Some Christmas Card Thoughts...

Growing up, we never received Christmas cards from friends or family.  It's a very American thing to do Christmas cards, kind of like thank you cards, which are entirely foreign to anyone with an immigrant parent (who has not adapted to the American culture), but just basic decorum in the American culture.  So when we started doing Christmas cards after we got married, my parents and family were a little surprised.  It was a good surprise, I'm sure, but surprised nevertheless.  It became even more of a necessity to update everyone as I slowly became more distanced from my extended family after we left LA for Washington and then Utah.  We go back about once or twice a year to visit now, but there's not always time to visit with the extended family, so like many things, it has become less and less and associated with my childhood more than my adulthood.

Every year, we send a little bit of an update on our family, what we've done, how our year's been, how and what the kids are sort of like.  Obviously, these letters don't tell of the true day in and day out that we experience, but we hope they shed a bit of light on our year and will give us some sort of context on what we did and what our kids did years later.  Because no letter could truly detail how mortifying it is when you go to music class with your sons and they lay on you like a big baby or how quickly it manifests into loving pride when they show some light has flickered and they get music theory.  Or the tangible cuteness of my baby's little bum high in the air as he bear crawls everywhere.  Or the level of joy that comes when my daughter tells me how much she loves the food I've cooked and gobbles it down patiently at the table like a big kid.

And I've thought about this a lot, about who I really should be sending our Christmas cards to, who even cares to read our letters, and what they mean to us and others.  I made the smart decision to send 100 actual cards to friends and family who want them or send us cards, and then I also send a bunch via email to old coworkers, old college buddies, and even old college professors.  The response from my emailed cards was above and beyond what I could have expected.  I got responses with updates from old partners I worked with, professors who expressed such zeal for an update and requested I make sure to include them on my annual card list every year going forward.  Old friends who are off the grid who told me they had new babies, I mean the response was overwhelming and absolutely amazing.  Bundled in with that group, my parents also received a soft copy of our card.  That might sound cruel or unthoughtful, but my parents mail is a pile of bills and notices lost, one that has grown too immense for them to adequately control, and I know better than to send them a card they will just read and then toss aside.  For them, the soft copy is almost better because they can store it and refer back to it whenever they want with a simple search.

But still, my American side was apprehensive about what sort of response my mom would have.  I finally got on the phone with her after I had sent the card and she was so happy.  She told me how many times she had read it over and over, how much she loved reading the card, and how wonderful it was.  Then, she told me that when they had first moved to the US and were still living in Missouri, someone they knew was very "Americanized," and would send them a card every single year giving them an update on their family.  She referred to is as the most ridiculous thing she had ever read, so san-ba (a phrase that means foolish, and is a homonym with the number 3 and 8, so sometimes we say that's so 38! - don't be fooled by the Internet who refers to 38 as a female dog, that is definitely NOT the translation).  But then, she admitted, now that she's receiving my cards and understands the cultural impact of Christmas cards, she can't stop gushing over mine and will read it over and over again, because she loves hearing about her daughter's family.  I couldn't help but laugh, because maybe part of that struggle I had with whether or not I should do a card, how much to write, who to send it to, and how... was not so far from the fact that my own mom thought it a bit insane to send anything even resembling a family update.  So now I know.

How Do you Feel About Santa?

When I was two years old, my dad dressed up as Santa.  Everyone laughed when I made the two year old observation that Santa sured looked a lot like my Dad.  I would remember it for years to come as the story would be retold time after time.  That was the last time Santa would be a thing for me as the believer.

When Christmas came around and I was no longer an only child, I felt the need to be Santa for my brother who was six years younger.  I always asked him about what he wanted and then made sure a gift under the tree was signed "from Santa" for him.  The look of joy on his face was so wonderful and since I had never experienced it myself, I felt so proud.  Sure, we didn't have stockings, and we didn't even put out cookies and milk for Santa at night but the knowledge that at least one of us got Santa, made it okay.

But a few years later, when he made the connection that jie jie (big sister in Mandarin) was the culprit behind his "from Santa" gifts, I came to the conclusion that Santa was the worst thing ever.  The mortified look of being duped for so many years, the way he faked that it wasn't a big deal when I could feel like it absolutely was-it just absolutely broke my heart.  I decided right then and there that this whole Santa thing was definitely a bad idea.  I became grateful that I never believed in it, and that my parents never played along.  At least there were some perks for being an immigrant child with parents who didn't buy into the American traditions.

After I graduated college, my cousin who was 16 years younger, would finally learn about Santa.  I'd get a phone call from my Aunt asking me what Pokemon was, because her daughter was crying the day after Christmas.  The only thing she had written to Santa asking for was Pokemon.  My Uncle had seen this letter and dismissed it, thinking it was just some sort of school craft she brought home.  They didn't know you actually wrote letters to Santa asking for something, or that parents were supposed to step in to keep the fantasy alive.  My brother and I quickly got a Pokemon and attached it to a letter explaining how Santa had gotten lost.  But that was about it for her, she would never believe in Santa again after that.

They say some bad experiences can mold a person, influence the way they think or act, and my Santa encounters certainly did that. I decided early on I'd never continue the Santa act for my own kids.  When I became religious in my late 20's, there was even more reason not to continue the Santa act.  For me personally, the fact that I now began to believe in something I once thought was just made up made all the difference.  I didn't want to encourage my kids to believe in something I knew ultimately would be unreal.

And now, here I am with kids, and Santa has become a bit of a misnomer.  Our kids don't believe he exists, at least not in the way he's portrayed as someone who magically comes with flying reindeer through chimneys to deliver gifts, rather they acknowledge his presence and the symbolism that comes along with him representing the consumer side of Christmas.  Mostly, we talk about Jesus's birthday as the reason for the big day, but then when we get to questions about Santa and if he's real or not, we just ask them questions, and then they come to their own conclusions about how presents never come from "Santa," or how reindeers can't fly, and how Santa is different everywhere they go.  A few times, my second yelled at strangers that "Santa is not real!" when asked what he wanted from the big guy.  That prompted a discussion about not ruining it for others, and that he is real in the sense of the idea of Santa and that parents can substitute for Santa.  When my kids got stocking stuffer items from their great Uncle Ike and great Aunt Jan, they celebrated with joy and thought it a little peculiar that their cousins got the same stuff from "Santa," but rather than inquire as to the difference, they just shrugged it off.  And I guess that's sort of where we are now.  We don't encourage or discourage, we don't lie, but we also don't tell the entire truth.

How do you feel about Santa?

The Boyfriend Conundrum

My mom scrutinized my first ever boyfriend from head to toe before I was allowed to officially be his girlfriend.  Like a good obedient Chinese daughter, I let her, and waited patiently as she went about calling him before school (yes, she got the number from me) and setting up a time to meet with him afterwards.  The entire day of waiting and attempting to calm potential said boyfriend's nerves was an eternity of impending doom.

They met in a Chinese tea house, the ones who serve those delicious Boba milk tea (Boba are glutinous balls of joy that squish around in your mouth before becoming excessive calories reminiscent of my entire tween and teenage youth).  There, she would buy him a cup of boba milk tea, and sit down to drink and chat with him.  He was 17, I was 16, we were high school babies.  She evaluated the way he drove because she had him pick her up, and throughout the drive, she carefully determined if he could shuttle me around safely.  Then, she inquired about the details of our friendship, the courtship, and asked what he liked about me.  She found out about his college plans, his future ambitions, and gave him a long speech about how I was a diamond in the rough.  To say it was a mortifying experience for him and me is an understatement.

I would have two more serious boyfriends after that, one of which became my forever boyfriend.  I'd date a lot in my 20s, but I'd always be especially careful of those I considered "boyfriends," a title I knew would invite my mom into the picture and give her ample opportunities to get a little too involved.

As an adult looking back now, I am quite sure the apple does not fall far from the tree, and I will have no hesitation to do the same exact thing to my daughter and sons.  I just hope they allow me to do the same, because most of my other friends started dating at 12 or 13, behind their parents' backs, and never let their parents know who they were in a relationship with.  For some peculiar reason, I shared with my mom.  I didn't share every single detail of our relationship, but I felt it was important that she knew I had a boyfriend, and after waiting so long to have a boyfriend, I didn't want to hide it.

I try to think of what my mom did that made me so open with her.  Here is what I came up with.

1) She constantly told me about how dumb she was when she smoked as a teenager, and how mad my grandma popo was when she found out.  It made me feel I wasn't alone and assured me that my mom had been through the same stuff.  When I became  faced with those same life changing decisions of whether or not to take a sip of alcohol before I was 21, or whether or not to take a puff of a cigarette when everyone was saying how cool it was and you secretly wanted to hold on just because, I thought of my mom and who wants to think of their mom during those situations?!  I did... and I'd think twice and try to learn from her mistakes that she reminded me of SO OFTEN.

2) She drove us everywhere, she volunteered to be chauffeur whenever possible, and eavesdropped on every little thing we said.  We said a lot of stupid things in the car.  She knew very well who were the nice girls and who were the ones to be a little more wary of.  She knew who was dating who, and was just as invested in the teen gossip as I was.  But she never asked questions while driving or acted like she was listening.  She feigned indifference in front of my friends, and once they were gone, she was invested and interested and I didn't ever feel threatened and for some reason, wanted to share with her things about my friends.

3) Despite always yelling at me for doing things that might be du lian or loose face (loosely translated in English), known as inappropriate things a good Chinese girl does not do (like run through your sophomore dance class routine with your friends in front of the school while waiting to be picked up... seriously?) that are for some strange reason embarrassing to conservative traditional Chinese folk, and belittling my better judgment when detailing why receiving a "C" in PE is a disgrace (because it's confusing when your parents don't value exercise or sports or playing outside but suddenly a C in PE is all my fault) or giving me some serious body issues with her blunt "you look fat" comments, yes, despite ALL of that, my mom wavers between the horrendous critical difficult mom and the loving supportive, will always be on your side and continue to encourage you in a Chinese way.  That Chinese way might not always be nurturing or loving in a big embrace you kind of way, but it's more of a silent cheerleader on the side saying, "Duh, you can do this so you better!"  When self esteem was lacking and teenage insecurities inspired doubt, my mom would always tell me to do my best, and that I could do it.  When I failed the CPA for the sixth or seventh time and wanted to give up, she told me I would eventually get it and reminded me that not everyone passed right away.  She was full of motivational reminders that I might not be the smartest, but I also wasn't the dumbest.  That realistic approach helped me face a lot of disappointments in life and find the ability to keep on trucking on.

The Mall Incident

After morning drop off with my oldest on Friday morning, I thought I'd take the littles out for a bit and return something I got (on a whim) at Nordstrom from the week before.  We don't normally do morning drop off, but our carpool buddies are out of town, so it was all four of the kids loaded into the car before 9 AM.  We were also a bit late because we had a dentist appointment in the morning, so by the time I came home to relieve Grandma of babysitting duties, and made it over to the school, it was about 9:30 AM.

When we arrived at the mall, it was quite empty (though two ladies in work out clothes circling the mall while power walking made me chuckle, that'll be me in a few years).  We made our way towards the area heavy with coin operated machines, the kinds that used to stand in front of supermarkets and you'd beg your parents for just one ride please.  My mom texted me right around then with an image of a shirt she wanted to mail to me.  I responded "sure!" and then sent her a photo of my view, which was Bubba running towards the coin operated machinery area, and me pushing the littles in the stroller.  For a brief second while the photo sat in my text area ready to be sent, I hesitated to send it because she'd probably be upset about how far Bubba was and out of my reach.  I was careless though, and went ahead and sent it.  What was I thinking?  I would soon regret it and never think twice about my own initial hesitations.  I do know my mom the most and can predict a lot of her responses. ....

Mom: "Is that Barba standing far away?" (Side note: I'm not sure why, but she can't seem to figure out that it's Bubba.  She always calls him Barba in text.)

My response: Yup, going to the coin operated playground.

Mom: You be careful.  When some one catch him you don't have time and energy to protect your kids.

Me: Send another photos showing cute kids on the playground, thinking well Bubba is right by me now, waiting hopefully for a positive affirmation response. 

Mom: Just be careful, be careful & be careful please. Some people in the mall try to catch the kids in your group.  Once you lost your kid in the mall, you never expect to see them again.

Me: What kind of people?  Some people also might break into my house

Mom: That chance is less than in the mall. You need to keep your kids in a safety circumstance being a mother.  Once that happen, your husband and in laws will never forget you forever. Forgive you.

Ugh.  Why did I send her that photo?!  One small decision has spiraled into a whirlwind of infuriating text responses, all well intentioned but so difficult to stomach all the while.  I decided I better hang up the phone before things got dicey, so I politely said I had to go, and hoped the text chain would end.  Of course, text is the best way for a sometimes overbearing mother's tirade of judgment. 

Mom's Text: Being a mother, you need to sacrifice something.  You are not single girl any more.  Shopping is not essential in your life.You can go shopping with your husband, in law or Jane.  Not by yourself with 3 kids please my deal daughter.  You should appreciate your current happy life.  DO NOT GIVE YOURSELF any risky chance.  Especially your kids are too much cute.  Please protect them carefully.  Shopping mall is different from church, library.  There are so many weird people in the mall.

I'm a pretty paranoid person already.  I couldn't drink blue Gatarode for weeks after seeing a story on Dateline about some girl getting poisoned by her husband with anti-freeze disguised as Gatorade, especially not if offered by my husband.

I've never wondered why I'm paranoid.  Why I walked all throughout my college campus clutching onto my rape whistle and pepper spray like it was my oxygen.  Why a simple Dateline story would drive me to question my own husband.  Why I question when random coincidences occur with strangers around me in unfamiliar places, yes I observe it and notice it all too much.  Why I've already had conversations with my kids about identity theft and role playing what to do if approached by a stranger.  Well, now I know why.    

Why I Wanted Five Kids

For as long as I can remember, I've always fixated my future family as five kids.  Five seemed like the perfect number, so five was what I settled on early.  In my 20s, while dating in the LA scene (not recommended), a guy I wasn't interested in initially but would eventually date for a bit was with me at a diner waiting for our other friends to arrive.  We saw some cute kids running around and he asked me how many kids I wanted, without hesitation, I blurted out, "five" to which he responded, "me too!"  I was shocked and that may have been part of why I eventually went out with him.  Most people think five kids is a lot, especially those who do not come from Mormon or Catholic families.  But five kids just felt like a good number to me.  

When I think back to my upbringing, I can put my finger on exactly how this came to be.  For three years, my cousins three and six years my senior, came to live with us.  They had lived with their mom in the US for three years prior, but their mom eventually went back to be with my uncle in Taiwan while the kids were sent to live with us.  This might sound odd, but it's actually all quite normal with immigrant families.  I remember when my brother was born, we also had a unique situation.  My parents both worked at the time, and we certainly could not afford a nanny or for my mom to stay home with us. So the solution my parents came to have was shuttling my brother off to my aunt's (my mom's sister) in-laws every Sunday night where he stayed intel we picked him up every Friday night. It wasn't an arrangement that lasted very long, maybe a few months, but as a mom now, I can't imagine having to part with my newborn for so long during the week, but there was no other way they could have done it, so that was what we did.  

Growing up I was an only child for six years of my life.  Late into my sixth year of life, my parents would bring home a baby.  It would be a weird encounter, one I wasn't prepared for (maybe they told me beforehand, but I didn't notice my mom's growing stomach and was completely oblivious to the fact), and one I rejected entirely in the beginning.  Sure I had begged them for a sibling, but after years of rejection, I had come to terms with my only child status, and had begun to become quite fond of it.  I liked being the center of attention, I liked coming up with imaginative games of my own, and I even began talking to myself and having a ball.  Loneliness became the norm and eventually morphed into creative exploration with a party of one.  When my brother joined the family, it was so big of an age gap that I couldn't handle it.  Two years with a little brother, and having not quite adjusted, our cousins came to live with us, and all of a sudden, we were a big family with four kids, and it was SO. MUCH. FUN. 

My mom had quit her job to be a stay at home mom a year earlier after learning I was being bullied by the other kids at the after school Chinese program, a sacrifice I have always been so grateful for. With my cousins coming to live with us, it was became more evident that having a stay at home mom was necessary.  I remember my mom making elaborate snacks for us when we came home everyday.  I remember her exploring American foods like copy cat Subway sandwiches, hamburgers, even baked seafood chowder pasta.  I remember homemade Chinese soups from scratch and cantaloupe tapioca and shaved ice during the summers.  I remember going along with my mom to pick up my oldest cousin from high school, my second oldest cousin from junior high, and then us being shuttled around for tutoring, dance classes, and home for piano lessons.  I remember walking to the library with my cousins because they were old and mature.  I remember waiting for it to be 10 AM on the weekends before I was allowed to go wake up my cousins (seriously, why did they sleep so much? or why did I sleep so little?).  I remember listening to my cousin tell me about boys and kissing her poster of Doogie Howser and learning about New Kids on the Block.  I remember helping my cousin rip his jeans because that's what all the cool kids were doing, yes even with brand new jeans! I remember push down socks, big bangs, and neon colored biker shorts, all fashion ensembles that my way cooler and hip older girl cousin taught me.  I remember listening to 102.7 KIIS FM with them, something that was completely foreign to me before they came.  I remember watching Chinese sitcoms with them on the weekends, along with TGIF, and staying up late to watch Sisters with my cousin every Friday night.  I remember how much fun it was to have a house full of people.  And that's why I've always wanted a lot of kids.  

But I think we'll stick with four.  Even numbers are good.  

Mashed Potatoes

I've been staring at a 10 pound bag of potatoes I bought in anticipation of making mashed potatoes for a church feast for the youth.  I volunteered because I wanted to help, without giving much thought to my lack of experience.  I'm well versed with boxed mashed potatoes, after a few mess-ups in my 20s and a tablespoon of salt instead of a teaspoon, but having just received a potato masher from my in-laws last Christmas (I think they were trying to imply something...), it seemed like now was the time. 

I'm still intimidated, and feel almost a little silly admitting that my entire life's experience with mashed potatoes has consisted of box or microwaveable pouches or the drive-thru at KFC (true story, our family had a traditional "American" Thanksgiving one year completed by our lovely friend, the Colonel (and his minions).

The box and pouches aren't bad, nothing some fresh garlic, salt, and pepper, and tons of butter can't remedy.  But the idea of dipping my toes into the American traditions of homemade mashed potatoes also excite me a bit.  True, I still am determined to cook Chinese sticky sausage rice despite the expensive price of sticky rice and sausage in the local Salt Lake Chinese supermarkets, but that is the Thanksgiving I'm accustomed to.  That was our "stuffing" that paired so nicely with the turkey, the only American dish our dinner extravaganza would include, so it's been a welcome tradition that I've cooked, if only for myself.

Thanksgiving is one of those holidays that remind me of the disconnect my Chinese immigrant child experience had, probably the only more patriotic holiday would be Fourth of July itself.  I remember coming home with my meticulously glued tissue paper stuffed paper turkey, only to have my mom reject it.  I remember learning about the pilgrims and the Indians, but thinking it was just a fairytale, because nobody had cranberry sauce with their turkey... right?  Corn?  Pumpkin pie?  Those were only things I had seen on television, and not representative of the celebration we had at home.  We had sticky sausage rice instead of stuffing, Chinese sponge cake with fruit and heavy whipping cream instead of pumpkin pie or any sort of cake with frosting, we had stir fried greens instead of corn or mashed potatoes, and mushrooms and abalone instead of sweet potatoes.  I remember how in awe I was that my best friend made pumpkin pie from scratch every year, especially since she was Korean American.  Her mom also was known for the best lasagna ever, something we only knew existed in the frozen section of Costco, and a dish my mom requested a recipe for, only to make it with normal noodles that she thought would eventually flatten out (we now know that you buy the flat sheets that make lasagna layers... ).

I find it exciting to shop for Thanksgiving decor.  I find joy in cornucopias and turkeys, symbols of a holiday I only knew through commercials and American sitcoms.  I can't wait to devour myself with an assortment of pies, potatoes, that disgusting dish of random bread crumbs (stuffing), and enjoy Thanksgiving with my family.  I will say the best part about never taking Thanksgiving seriously within our Chinese family growing up was the celebrations I got to partake of in my 20s.  I spent Thanksgiving with so many friends who were unable to return home for the special holiday, experienced numerous box mashed potatoes, turduckens, and sad attempts to recreate those traditional dishes my friends all missed by not going home.  Little did they know that their shortcomings were my gains, and first time experiences having an "American" Thanksgiving.

Well, I guess I better start on those mashed potatoes.  Practice for the real deal?

Nothing Comes For Free

My mom is really generous, she has given us a van and a lexus, and for that we are eternally grateful for.  But let me be the first to tell you, nothing in life comes for free.

"Don't forget, I gave you two cars,"  is something I hear often.  I haven't forgotten, because you won't let me!

Today's conversation went like this.
Me: I have to take the car to the dealership.  Your Lexus is broken.

In retrospect, I should not have said "your Lexus" because it is now ours.  I just fed the monster.

Mom: What do you mean broken?  It was in perfect condition when I gave it to you.  That Andy, he can't handle anything nice.  What is he doing to the car?  Why is it broken? He doesn't know how to take care of nice things.

I will admit, I lost it at this point.  I may have raised my voice and said, "how are we supposed to take care of a car other than servicing it and driving it?! We're not crazy drivers, what are you TALKING ABOUT?" and then she said, "I don't have time to talk about this" and hung up on me.

Seriously?  Cuz cars don't break?  Cuz cars don't depreciate?  Cuz there's not wear and tear on a car you gave us after driving it for five years?!  And this is the crap I have to deal with every day... and my only outlet is here and a text to my husband, because this is my mother and I have to just persevere and move forward with faith and a smile on my face.

Nothing comes for free.  \Even stuff from your parents... because how many times have I yelled at my kids for not taking care of something that I gave to them?  But a car?  Come on... that's got to be different.  Mothers are hard.  I hope I can remember this lesson so that I don't respond the same way when I give my kids something that eventually breaks or has a problem.

I will admit, I thought something similar when my brother told me the macbook I gave him (after using it for four years) broke, well just the camera to be specific.  I guess I'm not that much different than my own mother, but I'm going to try to be... because change is possible, and recognizing those little quirks you have that might resemble your moms is the first place to start.

Don't Smile So Big

For as long as I can remember, I've had a love hate relationship with smiling.  I was a thumb sucker until the sixth grade, a few months into having braces, so for most of my life, there was an obvious overbite in my smile.  My mom reminded me of this fact often when she told me to smile with my mouth closed.  Smile less.  Keep those gums hidden.

When we were kids, the dessert slices of oranges at Chinese restaurants were used to stick into our mouth to make alternative "orange slice smiles."  It was hilarious because the slices fit perfectly, wedged into our mouth, the orange peel took the place of our teeth and gums!  My cousins and I would always shove orange slices into our entire mouth as our parents yelled as us to stop, mainly because our mouth might permanently become large.  To this day, my mom will remind me that had I been a more obedient Chinese daughter and avoided stuffing oranges into my mouth, I'd likely have a smaller and more delightful smile.

In the second grade... I kept my mouth closed for the school photos, resulting in a weird asian Wednesday Adams death stare.  The pigtails and the collar didn't help either.  Where were my big bangs and big bows?  I hate that photo so much.  I'm the awkward asian girl not smiling because her mom told her not to.  When I came home with this photo, she clarified that she meant I should just smile with my mouth closed, not close my mouth and not smile.  It's confusing... I know. 

The relationship with smiling became more complicated once I got braces.  Braces involve miniature metal boxes glued onto your teeth then connected through a wire.  Besides the constant sores and food stuck between your teeth, there was also the added space that now made it harder for your mouth to sit comfortably over the metal bulge.  My pre-existing overbite combined with the brace face made for a big mouth.  I was reminded of this constantly from my mom, who told me to laugh a little lighter, smile a little smaller, and basically, hide that huge brace face from the rest of the world for fear of scaring them off.

As a an impressionable 11 year old, it was hard to be laughing one moment and then hear my mom yelling to tone it down and close that big mouth of braces.  I felt like she was embarrassed for me. She seemed to cringe when I opened my mouth too large.  My gums were too big.  My smile was too gross.  My laugh too much.   

I felt isolated.  Not only was the pain of each monthly tightening so physically tormenting, but the random reminders that beauty was pain flew in through periodic canker sores created by the wire ends that were not properly cut off by the orthodontist.  No scars were ever left, in fact I don't think there are any remnants of braces leftover in my mouth today, but the painful memories of bloody canker sores that resided in the insides of my cheeks made my mouth a temporarily permanent living hell.  The head gear, though only required at night, was even worse.  The metal device confined me to a painful existence of expediting that overbite by pulling my teeth in towards me, as hard and as tight as possible.  It was so incredible painful, that most nights I'd go to sleep with it on only to then slip it off in the middle of the night.  At monthly appointments, I'd perfect the art of lying when my orthodontist asked if I was using it correctly.  I'd respond with an innocent and obedient nod and a harmless assertion that I indeed was, sometimes I'd even ask questions about if I was doing it correctly to over emphasize that I was indeed using it.  Often, I'd hear affirmations such as, "looks like that head gear is working!" - accolades I'd snicker but gracefully collect, month after month, until one day, the orthodontist said I could stop wearing my head gear.  What a sucker. I remember thinking about my orthodontist, the man I'd grow to hate for everything he represented on a monthly basis (seriously, does anyone like their orthodontist or dentist?...)  

On top of the pain... there was the recommendation to stop smiling.  Combined, it was overbearingly awful. 

I was fairly confident that my moms reminders to stop smiling meant I was ugly.  What else could it mean?  Well technically I was beautiful, just not when I smiled so big or so much.  

In middle school, still brace faced, and still insecure about my smile, I came home with a school picture of myself with a dark brown lipstick (that was cool then) and..... *gasp... a smile.  My hair was down and to the side, and I thought it was a great photo.  I showed the picture to my mom proudly, and she told me, as a matter of factly, "You should have smiled less." 

I looked at the photo over and over.  I analyzed my smile.  I thought about her words.  Slowly, I began to agree with her.  What was wrong with my goofy clown smile?!  Why did I smile so big? 

I started to obsess in front of a mirror.  I'd smile, look at my smile with content approval, and then, I'd smile, take the mirror away, go back in front of the mirror, and see if the smile stayed.  Once I was advanced at this, I'd try smiling without a mirror first, then get a mirror in front of me and see what the smile looked like.  I practiced over and over, trying to memorize the muscles used to smile when it looked okay, and when it looked too big.  I had to make sure I had a good smile.  I found that the less I smiled, but just sort of opened my mouth, the better it seemed to look.  

When retakes were offered, I immediately signed up.  This time, I would utilize the practice I had painfully subjected myself to for hours.  

The result was a weird open mouth non-smile picture.  

Defeated, I hid all the photos ordered and didn't pass any of them out.  When the yearbook came out at the end of the year, they had used the original wide mouth smile and embarrassed, I ripped out the picture of me out.  I was mortified by my own bad photo and sorely disappointed that my smiling practice hadn't worked.

When my mom asked to see my yearbook, and saw a photo ripped out, she flipped.  She did not teach me to be insecure and hate myself (or did she?)  In a fit of rage, she ripped my entire yearbook, screaming that if I couldn't handle one bad photo of myself, what would the rest of my life be like?  And if I decided I could rip out my own photo, then I didn't deserve a yearbook at all.  I sometimes wonder if she enjoyed shredding my yearbook with her bare hands.  It sure seemed like it at the time.  I was stunned... and felt like I had brought this torment upon myself.  

I did not get spanked.  I did not get grounded.  I just did not have a yearbook commemorating the year.  

When seventh grade finished, I was sure of one thing... not to smile too big.  

And then drill team try outs for captain began.  I absolutely LOVED the drill team.  I was a drilling machine, and to this day, I can still do the try-out routine perfectly, as well as my captain tryout routine.  My friends who had been in local drill team competitions in neighboring cities, helped me with my tryout routine, and since they had been local champions two years in a row, the drills they helped me perfect were quite spectacular, unlike anything our own team had seen before.  

But when tryouts came around, I did not smile.  I launched the static smile I had been working on to fulfill my mother's requests of not smiling too big.  My braces did not want to shine, they wanted to be peeked at slightly, so I made sure my smile was small but present.  Throughout the tryouts, the former captains kept shooting back at me these weird and almost uncomfortable, but surprisingly large smiles, as if to convey I should mirror them back.  I refused.  I knew a large smile would be too much, my mother had made this minor detail quite clear to me over the past few years. And frankly, I wasn't brave enough to defy my mother again... I'd seen the consequences of self hating my own photo, this was the only way to redeem myself.   

Despite having one of the best tryout routines, I did not make captain.  I was one of six line leaders, and I was frankly, a bit surprised.  Everyone knew that the best routines made captain, and I was one of the best drill team members with the best routine.  While everyone else did repeated iterations of the existing parade routine, I had amazing new moves (copied from my champion drill friends, but nobody knew that...) and I hadn't made a single error.  I had even seen some of the routines the other girls had prepared, and none of them were anywhere close to the technical difficulty of my drill routine.  

Something clicked inside me that day.  I was mad, sad... and then I was rejuvenated with a newfound understanding and power in the form of knowing.  I suddenly understood that my mom was not always right, and that she had in fact, unintentionally sabotaged my try outs.  All of a sudden, the awkward smiles the leaders watching my try out kept shooting at me, made perfect sense.  Of course they would want someone confident with both drill team moves AND a smile!  What was I thinking?!  From that day forth, I have smiled as big and loud and as proud as ever.  And I have never stopped.  

I smiled my way to multiple dance teams, ones that I may not have technically be qualified for, but heck if I wasn't going to try.  If I didn't make a team, it wasn't going to be because I didn't smile, it was going to be because I messed up a turn or a leap or didn't have a great routine. And I kept on smiling, even when my mom whispered it may have been a little too much.  No Mom!  You do NOT get to dictate my smiles anymore!!!

Sadly, I did not learn this lesson in time for my eighth grade photos.  Everytime I saw my yearbook photo, I was reminded of the stoic face I had throughout my entire tryout routine.  Ugh.

On the day of my wedding, if you listened closely to the sounds of frantic excitement and happiness, you could hear my mom reminding me not to smile too big.  "Zuǐbā bu yào zhāng nàme dà! (don't make your mouth so big!) When she saw some of the professional photos from the wedding afterward, she made some comments about this photo my mouth was too big, and that photo - oh, what a big mouth you have.

Ignore and smile, bigger if possible, sometimes to irritate her even more.

Sure, it took me 13 years, but that epiphany of mother not always being right, has never left me. Knowing that has helped me smile larger and prouder than ever before, from every moment after that, regardless of what my mom might say.

Mom's Response

NOTE: this post began two years ago.....

Two Years Ago:  
Ugh, I hate that I'm 33 and I still care what my mom thinks.  I'm ticked off because I got my bangs cut and I knew my mom wouldn't approve, but I just needed a change.  As predicted, my dad first told me, "your mom's not going to be happy about that haircut."  I knew it.  I still was hopeful.  I finally talked to her and this was her response.

"Is that hair real?"

"Why would you go and cut your beautiful hair to look like that?  Well, don't worry, it'll grow out soon enough."

And that is why I have all these weird insecurity issues.

I got my bangs cut again a year later because I really liked they way they looked and it covered my aging forehead.  "Don't FaceTime me with that hair, I can't stand it." she tells me.

November 2017: 
And now, as we inch towards the end of Fall, I want to cut my bangs again, and I am 35 now, and I am still nervous about what she will say... about how I should limit the amount of FaceTime during the time I sport these bangs.  Why?  Why is it that a grown, educated, experienced, and smart Asian woman like myself cannot bring herself to go get her bangs cut because of the impending doom and judgment my mom would exhibit towards me?  Why?!

the bangs my mom disapproves of.  "looks like China girl" 

Your House So Messy!

Chinese people like to pretend they are clean.  That's why none of them like to wear shoes at home.  On the contrary, most Chinese people I know are huge hoarders.  They like to keep stuff, just in case they can use it again.  In my limited experience interacting with other like minded immigrant children, I have seen a bunch of homes and guess what?  It's the norm!  In general, most Asians like to keep their cooking spices and oils on the counter for easy access.  This makes for a cluttered counter.  Most people don't wear shoes at home.  This makes for a lot of shoes in the entry way when shoe shelves are not available.  Most Asians do not like to go through their mail.  This makes for a bunch of ignored paperwork piling up.

Growing up, we had lots of trash bags.  These were usually stuffed full of clothes that had been washed but not yet put away, ones we had to stash away for when guests came over, to give the impression that our unkept home was in fact kept.  The awkward and unmatched bedsheets that had been draped over our couches were stripped away quickly to reveal untouched and nearly new couches.  Mail seemed to always take over our dining table until it was momentarily moved behind closed office doors and would often stay there and get overlooked until a bill was late.

But my aunt, she was something for the books.  I remember going to her home, and pouring over her drawers in awe, because everytime I opened one, there would be compartments and places for everything.  When she opened her linen closet to grab me another towel, I saw carefully labeled clear containers that held medicine and other cabinet appropriate items.  Her kitchen had clear counters.  Her shelves had frames and decor, not piles of junk.

My best friends' home growing up, was similar.  There were bookshelves with books upright, she had to reach down to grab the oil from a cabinet to cook with, and mail was carefully stacked in a small stack always on the otherwise clear dining room table.

These outliers inspired me that I could be something else.

Not that I got away with much at home.  I still remember being told to clean my room.  So naturally, I found the closet the perfect place to stash everything.  I quickly shoved it all in and closed the door behind the mess, proud of my own quick accomplishment.  When my mom discovered it, I was severely punished.  She found the mess and lectured me for what seemed like hours, about how inappropriate and lazy and unfilial (an Asian thing) I was.  That closet incident was a turning point for me.  From that day forth, I became obsessed with organizing, cleaning, and making sure everything had its place.  It was as if a switch was turned on.  I loved it.  I spent hours color coding and alphabetizing my closet, my books, my CDs, and rearranging everything in my room when I felt I needed a fresh organizational approach.  I even began cleaning up my friends' rooms whenever I went over, it was just so much fun.

Of course, facetime now reveals some laundry out of place, or some toys on the floor, and everytime we are talking with my mom, she will make a comment about how "messy" our home is.  And then, following, will be some audacious comment about how our home is not that far from hers.  As if funny, a chuckle of sorts, as if our home is just an extension of the one she raised me in, which is most peculiar to me because she was the one who forced me into who I am today.

I think the insight I got from others along with the reprimanding from my own mother, pushed me the the standards of cleanliness that I have today.  Mostly organized, not always clean, always trying harder to keep my counters and floors clear, even with four kids constantly unraveling the neat I have just tidied up.

But I need positive affirmation too.  I may be 35, but I still need mommy dearest to tell me I'm doing a good job.  So.... now... if only she would stop telling me how messy my home is and start commenting on how clean it looks!  Wishful thinking?

The Crop Top My Mom Bought Me

I've always been a bit on the conservative side.  Two of the biggest fights I've had with a friend in middle school involved me getting mad that a girlfriend wanted to wear make-up in high school, and the other that the same friend wanted to wear a midriff to Disneyland.

Why was I offended?  Why did I care?

I don't know!  Deep down, I think I just didn't want to grow up that fast.  I knew make-up was inevitable, but I didn't want it to overtake our lives.  I wanted to have fun at Disneyland, not get checked out by the teenage boys also there with their friends.

So why I wanted a crop top when I was 15 is beyond me.  But everyone was doing it.  If only I could explain to my kids how powerful peer pressure is.  The desire to fit in, to be cool, to be noticed, to be like everyone else.

My crop top had these cute little spaghetti straps that tied at the shoulder.  It was a straight neckline, made of cotton smock fabric you would use to make a dress, except it didn't have a skirt, just the tube top part, because remember, it was a crop top.  I googled a photo and cropped it, (see what I did there?) so you could see what it looked like, only mine was the cutest brown checkered crop top with the same bottom as the top, so it was almost a bit frilly.

Appalet.  Temple City.  Summer of 1996, the summer before I would be entering high school as a freshman.  Spaghetti straps had become a thing the summer before, and all of us were wearing it, especially when Wet Seal had a 3 for $10 deal, albeit mine were always covered with a sweater.  I was a little taken aback when my mom said it was cute, and if I liked it, I could get it.  Show my stomach?  *gasp  Where would I ever wear it to?  But I wanted one so badly, and was about to be a freshman in high school.  So I told my mom I wanted it.  I felt like a hypocrite.  I had just gotten into a huge fight with one of my best friends earlier that summer when she wanted to wear a midriff to Disneyland.  Of course her dad would kill her if he found out, so she planned to change into it after we got to the park.  Months later, he would find some photos of the four of us and see her revealed stomach and she'd get in trouble, but that is besides the point.  How could I now buy one?  

"Your mom's so cool.  I can't believe she let you get that!" my friends told me.  

Except... I never wore it.  It just sat in my closet collecting dust.  

I eventually donated it.  Another friend borrowed it a few times.  I should have just given it to her, but I didn't want to admit that I'd never wear it anyway.  

What would my mom have done if I did wear it?  If I did have the guts to wear a crop top in public?! (I don't even like wearing two piece swimsuits but I have bought my fair share over the years).  

"I knew you'd never wear it.  You'd throw a bigger [hissy] fit over me not buying it, so I just buying it for you."  she said. "Plus, all your friends thought I was cool for getting you it. Ha!"  

Oh.  Wow. 

How did she know?  

How do moms know you better than you know yourself sometimes?  

The Battle of the Paper Bag

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be white.  But not just any white… blonde hair blue eyed white.  Aryan German Hitler white.  Color contacts and bleach were only a step away from making that a reality but my dear mother would never have let me live if she knew I was even contemplating it.  In my defense, growing up in the 80’s guaranteed a desire to be blonde hair and blue eyed because the hipness of diversity or the reality of being politically correct wouldn’t quite make its way into generally accepted mainstream America until much later. 

In the 80’s, all the toy commercials featured white girls and white boys, none of the Barbie dolls I had were Asian and none of the cartoons had any Asians.  Who didn’t want blonde hair like the Sweet Valley Twins?  Even The BabySitters Club only had one token Asian girl, but she of course was Japanese and did I mention, growing up – there weren’t many Japanese kids?  If there were, they were so Americanized, they didn’t even eat sushi, use chopsticks, or speak Japanese, and they didn’t even have to go to Japanese school like us Chinese and Korean kids did.  They were usually third or fourth generation Asians, so far removed from the experiences we were going through – I mean, their parents spoke perfect English for goodness sake.  Some of them even had parents who went to college… in America!  It just didn’t compare to our life as an American born Chinese growing up with immigrant parents. 

But I didn’t want just the blonde hair and blue eyes, I wanted everything that went with it.  Mac’n’cheese, spaghetti, and burgers served for dinner at home instead of rice and various Chinese dishes every single night.  Cool neon clothes and spandex shorts with crimped hair, big bangs, and curly neon hair ties instead of my flat jet black hair and oversized broken English shirts imported from Taiwan (you always go two to three sizes bigger so you can wear the clothes for a longer period of time). 

My mom tried.  But none of it mattered much to her anyway.  In our own little immigrant world, what mattered was how long you practiced the piano everyday, how many extracurricular activities you were committed to and your grades in school.

As a mother of three kids four and under, I am now constantly trying to find ways for my kids to experience their Chinese culture, encouraging them to eat with chopsticks and try authentic Chinese dishes, and while doing so, other moms and strangers are always praising me for introducing such an advantage to my children at a young age.  Maybe it’s the times.  Maybe it’s living in a big city.  Whatever the case, diversity is certainly celebrated in ways unheard of in the 80’s.

Growing up, I not only was mocked and humiliated for my dried pork and rice wrapped in seaweed lunch, I was scarred.  I am still in disbelief when I see how hip and cool bento boxes are among the food bloggers of today.  It certainly wasn’t acceptable when I lived through it. 

I know most people don’t remember things that happened from second grade.  But I’ve never forgotten it and it certainly fuels my ambitions to teach my own children the cultural sensitivities they must embody as they interact with other kids who might be different.     

The blue picnic tables separated with an invisible separation of “kids who brought their lunch” and “kids who bought their lunch,” and for the most part, it was also “Americanized kids” and “immigrant children.”  If you brought your lunch, immediately went into the “packed lunch” line and ate your lunch right away while the “school ticketed” students stood in the right lane, and paid for a typical American lunch with your pre-paid lunch ticket.  The American kids hated bought lunch.  It was so cliché to them.  Breakfast for lunch?  Spaghetti for lunch?  Tater tots?  Mashed potatoes?  Hot dogs?  But for an immigrant child, this was the land of unspoken American food, only experienced at school for our immigrant parents never bought us such things.  The only downside to the ticketed line was how long it took to get your lunch.  While we waited and waited, those with paper bag homemade lunches made their way to the benches immediately and enjoyed their American homemade sack lunches with Capri Suns, Squeeze Its, fruit by the foot, gushers, goldfish, PB&J, or if they were really lucky… lunchables!

Initially, I wanted a cute little brown sack just like the white kids. I wanted so badly to be just like them.  The line for hot served lunch was long and tediously slow (unless your class got their first but mine never seemed to), meanwhile the sack lunch bag went straight to eat and were first to leave for recess. 

I had to beg my mom to buy brown paper bags from the grocery store. 

“But you just throw these away after?” she asked me with skepticism. She couldn’t figure out why my metal lunch boxes complete with thermos cups weren’t good enough, or why we even had to purchase paper bags when those would suffice.  

“Yes, but that way I won’t lose it!” I explained.  I had obviously done my due diligence and was ready to win the paper bag fight. 

“If you use a lunch box, you can just bring it home, I wash it and you can use it again!” she said.

“This is what all the kids are using Mom!” I pleaded.

“Everyone go jumping off a cliff, you join with them too?” she asked.

“Well, it’s not a cliff, it’s just paper bags for lunch, so yes!” I responded. If my memory serves me right, I was a pretty smart second grader.   

I knew this would be a tough battle.  Asians are notorious for their frugal ways.  We always had a bag of plastic bags, ready to be reused, we never left a restaurant without all the superfluous napkins leftover, our house was strewn with unofficial Tupperware that had lived a prior life as spaghetti jars, cool whip containers, etc. and though our home had not been subject to the “leave all the packaging protectors on” rule, I had enough uncles and aunts with saran wrap over their remotes and plastic covers on their tables on top of the tablecloths, that I too knew, this would be a hard sell.

At a young age, my mom had hammered into my head the importance of budgeting and saving.  Do it yourself was not a project for the weekend for us, it was a way of life.  Weekends were filled with trips to numerous garage sales in upscale cities or large flea markets and I knew what Ross was but didn’t quite understand the concept of the mall until my high school years (we just never shopped there until later).  My mom loved to say, “No wine taste with beer salary” which confused me until I was in college age and closer to drinking age.  Committed to our frugal ways, our dishwasher served as a drying rack and I never knew a soft towel (besides at a hotel) since all our stuff was air dried in the warm California sun.  It wasn’t until I was 27 that I would have to learn how to use a dishwasher as a dishwasher for the first time, and college would quickly teach me that dryers shrink sweaters.  We always had a dryer, we just never used it correctly.

            I used to think being cheap was an Asian thing.  The pure joy and excitement my aunts and uncles had along with my own parents about a good deal was never short lived.  It’s almost as if the food tasted better when it was a good bargain.  Or that the supplies worked better when it was discounted.  When the 99 Cent Store chains finally made its debut in a neighboring city, we went ballistic over the stock.  I still remember my cousin stocking up on Dove nose strips from the store, explaining what a steal it was compared to the Save-On drug stores.  My entire family was infectious with cheapness.  It wasn’t until I got older that I realized cheapness knows no boundaries and doesn't discriminate.  Cheapness unites all ages, races, genders, and religions.  

One of the roommates I had in my 20’s was exceptionally frugal, and she was white!  Blond hair, blue eyed, white girl WHITE.  She rarely ate out, she made her own meals three times a day, and she reused red silo cups by running them through the top shelf of the dishwasher.  While I was eating out for lunch and dinner everyday and secretly throwing away all the used red silo cups after hosting a night of friends at our apartment, she was purchasing her first car with ALL cash after a year of working, and still shopping at Ross while I toted my little brown bag from the nearest Bloomingdales with pride.  It was then that I realized… frugality is not limited to my Asian family.  It was then that I also started to celebrate the frugal ways my family had taught me all my life.  I mean if you think about it, it’s actually a smart way to live.  

           

I did win the paper bag argument.  But it wasn’t easy.  And it didn’t last long.  When I buy paper bags now, I chuckle at the memory of how long I had to work to persuade my mom.  These days, everyone is environmentally conscious, and they understand that using a bento box will help the environment by reducing our trash and "carbon footprint."  Back in the day, all my Asian family members were using lunch boxes because paper bags were wasteful.  If we recycled, it was because there were machines that gave us coins in return for our trash!  

"Why to use a paper bag when we have leftover tupperware from the cool whip?  Or the cream cheese?  Or the lunch meat?  Ai-yah, just use it!"  

Like me, you may never look at a paper bag the same again... 

My paper bag story is not done.  Yes, it's a long one... as many of my memories are.  

So.... I probably brought lunch a few times, but I only distinctly remember one time that I was sent with a paper bag, the one I wanted so desperately before....  

I asked my mom to make me a pb&j sandwich, like the cool kids.   

"A what?" she asked.

"A peanut butter and jelly sandwich,"  I repeated.  

"I dunno what that is.  You eat what I make.  You don't complain, or you go hungry."

And that was that.  So, the day came and I took my lunch with gratitude, not knowing what might be in it.  None of it mattered much, because my lunch would reside in a brown paper sack, my ticket to the east side.  I proudly held my brown paper sack, got into the quick line, and sat down with the kids on the east side.  She wrapped it in foil, who does that.  Why couldn't we have normal ziploc bags like everyone else?  I opened it slowly, not sure what I'd find.  Ohhh, I was actually quite happy.  I loved dried pork with rice wrapped in seaweed.  Yum, I thought.  I guess this is better than a sandwich.  The kids around me thought differently.  

Ridicule.  Laughter.  Disgust.  It felt more like intolerant hate, but really, they just didn't get it.  It was cruel.  It was painful.  It was... just what kids do with unfamiliar territory, but still... it sucked.

Is that seaweed?!  Apparently, the kids back in 1988 didn’t have seaweed as an organic snack as the kids today do.  Nor did Costco or Trader Joe’s sell them as a hip snack for white people (no offense white people, but this is how it feels when I see something I was mocked for celebrated and eaten by everyone now.. I'm unsure whether I should be happy or mad, but mostly I lean towards the former).  Well.... unfortunately, back in 1988, my seaweed labeled me as an outsider.  Do you also eat raw fish? Some kids asked me (when I say some kids, I mean white kids).  Well technically, I wouldn’t try raw fish sushi until I was at least sixteen, but the thought that my parents did already embarrassed me, and I met their teases with silence as I struggled to figure out what to do.  I was ashamed of my lunch, still hungry for it, but not sure how I could even take another bite.  Why did I have to be so different.  I didn't cry though, I'm not a crying person.  To this day, I rarely cry.  So I didn't.  But with every fiber and emotion in my body, the awful memory seared itself in my mind.     

This was a moment I had been waiting for and yet here I was… wanting nothing than to be far away from these mean white people who didn’t understand the food I ate at home.  I wanted to be back with the other Asian kids who were excited for tater tots and breakfast for lunch and school lunch pizza.  Not the snobby white kids who laughed at the nasty lunches that paled in comparison to that which they ate at home.  No more paper bags for me.  So I left.  And I never went back. 

I mustered up the courage to ask my mom to buy lunch.  She was not pleased with my fickle indecisiveness.  I didn’t want to tell her someone had made fun of my lunch.  She would have probably personally approached this child’s parents with a word or two, or three, about how inappropriately they had raised their child, and made me bring more sushi to school for lunch.  Instead, I told her I thought it was more affordable to buy lunch because of how much you got, fresh and hot, and that it wouldn’t waste her time and money going to the store to buy paper bags you would just throw away.  She seemed pleased with my logic at the age of seven.  The convenience was priceless and saved me from ever facing the cruelty of the culturally inept children of the 80’s.  How happy I am that bento boxes are in and it’s now cool to be diverse and welcoming of other cultures.  It means my kids will never experience the painfully mortifying experiences I went through.