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.

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.   

The Struggle Was Real

#TheStruggleWasReal #ChineseMomSay #immigrantchild #foblife

One of those uncomfortable “trying to be more American” items I can happily add to my list of Things I Will Teach My Daughters is, “Shave armpit hair upon puberty.” 

I didn’t have a lot of non-immigrant Asian friends.  The only one I did have could never understand my family background and upbringing.  In sixth grade, she invited me to stay for dinner at her house as we finished up a school project.  I was shocked.  It was unheard of to not eat with your own family for dinner.  We might not have sung songs together as a family in the car on roadtrips or embraced in family group hugs, but we did eat dinner together every single night at the table without any distractions except each other.  I was intimidated at first, but I asked my mom anyway, chances are she’d say yes since the school project would commence after dinner.  Plus, she was impressed with my friend because her dad was a surgeon general and they all spoke perfect English without accents.  We barely knew any doctors though we knew many parents who expected their children to grow up and become doctors, so this was a good and impressive relationship to have.  My mom agreed. 

When it was time for dinner, I half expected us to gather around a large table, hold hands, and bow our heads in grace like I had seen the white people do on television.  I was sorely disappointed when I realized their family didn’t even eat dinner together at the table much.  Her mom had prepared dinner and was upstairs somewhere, her dad was still working, her sister was with a friend around the house, and the two of us sat with our dinner and the TV on.  The television!  In our household, my mom had strict rules about television watching.  It was prohibited from Monday through Friday morning.  Once school was out Friday, I was glued to the television until 11 PM.  I’d record Saturday morning shows and cartoons while I was at Chinese school, watch it in the afternoon, and continue my television binging on Sunday.  So here at my friend’s home, watching television on a school night as we ate dinner was unbelievable.  I couldn’t flipping believe it.  What a life she had!  Then she offered me dessert.  In our family, dessert was normally some fruit and we rarely had real sweets like American cookies or cake.  We went out a lot for Thrifty ice cream, especially since it was next door to a coin laundry we used a lot when I was younger, but that was the extent of our dessert experience.  It wasn’t anyone’s birthday, it wasn’t a dim sum morning either (so many sweets like egg tarts and mango pudding at dim sum!), so the idea of having dessert like the characters on television shows I binged off of and lived vicariously through on the weekend, was absolutely glorious. 

It was really fun to have an Americanized friend.  And if it weren’t for her, I might still be walking around with a lot, and I mean a LOT, of armpit hair. 

We were in the sixth grade and during class one day, I raised my hand to answer a question. I was wearing a black and beige knit tank top with black cotton shorts.  It was one of my "cooler" and American outfits we had gotten at Ross, not some hand me down from Taiwan.  My friend gave me a look, one I thought meant you have the wrong answer but I’d later learn at lunch that it was a look intended to say, What the freak is that under your arms?    

At lunch, she had to explain it to me in detail, and I tried my best to feign indifference instead of ignorance as she asked me about my armpit hair.  I think she knew I was clueless, but the little bit of pride I still had clung on to the fact that it just didn't matter to me, but perhaps it should.  I was grateful for her advice, but also mortified.  Had anyone else seen?  It was as if everyone was suddenly whispering and pointing fingers at my hairy armpits.  I grew smaller form the mere thought of it... I was absolutely mortified.  Also.. I was mad.  Why didn't I know?!

My mom had no idea when I came home with the news.   For the first time in my life, I was embarrassed by my mother’s lack of knowledge and American pop culture.  I resented the Chinese soap operas we watched together and all the rice we ate every night.  How could she let me be the pit of everyone’s jokes?  Why didn’t she know I was supposed to shave my pits?  What else was I completely clueless about because my mother was an immigrant?! 

To make matters worse, she told me I couldn't shave.  There was nothing wrong with me, armpit hair was natural.  She even showed me hers, and then said, "see, it's normal to leave it long."  Is it Mom?!  Is it?!  I'm not sure!  Until today, I didn't know any different.  For a second, I thought maybe she was right, but I couldn't shake the lecture I had received at lunch, the over emphasis at how wrong it was to have armpit hair and how necessary it was for me to shave it immediately.  They made it seem like it was a diseased thing I had to get antibiotics for asap.  I might have only been 11 years old, but I sensed they may have been onto something.  At the same time, I wanted my mom to be on board, I had to have her on board, there was this sinking feeling that if she wasn't in agreement with me, I would always be bothered.  

I argued with her.  In many ways, the difficult of being the immigrant child helped me develop a lot of the negotiation skills I still carry with me today.  Silver lining, eh?  

“Asians like us don’t needing to shave,” she told me. “We don’t having lots of hair.”  

My sad eleven year old puberty infested armpits claimed otherwise.  Though I had started applying Teen Spirit the summer before the sixth grade, thinking I was so American and using the brands just like I had seen in Seventeen magazine (years more mature than me!), I missed the memo on a clean armpit free of hair first.  

I persisted.  I begged.  I reasoned.  I told her I’d come home with straight A+s instead of just As.  I told her I’d start tennis since she had been bugging me about it since Michael Chang became a thing.  The violin I quit a few years ago?  I’ll pick it back up!  Anything to shave my armpit hair!  

She didn't believe me and she couldn't be bribed, nor would she even listen to me.  A few times, I paused, afraid she might raise her hand and grab the rubber slippers and lay one on my butt.  I'd continue once I knew she wasn't about to hit me.  The struggle was also within me.  Part of me wanted to be the obedient good Chinese daughter that always received praise from the elders, but part of me just couldn't patiently obey anymore.  I didn't want to be laughed at.  I didn't want to be the fobby girl that didn't know any better.  I wanted to be cool.  I wanted to fit in.  I wanted to be American!! 

“What’s next?  Your legs too?” she asked me.  “No, never,” I told her.  “Good, because it’s forbidden and any good Chinese daughter not shaving her legs!” she said very clearly with a tone of doom if I ever chose to disobey her. 

I knew my mom would never concede to shaving my legs, but there was some hope with the armpit.  It would just take some time. 

There’s this weird Chinese superstition that shaving a baby’s head at one month will guarantee a full head of hair.  All my Chinese girl cousins had the same buzzed hair before we were one.  That same logic was applied to the fact that shaving my armpit or legs meant more hair would come back in its place.   It took me a week of begging and refusing to wear tank tops to school, but I remember it felt like an eternity.  She finally relented and told me I would be allowed to shave my armpits, but only if I conceded to using my dad’s shaving cream and razor with the caveat that if she ever found out I shaved my legs, she would hit me until I died (a phrase often used by Chinese parenting, not meant to be literal, it makes us all respond accordingly).  #thestrugglewasreal

Tears streamed down my face as I used my father’s Barbisal and blue hand held razor for the first time.  I remember staring at the mirror, not quite sure how to do it and wishing I had someone to ask.  I told myself then and there, I’d teach my daughter how to shave her armpit hair when the day came.  This would never happen to my child. I would always be supportive of her desire to shave armpit hair.  Always. 

It's a funny story when I look back at it now, but at the time, the emotions were a lot more raw and real.  I know my mom still has some influence on me, especially since years later, I've still only shaved my legs about 20 times my entire life.  To be honest, it's because the hair is so light and thin, nothing at all like my armpit which would endure surgery to remove a cyst, multiple ingrown hairs, and three even four follicles of hair in a pore.  The doc who removed my cyst told me I should never shave my armpits (guess mommy dearest was right), but instead have it waxed or professionally removed by lasers.  Yes.. it's that bad.  Perhaps that's also why it was such a big deal when my friend saw my armpit full of hair back then.  I suppose my other immigrant child friends never had any issue because their armpits always had light typical Asian hair, light and hard to see, much like the ones on my legs. 

 I often wonder why I never asked my likeminded immigrant child friends about their armpits.  I think it's because I was too embarrassed.  I asked my BFF once about how she knew to shave her pits and legs.  She learned from the magazine ads in YM and Seventeen which seemed to convey it was necessary, and she also can't remember her mom shaving.  In fact, she's pretty sure she never told her mom she was shaving, if she did, her mom probably would have forbidden her to do it.  She's Korean though, so maybe it's an Asian immigrant child thing.  Who knows.