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" 

First Excerpt from Chinese-American or Something Like That...

I'm so excited to share an excerpt from what I have been working on since 2004.  No joke, for my college senior thesis, I wrote about what it was like growing up ABC (American born Chinese).  It's changed a lot along the way and I haven't really focused on it until 2012... but this year, my goal is to actually finish it so here's one excerpt.  Enjoy!

Chinese-American.  Is that what I actually am?  I’ve always felt like a foreigner.  To the white man, I’m just an Asian girl.  To the true Asians abroad, I’m just an ABC (American-born Chinese).  I love the USA.  I also love my Chinese heritage.  I speak English.  I speak Mandarin.  I speak Chinglish.  I’m really just sort of lost somewhere between American and Chinese.

In reality, I am part of a small minority of immigrant children who think they can speak Chinese fluently and eat all the food from Taiwan or China, only to venture to Taiwan or China and find out I’m too dark, too thick, have an American accent, and my weak stomach can’t actually handle any authentic Taiwanese street food.  Lost somewhere between generations and cultures, learning along the way what it actually means to be American, my life has been filled with struggles to figure it out. 

I remember it took some time for me to fully realize we just didn’t celebrate American holidays the same.  I remember learning about how the Indians and Pilgrims would celebrate that first Thanksgiving together and how the tradition of elaborate Thanksgiving meals complete with corn, mashed potatoes, gravy, turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce would make everyone giddy with excitement.  I remember spending weeks on end during our designated craft time at school carefully using a pencil to stick brown tissue paper all over a newspaper filled paper bag to make a grand master turkey centerpiece.  I remember taking it home to my mom, telling her it was supposed to be a used for our Thanksgiving dinner, and then coming home one day and finding out she had thrown it away because it took up space.  I remember another elaborate craft project tying red and green tissue paper around a wire hanger that we had molded into a circle to make a red and green and very festive wreath for our front door.  I remember the excitement of bringing it home to my mom who told me our door didn’t have any means to hang anything on it.  I remember never writing letters to Santa Claus.   I remember opening one present from my parents on Christmas Eve because there was no such thing as waking up early on Christmas morning.  

Part of me vowed never to throw away my kids’ art projects, but mostly, it didn’t matter much.  We might not have celebrated Thanksgiving or Christmas the way white people did on the television, but we always had family, all our cousins, lots of mah-jong, and lots of Chinese food.

I think it’s funny to look back at the things I missed out on because my parents were immigrants but also fun to think about the unique experiences I did have because of that.

While American mothers were teaching their kids how to make chocolate chip cookies, I was rolling glutinous rice balls for our red bean soup.  While American mothers were making baked goods for the school fundraisers, we were taking a trip to the American super market (a rare occurrence) to buy some already baked goods to donate. While American mothers were taking their daughters to brownies and girl scout meetings and activities and AYSO soccer practice, my mother was scheduling my private tutoring sessions, speed reading classes, piano lessons, Chinese school, and dance lessons.  While American mothers were planning grand Thanksgiving dinners with stuffing inside the turkey, we were stuffing our turkeys with Chinese sticky rice (which btw is way better than stuffing).   

There were just a lot of things my mother didn’t care to adapt to when it came to the American culture.  She never said I couldn’t do what the white kids were doing, she just didn’t bring it up if I didn’t.  And because she didn’t really understand the American pop culture of the time, we were essentially fresh off the boat (“FOBs”).  I looked like I was a byproduct of Taiwan, not America.  My mom dressed me in shirts with awkward improper English phrases (I can being your friend too!), and blouses and skirts adorned with unfamiliar Chinese cartoon characters.  My mom put my hair in pigtails with big fluffy balls instead of neon shoelaces and anything of American trend in the 80’s.  I didn’t have big hair or big bangs, I had straight black hair that was flat, never crimped or curled.  And yet I had a fantastic childhood… one filled with Chinese expectations and American struggles, but fantastic nevertheless. 

 

Rules and Regulations

I don't think I'm alone when I say that immigrant children are usually not allowed to attend sleepovers.  I can count the number of times I was allowed to sleepover at a friend's house growing up.  Well, it's not really hard when it's counting to one.  Yes... one.  Once.  UNO.

My mom just always had this weird you never know if your friend's dad or brother or uncle might be some pedophile or something worse mentality.  Even when I thought she had let me sleep over once, she might let me do it again, I was wrong.  She had given me a pass, a one time only exception and she did not have any intention to allow me another go.  She just didn't trust other peoples' parents and she didn't like the idea of me being away from home at night.  If I asked, she would tell me I already got to go once, wasn't that good enough and then offer for everyone else to sleepover at our house instead.  But when most of your friends growing up also have immigrant parents, this meant most of the girls' moms had the same attitudes and fears of sleepovers and hence, ended up picking them up late at night anyway.

Well, even though my mom was really strict about sleepovers, she wasn't as strict about other things.  Like television.  Don't get me wrong, I could only watch TV from Friday after school until Sunday night, but in terms of what I watched on television?  No restrictions.  The entire concept of mature television appropriate for children was never a question for my parents.  They were all trying to consume American culture themselves, they didn't see anything wrong with it and never restricted us from anything on TV.  One of the first television shows I remember being obsessed about with my mom every Friday night... Dallas.  I can still hum the tune of the opening credits and remember being obsessed about JR (who was also from the old Genie tv show we also watched frequently on reruns).  When Beverly Hills 90210 began, despite it being on a weekday, I was able to record the pilot episode and watch it on the weekend.  When my cousin three years my senior came to live with our family for a few years in the midst of the Beverly Hills 90210 rage, we recorded every single episode and devoured it Friday night after TGIF and Sisters.  We watched some pretty mature content television for being 12 and under.. but we loved it and none of it bothered my mom.  I was eight or nine when Pretty Woman came out and I remember the adults talking about if it was okay for us to watch with them.  The discussion wasn't even a debate, just a quick .. should be okay, right?  If not, we'll cover their eyes kind of lackadaisical thought.  And so we watched it with the entire family and I still remember all us kids putting a blanket over our heads when the "sex scene" was coming - which was really just Richard Gere and Julia Roberts kissing and a fade out to darkness.  It wouldn't be until I was older and rewatching it, that I'd realize what exactly a prostitute was.  My take away was... "you work on commission?  Big mistake.  Big.  Huge!" ....

The same went for music.  Songs about sex and drugs?  Over our heads.  We just sang to the tunes and loved 'em all the same.  The radio was our best friend, and as long as no curse words were heard, my mom and dad never thought to restrict the music we listened to as we did our homework after school.  Books?  We read way too much Baby Sitters Club, Sweet Valley High, and V.C. Andrews.  Not exactly quality book reading, but all the same to my mom.  As long as we were reading, that was all she really cared about.

The thing is... when the culture and language is new to you, you just want what is best for your kids which means exposing them to whatever is out there without realizing there may be some boundaries to set.  On the flip side, with such strict rules about dating, going out with friends after 8 PM (not allowed unless it was a school function), slumber parties, and phone calls (three a day only)... it doesn't really matter what type of mature information you're exposed to.  And for me personally, it really was just watching, listening, or reading from afar.  The stories were all fiction and far from my own life of studying, playing the piano, and being a good Chinese daughter.  Just stories about American kids and the crazy things they do.  And me?  I wasn't American, definitely not.. I was Chinese American and in an entirely different world.

A world where I was sheltered and safe, and all thanks to my mom and the things she would and wouldn't let me do.

Love to the Chinese

Valentine's came and went by and I didn't get a chance to write some thoughts I had as I was helping my kids with their Valentine's.

Come back in time with me to the 90's for a brief moment.  In the 90's Trapper Keepers were all the rage and every girl wanted crimped hair, big bangs, and Lisa Frank accessories for school.  Lisa Frank was basically a brand of stickers and other paper and pencil gear that was infused with bright psychedelic rainbows, and random animals like dolphins, whales, dogs, unicorns, kittens, and swirls of overall awesomeness.  (Pretty sure Lisa Frank was on shrooms or high on Mary Jane all the time...) 

I'm not sure what the mass appeal of Lisa Frank was now that I look back and realize how insanely weird it all was, but I was indeed obsessed just like every other school aged girl in the 90s.  I was in the fifth grade when I found a pack of Lisa Frank Valentine's, I was stoked when I found ONE last pack of Lisa Frank Valentine's.  

But when I got home to put my classmates' names on the cards, I grew embarrassed about all the super lovey dovey phrases about loving you or having a huge crush on you.  I couldn't give these cards to ANY of the boys in my class!  I didn't have a crush on ANY (okay, maybe one) of them!  Part of the sheer mortification with all the loving phrases was that in our own home, love was more often expressed than verabalized and certainly never physically expressed.  I barely hugged my parents, definitely never kissed them, and love was never spoken of, only shown through obedience and filial piety.  I knew my parents loved me because we ate dinner together every night, we had dim sum with family every Saturday, they bought me clothes and paid for my piano lessons, speed reading classes, Chinese knotting classes, painting classes, reading comprehension classes, dance classes, etc., and they were my parents.  Didn't all parents love their kids anyway?  

I ended up tearing up all the Valentine's.  And then I was left with another dilemma.  It was no longer, what do I do about who receives which love infused Valentine (stupid Lisa Frank), but what do I bring to school?  I certainly could NEVER ask my parents for another box of Valentine's - I knew too well that our frugal ways would prohibit me from not only ripping the existing and perfectly fine (but overly cheesy love overwhelming) Valentine's and even thinking of asking for another box was completely out of the question.

I had to think of another way.  

My parents had a copy machine in their house.  I eventually decided to copy an image of Jasmine and Aladdin from my Aladdin soundtrack - it was loving, they were on the flying carpet together.  We only had white paper, so I copied and made use of the images by recopying ones already printed until I had thirty little paper Valentine's of Jasmine and Aladdin.  I then sat there and colored every single one and wrote Happy Valentine's Day on the top.  My life of being #notcraftyjustcheap officially began in 1993.  I attached a little piece of candy to each card and called it a day.  

Apparently, my cheap DIY paper cards made quite an impression.  Years later, friends who laugh as they recalled receiving the weirdest Valentine's that year from me.  I actually still remember receiving cards with phrases about love and being right for each other and suddenly I felt even more stupid for ripping up my initial Valentine's.  Oh well, live and learn.  I might have over thought it a bit too much, but love was just not something I was used to.  

As I was helping my sons write their Valentine's cards, I also couldn't help but notice none of their cards said anything about love - only friendship.  Maybe the times have changed?  Or maybe their very "manly" Planes and Mickey Mouse cards were not as gender specifically girly Valentine's.  Whatever the case, I chuckled a bit to myself as I remembered my fifth grade self at the copy machine, making my own cards because the ones I had were too love-ish.  I think I even remember my dad coming in and asking me what I was doing.  I couldn't tell him the truth so I just brushed it off as experimenting with the copy machine and my dad might have said something along the lines of don't waste too much paper or ink.  ha ha...  

Happy belated Valentine's Day everyone!  

What's Wrong With Napkins?

Whenever we were on our way out of a restaurant, I used to be really embarrassed when my grandma would stuff the unused napkins into her purse.  The whole Chinese people being cheap stereotype would suddenly ring tremendously loud and clear.  I always wished she would just leave them but more concerning was that nobody would see me.  If I ever did anything that let on I was a bit mortified, my grandma would make an even bigger deal about it.  The Chinese way is to be cheap but not to be ashamed of it, we hold our heads up high and boast of all the money we saved (even if it's not really that much).

I always wondered why my Chinese grandma was so adamant about taking those napkins.  It's not like we couldn't afford napkins on our own.  We had plenty of napkins.  

Buffets were another thing.  Despite the signs saying we were forbidden to take food out, big purses and napkins spoke otherwise.  

In fact, I used to be really ashamed.  I also used to think cheapness was a Chinese thing.  And then I grew up and I realized, my grandma wasn't always being cheap.  She was being frugal, smart, and green (okay, maybe not with the buffets so much but the restaurants would just throw the unused napkins away anyway).  I also now recognize that cheapness doesn't discriminate.  On top of that, I myself have inherited quite a bit of those habits that used to drive me crazy.  Am I cheap?  Or am I Chinese?  It's debatable... 

Plus, we really love our napkins.  Though we weren't wealthy by any means, we also weren't poor.. and yet, growing up, the bathrooms in our house would more often than not, run out of toilet paper and my mom would always forget to buy more.  So most of the time, a pile of napkins would be the only solution.  My brother and I used to bug my mom about it, and whenever we did.. she'd reply with, "What's wrong with napkins?!"  

A good Chinese daughter would say nothing.  But I'm not always a good Chinese daughter...

Practice Piano Everyday

When it comes to the piano, my mom and I are both a success and a failure.

She started me at the age of five.  She made sure I practiced an hour each day when she was home (when she wasn't, I would lie that I had practiced when I had really just sat there playing songs I already knew).  I was like the little girl from Joy Luck Club who just "pretended" to practice and took advantage of her mom's inability to properly read sheet music.  I just didn't care for it, but I did it because it was expected of me and no matter how much I begged my parents to quit, my mom took charge and unrelentingly refused.

I am actually one of the few kids out of my Asian group of friends growing up who made it through years of piano practice and was still playing my senior year of high school.  I cannot describe the sublime joy I felt when I was finally emancipated from the piano.

We didn't have the best of beginnings.  Nobody ever taught me the notes, I just remember being yelled at to keep my hands in an apple shape, pretending I was holding an apple while I played.  when I saw a note, I looked towards the number above it and played whatever finger corresponded with it.  These numbers, I would come to learn, were the suggested positions of which finger to use, not the actual notes.  The pretty notes below it just danced around for me - I had no understanding of any music theory.  When I played a wrong note, my piano teacher would hit my hand, and muscle memory would kick in.  I didn't understand the different counts for each note, but the teacher would play the songs and my ear would pick up the melody and I'd mimic it.  

I eventually had to "start over" so to speak, learn all my notes, learn to read sheet music, and play the actual notes instead of the number positions.  I went on to play the piano for thirteen years.  I participated in the California Certificate of Merit program from levels two through advanced, and through a compromise with my mom, no longer had to play the piano after that.

Despite being pretty good at the end of my piano life, I still suck at reading sheet music.  I can sit there and figure out the beats that get translated with each time signature and note, but I do not have the ability to purely sight read and play the way my husband plays.  I don't have any desire to sit at my piano to play anything, unless I want to impress my mom and bring a smile to her face.  It taught me patience, how to do something you hate and not be half bad, but we've parted ways and said our good-byes.  The piano is just a distant memory of something my mom made me do everyday.

And yes, my kids will be playing the piano.  And practicing an hour a day.  And too bad, mom and dad both know the piano and will know if they're just fooling around.  Poor kids.

Start 'em early right? 

Being Polite to Adults

In the Chinese culture, you always politely address female adults as auntie ayi and male adults as uncles shushu even if you're not actually related.  Anyone on the younger side is addressed as older brother gege or older sister jiejie.  It became such a routine thing to do, that I'd always without fail, greet an adult with ayi hao or shushu hao.  For some unknown reason, my mom never managed to hear it, and would always immediately ask me if I had addressed my elders yet.  Instead of saying I had, it was just easier to say it again... so repeat I did and appease her I did too.  The complication arose when I had non-Chinese friends, but my mom taught me to always use Mr. and Mrs. and insert last name.  This was the polite thing to do.

This worked perfectly well until my transition into adulthood.  It started in college.  I went to a small liberal arts college in southern California where surprisingly (sarcastically said) the population of Asians was a more truthful representation of the real world.  We made up about 8-9% of the school population.  This was where I was a true minority for the first time and where I met parents of my white friends which then resulted in an awkward hesitation and thoughts of whether to address my friends' parents with Mr. or Mrs. or the first names they advised me to use. I always ended up using Mr. and Mrs. - it just felt right.  Always the obedient Chinese daughter. ...

And then one day, I met my future in-laws.  When I met them, they were still technically just parents of a friend so their polite correction of Mr. and Mrs. and suggestion to use their first names was quickly dismissed.  And then their son and I started dating, and the dilemma grew.  Do I call them by their first name (as they requested) or Mr. and Mrs. as my mom had instructed me my entire life?!  And then they became my in-laws and I just abandoned my Chinese upbringing and decided to adapt to the American way.  The first few times my mom heard me use their first names, she corrected me.  I tried to explain to her that they advised me to use their first names, that it wasn't simply me being rude or defiant.  She didn't really get it.  But as long as my husband never called her by her first name, she was fine with it.  So over time, the outrage (from my mom) and fear (from me) of using the improper address faded and we both became a little more American.

#Chinesemomsay 

The Fever One

Not Chinese Mom Say ...Technically, my aunt said this one, but she's like a second mom to me so anyway, she just sent me a photo I had previously sent to my mom of my daughter.  In the text she wrote, "my fever one"

hehe.

I'm pretty sure she meant "my favorite one."

Love my aunt.  Isn't she a beauty?

Sun Being Bad For You

I've been wearing SPF on my face everyday since I was 12 years old.  My mom gave me an Oil of Olay bottle of SPF moisturizer with a stern warning to use it everyday.  And since then... I may have strayed a few days here and there, but for the most part, my face is always, at a minimum, shielded by SPF 25.

Summers growing up when I became extremely tan, my mom would yell at me for being too dark.  "Are you using enough sunblock?!" she'd ask over and over and over again.  Slowly over time.. the disgust for sun kissed darkness grew on me.  Though I shunned Darth Vader visors, umbrellas in the sun, and never put gloves on while driving (all of which my mom still does), I was afraid of the sun, but not just anywhere... only particularly on my face.  I hated the idea of a super tan complexion on my face, my body - I cared not so much.  I'd put a hand towel over my face if I was ever relaxing on the beach.  I'd seek out comfort in the shade whenever possible and of course I had my strict skin care regiment that consisted of whitening face wash, whitening face cream, and whitening face masks.

said visor for sale! get your visors now!!!

And then one day, I was thirty and driving my then only child around in our van, and I suddenly had the instinctive reaction to seek out a shirt to wear over my arms which were being exposed to the sun.  It happened without warning.  It happened without thought.  It happened without reason.  It just happened.

I had turn into my mom.  Suddenly, the thought of age spots on my arms from years to come of chauffeuring my kids and their friends around became a much closer and fathomable reality.  Suddenly, the realization that the sun was bad for me sunk in even deeper and I sought out refuge in the form of sun protection.  I had indeed turned into the scared of the sun maniac my mom had been all those years and I understood why she had done it.  I understood the Darth Vader visor.  I understood the umbrella in the sun.  I understood the arm covers whilst driving.  I understood it all too well.

ever wonder why Asian babies always have hats on them?  question answered.

People often wonder why Asians age so well.  They say it might be genetic, but I know the truth.  They are SPF crazies and sun haters.

ask my husband, I won't go to any amusement park without a hat, even if it doesn't match

Eat All Your Rice or Marry a Crater Face

All my life, the expectation was to finish my food.  This meant I was forced to finish every last bite of rice in my bowl, no matter how full I was.  In the situation where I left some rice, I'd be threatened with the old Chinese wives' tale that I'd grow up and marry a crater face or ma lien.

This is not the worst outcome in life, but having heard it over and over again, I'd put my head down, obedient and filial, and finish my rice without further thought.

In terms of being picky about food, the same expectation applied, meaning there was no option.  You ate what you were given, no matter how much you disliked it  In Chinese, there's this phrase called pien shi which means selectively picky and you are NEVER EVER to be this when it comes to eating.

I didn't really believe my mom, but I ate all my food because that's what a good Chinese daughter does and I never had much of a rebellious streak in me.  But when middle school came along and I found myself crushing on a guy with true craters in his face, I ate my rice even faster and with more intention than ever before.  Every single rice grain in my bowl was consumed.

With time, the crush on the crater face subsided - that, or I was eating all my rice properly.  

Years later, when my fiance had a pimple on his cheek that turned into a scar, I questioned myself about whether I was eating all my rice again, as if I had fated him with the whole in his face.  It's not like I believe any of it, but better safe than sorry right?

the crater in question on the left side of his face... it's disappeared now but was quite prominent for a while when I didn't finish my rice...

Eat Fruit and Stay Skinny.

The first time I realized the advantage of being an Asian child (besides being good at math, oh wait - I'm not...) was when I was working my first official job in the real world after I graduated from college.

Since I worked at a public accounting firm, when it was "busy season" for us, lunch and dinner were usually comped.  It was a pretty neat little perk also known as newbie 20.  It wasn't until my pants were already sitting a bit tightly a few weeks into busy season that I realized newbie 20 was on its way and would be a lot scarier than the college freshman 15.  Since I was living at home at the time, (but really I was living in the back of my parents home in the garage add on turned studio that they personally updated and painted two shades of purple for me), my mom, more afraid of my weight gain than me, sent me to work with some "healthy snacks" while lecturing me about not letting myself go. Despite the sugar in fruit, it was just assumed that you couldn't get fat on fruit.  So my mom would tell me to eat fruit and stay skinny.

This normally meant I was sent out of the house with a ziploc bag or tupperware of one of the following:

• apples
• strawberries
• pineapples
• blueberries
• oranges
• clementines
• grapes
• watermelon
• honey dew
• cantaloupe 
• Korean melons
• Asian pears

But what really separated my fruit from the others was that it was always prepared in a way that it was ready to eat, like the outrageously expensive fresh cut fruit at Whole Foods.  My mom made sure all my apples were peeled, sliced, and dipped in salted water (to preserve it longer), my strawberries had the crown removed, my pineapples, watermelon, and melons were always deseeded, peeled and cored before being cut into bite size pieces, my oranges were peeled, and my grapes were removed from the stems.  Time consuming, but this is just how Asian moms do it.  

I know.. because everyone at work who wasn't Asian became amazed that my mom put the time and effort into preparing my fruit.  Meanwhile, everyone who was Asian would comment about missing their own moms who obviously did the same.  My ready to eat fruit was not special in the Asian world, just the American one.   

Then, when I lived with a white girl in my mid 20's, I'd learn it really was an Asian thing.  Whenever we had friends come over, we'd prepare a bunch of fruit and cheese, and I'd always be in the sink, removing the grapes from the stems before rinsing them.  Meanwhile, she'd look on in disbelief before asking me why I was doing that.  And we never even bought melons or anything that would require serious labor prep. 

Honestly, I hadn't even though about it.. it was just mere habit and it was the only way I had eaten grapes my entire life.  Who ate grapes in a cluster besides Cleopatra?  I really thought that.  But I tried to adapt to being more American, and started to just leave the grapes as is, but it always felt so foreign and uncomfortable.  Why didn't everyone just remove their dang grapes and then rinse 'em?!

And then I'd spend a weekend with Asian girlfriends and we'd all prepare the fruit the same.  Someone would immediately hull the strawberries, another would peel the Clementines, and I would remove the grapes before rinsing.  Someone would always ask, "who wants to cut the melons?" 

Maybe that's why Asians don't usually have dessert, just fruit.  It takes so much time to prepare, you might as well enjoy it.  A slice of orange after dinner?  Some watermelon, why yes please.  I don't mind if I do.  Especially if my mom has already cut it.. which by the way, if I'm home visiting the family, I know there's always at least five types of already prepared fruit in the fridge for me to munch on.  Ahh, the good life.  

No Allowed Going Out For 30 Days

That's what my mother told me after I gave birth to my firstborn.  This after going through 38 weeks of her reminding me that I wasn't allowed to move furniture, use scissors, or eat watermelon.

large and in charge and far away from scissors and watermelon

Traditional Chinese post partum rules mean confinement for 30 days or a month following birth and no washing your hair.  The confinement itself is filled with good intentions to provide the new mother ample time to rest, bond with baby, and ensure you eat all the required authentic foods to help your uterus shrink.  The hair washing is because back in the day, they didn't have blowdryers so I'm guessing people died from washing their hair?  Not sure. .... For a month, I may or may not have zuo yue zi or in English, "sitting the month." The Chinese believe that maternity doesn't end at childbirth and that there is actually a fourth trimester, and this my friends, is what it means to be confined.  The 30 days are heavily believed by traditional Chinese to be a time of recuperation, rest, and ultimately helps you produce more breast milk and revitalizes and rejuvenates your body.  Or so we're told...

For me, this meant I was forced encouraged to consume fish soup, black chicken soup, pork liver, fried pig feet, red bean soup, rice wine soup, peanut soup, sesame soup, and a plethora of soups made with traditional Chinese herbs such as red dates, dried longan, huang se, eucommia ulmoides bark, dong guai, and gou gi.  Sorry, I am not sure what any of these items actually are either, but since I was so accustomed to the taste of such traditional herbs from my childhood, the tastes of all these foods was actually warm and welcoming, like a taste of home that I had grown apart from as I became more American with time.  And maybe a part of me actually believed that the qi or energy I would regain came from some of these foods.  So the apple doesn't fall so far from the tree after all...

 yummy chicken soup with chinese mushrooms

red bean soup.. good for increasing milk supply!

But the truth is... I am American now.  So staying home for an entire month without hopes of walks outside in the California sunshine drove me insane.  I didn't exactly want to go out to a ball game or a theme park, but I didn't mind a walk around the block or even a trip to the local grocery store.  Of course I didn't tell my mom.  I didn't even think she was really that serious about it anyway.  I did have to go to the doctor for my firstborn's weekly check-up before 30 days came anyway.  But I also didn't offer up the information that I did walk around the block or did wash my hair (in my defense, I used a blowdryer and in ancient times, they didn't have blowdryers so OF COURSE they didn't wash their hair for 30 days after giving birth!).

confinement wasn't that bad.. there were moments like this...

I'll never forget how completely irate my mother was when she found out I had gone outside before my 30 days.  And of course, all my aunts congratulated me for making it 30 days confined when we had our traditional one month celebration and coming out party (of confinement that is), meaning my mom had not told them of my complete disobedience and lack of respect for our Chinese culture and tradition.  We celebrated with smiles, hugs, photos, good authentic Chinese banquet food, red eggs and ginger candy.  We had made it.  My child was now past the 30 day mark, a milestone that not many made in ancient times.  (If you're wondering, the eggs are symbols of life changes and life while red is good luck in Chinese, and ginger helps to balance the yin and yang or cold and hot.

After my first child, there was no absolute way I could truly be "confined" for 30 days because he was in the NICU for a month.  The red egg and ginger party celebration also didn't happen since I had moved away from my family.  With my third child, who was also in the NICU for a month, confinement was also looser and there was no one month celebration after.  In a lot of ways, I don't think my mother would ever say it, but she just might be thinking it's because I didn't take my confinement seriously the first time around.

We don't really talk about it.  In fact, we sort of made fun of my cousin's confinement when her mom demanded that she not drink any water because she had read it in a Taiwanese book somewhere.  So maybe we both became a little more American along the way.  Either way, we both will never admit it.  Me that I didn't take it seriously and she that she may not take it as seriously anymore.

As for the food?  I still eat it.  She buys it from a place and mails it to me (yes, businesses are made with this stuff.. it's legit).