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