. Then, I made a run for the nearest room.
“Mum,” I heard him say as I listened from behind the door, like a child in time-out. “I have some bad news. I broke the white jar.”
“No… you didn’t,” she gasped. “You couldn’t have.” The warmth vanished from her voice. “Your granny made that with her bare hands. It was the last thing she gave me before...” I could hear her gentle tears begin to fall from my hiding place. My cheeks flushed with shame just as my hands began to bleed from the broken shards. Then, I heard her footsteps nearing me. I was about to be caught red-handed.
***
There are almost 7,000 miles between my hometown and my girlfriend’s. We grew up speaking different languages, bowing to different gods. She is one of three sisters; I am the only girl in a family of men. Her family is loud, playful, and direct; mine trades in quiet affection and long-held resentments.
I try to trace my soft to their edges. Will the dogs warm to me? Will my vegetarianism disturb dinner plans? After three years cocooned in sweet love, I want to show off how good we are together. Mostly, I want to feel like a perfect fit.
I picture our days-long journey ahead. It’s not so different from Shrek and Fiona’s quest in Shrek 2—two lovebirds leaving their happy swamp to address the in-laws. Perhaps I will stick out like a sore thumb—or rather, like an ogre among royalty. Maybe I will settle in only to discover there is a more suitable Prince Charming waiting in the wings (I sincerely doubt this). If all goes wrong, I can only hope there will be a Jennifer Saunders-voiced fairy godmother to soundtrack my redemption.
Shrek 2 highlights a common denominator in meet the parents films: the newcomer must be an indisputable outsider. Sometimes there is a racial or cultural divide, as in Get Out or My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Other times class is the issue, like it is for Rachel in Crazy Rich Asians. But often, it is subtle differences in temperament or style that polarize the most.
Take the star-studded Christmas classic, The Family Stone. Sarah Jessica Parker plays Meredith, a tense and self-conscious New Yorker spending Christmas with her boyfriend’s close-knit family. It all goes spectacularly wrong—from dropping her egg-and-cream breakfast strata on the floor to winding up in her boyfriend’s brother’s bed.
“I don’t care if you like me,” a worn-down Meredith tells the little sister one morning. “Of course you do,” she replies with a devilish smile.
The Family Stone is billed as a heartwarming Christmas comedy, but lands in the body like a thriller. Our adrenaline pumps as we watch the everyday nightmares of human connection play out. Meredith is not so much a protagonist, but a vessel for our own fears about likeability. Through her failures, we see the tragedy that can arise from caring too much and trying too hard.
One snowy Christmas in my early 20s, I flew to Paris to be with my French partner and his mother. It was my first time meeting someone’s family, and my first time in Europe. I wanted everything to be perfect. I remember applying makeup and changing clothes as the plane landed in Charles de Gaulle, determined to make an appropriate debut. I presented my carefully chosen gift, wore my carefully chosen outfits, and spoke a carefully chosen French.
Days later, my partner and I had a fight so big that my heart felt irrevocably broken. It is a strange alchemy of the soul to feel such despair so far from home. I tried to hide my sorrow for fear of seeming too sensitive or causing a fuss. But I sobbed so loudly that night that I awoke his mother. She came down in her night robe and stared at me, muttering to her son in French. “What have you done to this poor girl? She is a complete mess.”
I remember wondering if I should try to keep up the charade or just book an early flight home. I had done nothing wrong, but I knew that my Parisian mission had failed. My heart, an eggy breakfast bake on the floor.
***
Our flight is drawing near, and I’ve watched one too many romantic comedies. So what have I learned from all these cinematic trips home, and from reflecting on my own? In many ways, to meet the parents is to embark on a hero’s journey. There is a voyage to take, tests to endure, and revelations to have. In the end, there will always be a homecoming, and the hero will never be the same.
I picture my own homecoming from Tokyo: picking stray dog hairs from my clothes, adjusting back to the London time zone. I know the trip will reveal much to me about my beloved. And I can’t wait to find out the twist—how it transforms me. too.