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" 

Shoulda Known

So... I had this great idea for family photos since we haven’t had one with my mom and dad since almost four years ago, before I had my third and fourth child.  I was about five months post partum and we were going to go visit her in a week once school is out for my kids.  I thought she’d be excited and thankful for my brilliant idea, and I sincerely thought it was a great idea! After all, Asians LOVE taking photos!  

"What do you think about family photos when we come in May, Mom?"

“Well, maybe we should waiting until you lose the baby weight.”  That was her very as a matter of fact response. 

I wasn’t offended.  I think I chuckled before agreeing with her suggestion.  She must have sensed I was a bit offended... because then she said, "well, think about it, these photos will be FOREVER, so of course you have to be skinny for it."  

2013: our last family photo..
includes my brother's ex who Mom still hopes will become her other daughter...

Oh Mom.  

So honest.  Sometimes too much so.  Overbearing.  Almost always so.  Difficult.  Never have I known life otherwise.  You know, when it's your mom, you just learn to live with it, to adapt, to compromise, okay who am I kidding?! to give in!  Love your mom and be a good daughter.  

It doesn’t help that my mom is Chinese, always justifying every odd rule, too strict regulation, or completely insane input as her simply being Chinese.

From a young age, my mom repeatedly reminded me of my duty to be the good Chinese daughter.  I know because I am to respect my seniors, which means I loudly acknowledge all adults in my presence with the proper Chinese greeting, even if it means once on my own accord, and then once again when my mom tells me to in front of them.  I know every stranger with black hair and yellow skin who speaks Chinese words is an “auntie” or an “uncle” because that is the polite and right way to greet someone.  I know to respect everyone older than me because I have spent hours burning incense, folded paper gold bars, paper money for the dead, and even miniature paper homes with furniture to be burnt to honor and respect my dead ancestors, and then bowing in front of an elaborate spread of fruit, steamed buns, chicken, and cooked greens by their framed photos.  I know because I have done every good Chinese girl activity from playing an instrument to doing Chinese knotting to traditional Chinese dancing with ribbons, fans, and even chopsticks.  I have abided by the expectations of good grades (even in PE!), strict rules (no dating while in high school... in college, it just became a blurred non-sequitur and then all of a sudden, it was when are you going to get married?!) and endured.  I’ve grown up always feeling like I’m never good enough, that there’s always something more I can do, someone I can be better than, and somewhere I ought to be instead of what I’m doing, who I am and where I am. 

And yet I love and express extreme gratitude to my mom.  I’m not sure where I’d be without her.  She’s one of my best friends.  I talk to her almost everyday.  And yet, when my skin is breaking out in a heat rash, I know to avoid video chat.  When she tells me I need to start doing chin exercises (because I'm not holding my ipad or iphone high up and the angle is all wrong), I just laugh it off.

I’m grateful for my mom.  I’m not always happy with her, in fact more often than not, I’m furious.  I don’t get it.  I don’t get her.  She fails to show any form of logic or reason and I just don’t get it.  But there’s also a large amount of respect for the effort and dedication to her Chinese ways, albeit not all correct, all taught me something. 

The difficulty for me was not realizing I was any different since I grew up in a sheltered Asian community.  For the most part, all my friends were Asian immigrant children as well.  The few times I befriended Americanized Asians and white people, the cultural disparity was shockingly obvious and painfully scarring.  This is normally when my relationship with my mom is magnified as one step away from a bi-polar breakdown.  Despite her teachings being the backbone of sound principle and judgment, tradition and family, they also became the reminders of being different, insecure, and alone.

As a grown adult, I work with a lot of similar immigrant children, coaching them in public speaking.  Along the way, I find myself mentoring them, reminding them that their immigrant parents mean well and the non-emotional Chinese ways of love through over bearing criticism and blunt feedback (you looking fat, why do you grades being so bad?) are not truly representative of them or their intentions.  I know our American friends would not understand the mild eating disorders and body image insecurities our immigrant parents have instilled in us.  I know our American friends would also not understand the unwavering financial support our parents continuously provide despite us being grown adults or the brand new cars they bought us at the young irresponsible age of sixteen.  Love is defined differently by Chinese moms.  It’s providing a meal, an education, material goods, and advising you on your shortcomings, no matter how hurtfully honest.  My mom and I hug when we see each other now, but it’s not reminiscent of my childhood nor is it comfortable or familiar.  But when my mom buys me facials, nice shoes, or takes me out to a nice meal, I feel warmth, a sense of belonging and sweet outpouring of love. 

I have no regrets or resentment towards my mom, only love and appreciation for her efforts and awkward navigation through our cultural attempts at assimilating to the American culture.   

Just Hand Me Some Sun-In Already

Obedient Chinese daughters shall...
1. Never used Sun-In in their hair

In middle school, I once asked my mom if I could put Sun-In, a spray in hair lightener, to turn my hair from black to brown.  “Why do you wanting to look more like American?” she asked me. Her voice hadn't gotten louder, but from the intent look in her stare, I knew she was furious and upset.  "Your black hair is beautiful!  Don't go ruining it with that artificial hurting your hair stuff!"  

I hadn’t really given it much thought.  All the Asian girls were doing it.  I liked the way it looked.  And, it would make me so much cooler.  Who didn't want their hair to turn brown?  

"Well, if you really want to do something that is natural, try using beer," she told me.  

"Beer?"  Was she serious?

"Yes, your Yi-Ma and I both did it when we were younger.  Making hair look beautiful.  Silky, healthy, beer good for hair, might turn it a little lighter naturally."  

"Would you get me some beer?" I couldn't believe I was asking my mom to buy me some beer, not to consume, but to wash my hair with.

"Yes, we'll get you some beer.  No Sunning-In"  

I'd never been one to go against my mom's wishes.  Sure, I talked back all the time.  But never anything too offensive, in my defense, I was just a curious child.  

How badly I wanted some brown hair against my tan too dark skin.  Beer it was.  Maybe I'd even try a sip of it.  

A few days later, we finally got some beer for my hair.  It smelled like expired pee.  How could anyone drink this stuff?  I poured it over my hair, stopping to take one small sip, then spitting it out before I could even consume it at the shock of the rancid bitter taste.  

I washed my hair with six cans of Budlight beer in the seventh grade.  My mom ooed and awwed that it was looking so healthy and lighter.  My closest friends just laughed and mocked me, asking me why I didn't just use some of their Sun-In and then explain that the beer was working!  

To be honest, I was too scared.  Luckily, in light of my cowardice, I withheld from rebelling and stuck with my dark black, now oozing of beer aroma Chinese hair.  As the sun actually set in, everyone's hair turned nice and auburn, but as time wore on it, the auburn turned to a shocking orange and it looked absolutely putrid.  As all my friends wished for their hair to return to its natural black, I secretly thanked my mom for her weird rules.  I guess my mom was right.