I Wanted to Be White

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be white.  I blame much of that on my own ignorance and assumptions based on watching TV and just the lack of Asians in the media.  I can recall the moment I watched Boy Meets World and an asian girl was on the show.  I'd later find out she was actually half, but even that was sufficient for me.  My best friends all felt the same.  She was the most beautiful Asian girl we had ever seen.  To this day, she's the only true celebrity I follow on Instagram and I still absolutely adore her (it's Lindsay Price for inquiring minds, she'd later go onto Beverly Hills 90210 also).

I think part of the desire to be white rang even louder for me because I was so Chinese in every sense.  I learned Chinese as my first language, we watched Chinese soap operas and sitcoms at home, and we ate Chinese food every single night.  My immigrant parents had moved us from St. Louis to the suburbs of Los Angeles in an effort to be with more like-minded, black hair, brown eyed, Chinese peoples.  Even when we ate out, it was mostly at a Chinese restaurant, where they cooked fancier stuff like lobster noodles, crabs, and fried dim sum or other delicacies that my own mom would not waste her time in the kitchen on.  Looking into the white person's world was so foreign to me.  The only taste I'd get was an occasional spaghetti from Bob's Big Boy or a hamburger from McDonald's.  It wouldn't be until I was older that we'd go to an American restaurant (or non-Chinese) every Friday as a family to venture out into the world of food from other cultures.

The other thing was white people seemed to do fun stuff like go to the beach or amusement parks or camping or cabins for the weekend with their families all the time.  My parents definitely took us out a lot on the weekends, but we did a lot of swap meets, malls, and a few parks here and there.  They took me to Disneyland when I was about 2, and we took my brother and cousins once when I was in the sixth grade.  I don't think my own kids can count the number of times we've taken them, but it's not because my parents didn't care, they just didn't find it as fun as we do now.  It was always kind of a drag for them, they still did it though, and later as we grew older, they'd always willingly chauffeur 45 minutes times four to shuttle us to Six Flags or Disneyland with our friends.  We ventured to the beach a few times with family growing up on vacation, but it wasn't a weekend thing, more like a special occasion thing.  The first time I went camping was with Andy after we were married.

I get it, it's expensive and a lot of work, and to be honest, none of it is truly associated with the fact that my parents weren't really American, it was probably more of a do we have enough money to do that or they didn't think it was as important as us doing piano, dance and taekwondo lessons, but as a kid, I just assumed it was because those were American past times that we weren't accustomed to.  It didn't help that my other immigrant children friends all had similar experiences.

Luckily, as I've grown up, matured, and gained new perspective on my childhood as an immigrant child, I've come to appreciate and be grateful for the different experiences.  Despite not loving Chinese school every weekend for 3 hours, I'm glad I speak pretty good basic Mandarin and can communicate in secrecy with other Mandarin speakers as I choose.  I'm grateful for my open and inviting palate and love for different textures, trained by weekends of odd dim sum delicacies like pig's blood, pig's ear, chicken's feet, and stomach lining.  I'm grateful for the way my parents pushed me to excel, even if it was by traditional Chinese means.  I wonder what it would have been like to do a sport growing up.  Or to not get grounded and spanked for getting a C in PE in the seventh grade.  Or to have parents who might say, "grades aren't everything."  But really, it's not so bad.

I still sometimes want blonde hair and blue eyes.  But there's hair dye and colored contacts that can solve that.  In the meantime, I'm grateful for my black eyes and brown hair, but moreover, for my Chinese culture and experiences.  And for my love of fried intestines.  I was a bit in shock when I realized they were actual intestines, growing up I always used the Chinese name and never really thought to translate to English.  I didn't know what actual intestines (in Chinese did), but when I connected the two.. I was a tad bit grossed out by it.  Really I was just sickened by the raw white ones we grilled at an AYCE BBQ with my Asian friends, the fried ones already cut thinly and eaten with salt?  Awesome still!!

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.  

I'll Never Understand My Mom

We went back to California for Christmas break and spent some time with my mom.  She said that my skin looked great and I had lost a lot of weight.  It made me happy to hear these things, partially because I have been stressing about it for so long knowing that the moment I saw her, the waterfall of criticism would come pouring out.   I had even begun to really talk to my kids in Chinese about 50% of the time, which let's be frank, is really hard (especially when one kids responds "can you speak English Mom?" about half the time).  To her credit, they do understand a lot more than they let on but it's still hard when you're the ONLY person speaking Chinese to them all day long in a world of English!  I had begun getting facials monthly, with the disgustingly dry weather in Utah, even drinking half my body weight in water and slathering on body oil and lotion after showers hasn't helped much.  So I've been getting professional help so my mom doesn't remind me how old my skin is getting.  Lastly, in an effort to slim down from having my third child, I did the Fast Metabolism Diet which lasted for 28 days.  I lost 12 pounds and 4 inches off my waist and felt like I looked better than before I had Bubba and I weighed about 5 pounds less than I do now, then!  So I was doing everything to prepare myself for success with my overly critical mother.  It should have been wonderful to succeed.

To be honest, it wasn't as fulfilling as I expected.   I thought the acknowledgment that I am indeed trying my best to teach my kids Chinese would feel good.  I thought the reaffirmation that I am taking care of myself physically would feel better.  I thought that being mommy's good little girl would be satisfying.  Sometimes, when you live your whole life to make mommy proud (think Joy Luck Club), success can not only feel fleeting but a little artificial, like this isn't going to be enough, I just know it.  I guess it was an omen for me, because I should have been happy with what I had.  Sure enough, it all went downhill quickly.

A few days later, as we caught up on all my friends with our normal gossip session on what everyone is doing, she told me how relieved she was that I was married with kids in my 30's.  Of course all my friends who are unmarried and in their 30's have moms who are freaked out, or so my mom says. I tried to explain to my mom, maybe they are making the most of their single 30's and doing good things.

"Hopefully they can still have kids that old."

All the stars do it, I told her.

"Stars are not real people," she reminded me.

It's really sad that she is sort of right, and I hope my single friends in their 30's have indeed given thought and thought about freezing their eggs, but according to my mom, "You know, even if they don't admit it, they want a husband.  Nobody wants to admit they want to get married, but everyone does."

I'm not saying she's right, but she's entitled to her opinion and she is certainly vocal about it.  To provide some perspective, I told her, "Well, they seem to be having fun and enjoying their life, meanwhile I'm going to sleep at 10 this New Year's Eve."

I'm not a huge feminist, but I suppose the bit of me that is, is outraged.  Our worth, defined by a husband and kids?  Shouldn't it be by what we accomplish on our own?  I get it, everyone wants a family - whether that be a husband or friends or just people who care about you and plan a life with you to grow together and encourage each other, call each other about good things, etc., but a general statement that everyone should get married might not be the end all.

Sometimes I am in admiration of my single friends, 20's or 30's.  Drunken escapades, party photos galore, traveling spontaneously (cuz we know a lot of people who do travel with family, but always planned, always a vacation, etc.).  But then she says the worst thing ever, and that is this, "If you weren't married by now, I'd be so stressed and depressed," and it's the biggest backhanded compliment if I ever did hear one.  I'm not sure if I should say, thank you!  Or smile, or say, "whew, me too!"  but either way, it doesn't quite sit well.  Would it mean there's something wrong with me if I were 30 something and not married?  Maybe it just means I'm more picky than most people.  My mom would say, "no, you're just too anal.  Chill out and stop expecting so much, what are you... a queen?"  My mom doesn't believe in soul mates, love, or any of that.  Coming form a world where betrothals were normal, she's a true believer than it can always work because you make it work.  Her generation is much like that, in the sense that they all went through tough trials and then they just made it work and came out more in love than before.  

A few days later.. after I forget about it all... we're watching my kids run and crawl around and she tells me point blank that she can't believe this is my life....but not in a necessarily good way.  Not in a, you're so lucky, you're so blessed, but more in a seriously, you should hire help you have too many kids, how can you still want more? *disbelief, kind of attitude.

Ugh, my mom is so complicated.

Of course, the moment we returned home, she called and said how much she missed her grandkids.  And me, sorta.. it sounded more like a "are you still taking care of your skin and staying skinny?" than a "I love you" but I guess that's her way of saying I love you.

Typical Chinese Mom

I've been trying really hard to lose the baby weight I gained from having three kids.  I finally made some progress, took a photo of my backside (in a kind of loose shirt so the mushroom top didn't look so bad), and sent it to my mom in anticipation of some praise.

She called me back.  This was it.  I was going to hear how awesome I had been.  I had thought about cropping my face out of the image (I did a selfie with the mirror in the back), but the lighting was bad anyway - she'd hopefully ignore it.

"You look skinny!  But what is going on with your face?  You look tired.  You can't just be skinny and not take care of your skin.  Skin is very important.  Have you been using the masks I got you every night?  You look so much older!"

.   ...

.....

I told her I was really busy and I had to go.  Thirty three years of this, and I have learned not to get mad.

"Oh, don't get mad," she told me.  "You just need to taking better care of your skin!"

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And that is my typical Chinese mom.

There you go.

Fill Up Your Cup

My dad's never been one to give me long lectures or life lessons.  I can think of one time when he punished me, he was mad about something I said at the dinner table that was impolite and hit me with his chopsticks in anger.  It didn't even hurt, it had just startled me a bit.  My mom has always been the discipliner.  So when my dad gave me some advice on cups, I took it to heart and I'm always thinking about it whenever I'm working hard at something.

He told me everyone has cups.  Some are larger, some are smaller - but we have cups for everything we can do in this life.  Some of our cups come already filled, some a bit, some halfway, some all the way - but whatever the size of our cup or how much it's filled, we can do our best to fill it to the brim.  With hard work, diligence, practice, and consistent effort, we can have every cup full.

I'm not good at cooking.  I'm not good at sewing.  I'm not good at make-up.  Yet within the last five years of marriage, I've cooked everyday, I've forced myself to sew some simple projects (mostly hemming curtains), and I've learned the power of a blending brush.  I'm always amazed at how one can improve over time with earnest and consistent practice.  It makes me wonder if that's what all the Tiger Moms were getting at when they made their kids do every single sport, go to tutors at a young age, and do instruments so young.  They must have thought if they capitalized on the amount of time input from a young age, their kids would be at an advantage.  I've found, however, without interest, the effort is useless.

Over the last three years, I've used Photoshop to make prints, flyers, invitations, posters, and party tags.  I've gone from a slow turtle crawl googling every question I have to a quick layering maniac.  When I look back at how far I've come in just a few years with my own self-taught Photoshop skills, I wonder what else I could be self-improving and learning.  And then I remember I have to be interested in it too, and genuinely put forth the dedication.  I may not be a successful Etsy entrepreneur or a design mom, but I'm a little further than I was three years ago.  My cup, as small as it may be, is on its way to being full.

Thanks dad.  What have you been doing lately to filling your cups?

Also, I've learned in the past few weeks that if I don't want to put make-up on but want to look good in photos, there is an app for that.

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. 

Fashion...

I hate fashion.  It come and goes.  Regurgitates our mistakes from the past and calls it bold, new, refreshing, and hip.  There's only so much we can recycle and it keeps coming back, a blast from the past, more disgusting than it was the first time around.

Fashion mistakes.

Ugh.

Fashion always changes, but you know what doesn't?  Skincare.

Take care of your skin people!