Grade Stuff Only Immigrant Kids Understand

I once hid in my closet after school, afraid of what would happen when my mom saw my report card.  On it, I had a C next to physical education. 

I got spanked that night.  With a rubber slipper that hurt SO BAD.  But inside, I knew it was my fault.  It was my fault I couldn't physically finish four laps (that's a mile... a very long mile).  It was my fault my PE teacher hated me.  It was all my stinking fault. 

Never mind my parents never took me out to run around a field.  Never mind my only form of physical exercise was a weekly jazz dance class.  Never mind that I didn't do any other sports.  Never mind that I had never done a jumping jack until I was in PE at school.  Never mind any of that. 

Growing up, I always knew that grades were important, but somewhere along the way, I didn't really think physical education would matter.  In the back of my mind, I thought my mom would forgive me for a bad grade because we weren't very active in our family.  I barely learned how to ride a bike when I was 8, not because anyone taught me, but because my dad came home from a garage sale with two bikes, one for my cousin who was 3 years older and living with us at the time, and one for me.  We both didn't know how to ride a bike, so my dad took us to the elementary school where with much trial and error and some physical scars from falling, we learned how to ride a bike.  My brother, six years younger, wouldn't learn how to ride a bike until he was in his early 20's.  I was shocked when i found out, but by the time he was of age to learn how to ride a bike, our bikes had disappeared into the backyard where dust and obscurity conquered them.  My brother would never learn how to ride a bike while living at home. 

It was really physically hard for me to run a lap.  My lungs ached for air, my body hurt with its lack of use, and my mind didn't care to try. 

That was, until after I got beat for my grade.  I didn't just fear for a sore thigh, I feared that my mom would do something unthinkable.  Like throw me out.  Or stop feeding me.  Because in the Chinese culture, those are the things love translate as.  A roof over your head, and food in your belly.  I feared I would be a disappointment.  I feared I would be mocked and ridiculed forever.  I felt so little.  So weak.  So sad.  So meaningless.  So dumb.  So incapable.  I cried for minutes in my small dark closet, wondering if anyone else in the world understood me and what I was going through.  Times like these were when I wished for a sibling the most.  My brother six years younger would not understand.  My cousins who lived with us had already moved (because they couldn't stand my mom's strict rules, even though years later they would admit it was her rules and regulation that got my cousin acceptance into UCLA).  It was just me and the darkness in my closet, answering me with an unapologetic silence, as if telling me to just woman up, and get over it. 

And yet, I came back determined and committed, and I ran those four laps even if it meant I was dying for air, gasping for life, and desperate for a better grade than just passing.  I had to be excellent or good, there was no option to be mediocre, even if I was.  By means of being a Chinese student, I needed to have good grades, even if that meant physical education.  And once I accomplished it, I seemed to have forgotten the pain and anguish that came with being alone and lost.  I rejected those feelings of inadequacy and told myself to shape up.  I aligned with the Chinese culture my mom had beat into me.  And I obeyed.  And I succeeded.  And I thanked my mom for making me a stronger person who was able to pass physical education. 

But now when my kids get bad grades, I inherently gasp inside before realizing I need to lead with love, be patient, hear his side, and then try to teach.  It's an additional step immigrants didn't have the time for, but with all that I've been given, this is the least I can do for my own kids. 

Yellow Is A Color Too

So.. this is a bit freaky.. cuz I'm putting myself out there, but I dunno how to find a publisher, and so many of you have said, "you should get this stuff published!" and while I think it's the same story as every other immigrant child growing up in the U.S., I guess it is new to some people.. so if you so fancy a podcast, feel free to search for it under podcasts via iTunes or Stitcher, and you should find it!  Free download, I have up to 5 hours before I have to pay to do this.  HA! 

Listen to Me Rant

I'm putting my writing into a podcast, because only me reading it will truly translate some of those raw emotions that come with my mother and our relationship.

Just the other day, I got my bangs cut again.  Not the wispy kind, the blunt against your forehead, look like I just came from Japan (no offense Japan) kind.  My mom hates these bangs.  And so, I haven't facetimed her just yet with them down.  I've clipped them back, wore a headband, or turned the phone to my kids.  For some reason, it's easier to not endure the critique she will immediately have and things she will say about how ugly my hair is.  I guess you could say I've gotten smarter, doing things I want to without her knowing, feels manipulative almost, but it's just our relationship.  When I was younger, I always wanted permed hair, much like most of the youth in the late 80's early 90's, but of course, she would not allow it.  In many ways, she scared me into submission, because I still have never permed my hair.  I guess those are the things I want to talk about, and explore with my podcast.  How I've become an adult, and sort of let go of those fears... or found coping mechanisms.

My podcast is currently on #spreaker, but it's also going to be listed on ITunes and Stitcher, both of which I have no idea how to link just yet.. so here's the link via Spreaker, my goal is to do super short daily episodes.  I have two so far... yeah, yeah, yet another thing I do... but seriously, two years ago, I really wanted to do this, but at the time, you had to get all this equipment and it seemed too hard, but now it's super duper easy!  Have a whirl if you please.

Click to listen to Yellow Is A Color Too podcast

Also, if you've been following along this blog, the stories are all the same, I plan to read most of my blog posts (with some improvised additions here and there) first.  If you enjoyed it, please share with friends, because though part of doing this is for my posterity to have mom's voice forever, it's also cool if other people enjoy it too.  Right?  I think...

Chinese Play Kitchen Labels - Free Download!

My mom told me, "you are a failure of a Mom if your kids cannot speak Chinese" the other day.  She's said it a few times since.  It is pretty annoying.... but unfortunately, it has stayed with me, because I know I could put more effort but since my oldest is in the Chinese immersion program and the others will follow suite, I haven't done much.  I did purchase some vocabulary flashcards and I did come up with some materials for a Chinese camp with other about to be first graders, but that has been the extent of my Chinese efforts.  I haven't even been speaking to them enough, it's been so bad that when I asked my daughter (who is 3) where her head was in Chinese, she was dumbfounded.  Oh no, I have not gone over stuff in so long that they do not even know the basics! 

So I am committing to be better.  I started by creating some printable labels for our play kitchen stuff.  Here's hoping it plays out and I am reminded to use Chinese with the littles during play time at home.  I plan to print these out and laminate (the cheap way: using packaging tape). 

Play Kitchen Chinese and English Printable

Stuff White People Celebrate

Do you know why my kids all own bright green shirts, some even with shamrocks on them?  Do you know why we watch extensive YouTube videos about the history of the holiday every single year?  Do you know why I know that St. Patrick's Day is on March 17th every single year?  Do you know why we entertain rainbows, gold, and glitter green for the month of March?  Do you know why I wake up earlier to stamp green feet on our toilet and put green food coloring into our toilet? 

As a kid growing up with an immigrant mom who had just made her way to America in the early 80s, I was never well equipped for St. Patrick's Day at school.  Sure, the teachers were kind and would  give me a green shamrock sticker, but for the rest of the day, I was labeled as the kid who didn't know it was the day to wear green, a badge of shame and embarrassment and to me, being the dumb Chinese kid who didn't know any better.  I hated St. Patrick's Day.  I hated how everyone else had green.  I hated how even if I had known, I wouldn't have had any green pieces of clothing.  I hated how the one year I was prepared, everyone said my "green" sweater was actually grey. 

And so I vowed, at a young age, that my kids would own at least one BRIGHT GREEN piece of clothing.  That they would NEVER endure the ridicule of pinches and not wearing green.  Of course now, with today's world, there's so much sensitivity around not bullying other kids, so I'll also teach my kids to be kind to others not wearing green.  To tolerate that the grey shirt they thought was green, is indeed green.  To respect the shamrock stickers some kids have.  And to have fun with the leprechauns, the pots of gold, and green food. 

St. Patrick's Day is Saturday people.  It's time to get ready. 

I Am Chinese

My mom has always told me I’m Chinese.  Not American despite being born here.  I have always rebutted her assertion with the fact that I am actually Chinese-American.  She usually thinks about it for a few seconds, and then gives me this dismissive look of disapproval before agreeing to accept it.  I guess it’s better that Chinese is still a part of me. 

But when I tell her it’s too hard to speak Mandarin to my kids all the time when my husband doesn’t speak it, she turns into a raging Chinese mom, reminding me that I am Chinese!  Do I not know that?  She has once said, "if you cannot teach your kids Chinese language, then you have failed as a mom." Ummm, excuse me?  So, it's not enough that I love them and nurture them, cook for them, take them out, do fun things with them, because well, if they don't speak Chinese, then I have somehow failed regardless of any other efforts?!  It's infuriating!  

I just don't understand her sometimes.  Is she saying this stuff because she hasn't thought it through and she thinks her threats of failure still mean something to me even though I'm an adult with my own opinions now?  Does she still think I'm a teenager refusing to agree with her, only to tell her she was right later on?  I'm not sure!  "Well, I did it, so why can't you?!"  I mean... honestly, this is not my first time hearing that (because unsolicited parenthood advice is so popular), but STILL!  Come on!!!  It is not apples to apples, both my parents spoke Chinese first, English second.  Both my parents lived in America while still holding onto their Chinese identity, culture, and traditions, refusing to fully assimilate with the American culture.  It's so different for them and for me.  The challenges we face may be similar, but at the same time, they're also different!  I appreciate my parents sacrificing all that the did to come here, to this foreign land of too much cheese, but I wish they would realize, along the way, I kind of became American.  

Of course, all the strangers who stop to ask me where I’m from would suggest otherwise.  Why can’t people just say, “what is your ethnicity?”  Is that so hard?  You don’t really care where I am from and if you want to know where my ancestors are from so you can figure out what I am ethnically, just ask what my ethnicity is!  The next time someone asks me where I’m from or what I am, I’ll tell them I’m from my mom’s tummy and I am a human. 

In reality, I guess it's safe to say I’m lost somewhere between American and Chinese.  I learned to speak Chinese before I learned English, but I was never in ESL.  I ate Chinese food before I ate American food, but I am a sucker for both now.  I even watched Chinese soap operas before I watched American ones, though it's rare that I'd watch a Chinese movie or show these days.   

The good news is I’m not alone.  There are a bunch of us ABC kids who were raised by our Tiger Moms, sent to Chinese school, taken to dim sum every weekend, and taught that we were Chinese, not American.  The symptoms of such classifications consist of large Chinglish speaking abilities, ridicule by anyone in Taiwan about how ABC dark and large we are, harsh judgment from white people in the 90’s about the Chinese food we consume whilst in America (because these days, all Chinese food, fusion or not, seems to be trending and hip), and belittled laughter from Chinese people about our weak stomachs when we can’t quite hang with the authentic street food when we visited Taiwan. 

It took quite some time for me to fully realize we just didn’t celebrate American holidays like true Americans.  In school, I was taught about how the Indians and Pilgrims celebrated that momentous meal that began the tradition for all future Thanksgiving meals.  This meant a meal full of corn, mashed potatoes, gravy, turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce would make everyone giddy with excitement.  We had turkey just like everyone else, but ours was always stuffed with sticky oily rice and our sides were always stir fried bok choy, noodles, mushrooms, and lettuce wraps. Cranberry sauce or stuffing?  That was a myth in our household.  I never had either with turkey until I was in college.  Meatloaf?  What the heck is that?  I didn't have my first meatloaf until I was married and having dinner with my husband's family a few years ago.  

I remember spending weeks on end during our designated craft time at school carefully using a pencil to stick brown tissue paper all over a newspaper filled paper bag to make a grand master turkey centerpiece.  I remember taking it home to my mom, telling her it was supposed to be a used for our Thanksgiving dinner, and then coming home one day and finding out she had thrown it away.  I remember another elaborate craft project tying red and green tissue paper around a wire hanger that we had molded into a circle to make a red and green and very festive wreath for our front door.  I remember the excitement of bringing it home to my mom who told me it was cute but that it wouldn’t fit on our door.  I wasn’t devasted.  I wasn’t even sad.  I just accepted it as a reasonable explanation and moved on.  And then, when we used 6 pack can plastic ring to make another wreath, I did it with very little effort, knowing my Chinese mother would just throw it away afterwards.  It didn't bother me, at least I don't think it did... just holding onto these memories might suggest otherwise.... but on the onset, I don't think it bugged me, I just knew this was life, and made a mental note to be a bit different with my own kids' future crafts.  

As a Chinese immigrant child, I didn’t have anyone reconcile the American and Chinese traditions to me, I just appreciated what we did have.  Chinese New Year.  Lucky red envelopes with money in them.  Chinese fireworks to scare off the monster, Nian.  Grand dancing lions and dragons.  Burnt incense and food offerings for the ancestors who had passed before me.  I eventually stopped wondering when Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny would come, and started to focus on what mattered – grades.

While American mothers were teaching their kids how to make chocolate chip cookies, I was rolling glutinous rice balls for our red bean soup.  I don’t recall ever baking chocolate chip cookies with my mom.  We always purchased baked goods from the American grocery stores for bake sale donations.  Sometimes, we even stuffed them into ziploc bags to look more authentic and homemade.  When I first discovered cake box mix and learned that those scrumptious cupcakes room mothers brought to us for holiday parties was easy to make at home, I was in pure heaven.  I could not believe my lucky stars, and began making boxed cake mix ALL. THE. TIME.  I even bought the little sugar crystals and store packaged frosting to go with it, so I could relive my favorite part of the elementary school holiday parties: the cake box mix made cupcakes the room moms brought us!  

There were just a lot of things my mother didn’t care to adapt to when it came to the American culture.  She never said I couldn’t do what the white kids were doing, she just didn’t bring it up if I didn’t.  Girl scouts.  Soccer.  Pretty much any sport for that matter, which is a shame, because I am one tall girl!  And because she didn’t really understand the American pop culture of the time, we were essentially fresh off the boat (“FOBs”).  I looked like I was a byproduct of Taiwan, not America.  My mom dressed me in shirts with awkward improper English phrases, and blouses and skirts adorned with unfamiliar Chinese cartoon characters.  My mom put my hair in pigtails with big fluffy balls instead of neon shoelaces and anything of American trend in the 80’s.  I longed for crimped hair, curled hair, or big bangs.  Instead, I had flat straight Chinese hair tied up with fobby hair ties.  And yet I had a fantastic childhood… one filled with Chinese expectations and American struggles and Chinese American happiness and success.

The Mickey Mouse Bar Story

When I was a kid, I had an obsessive love and attraction to ice cream.  I'm told one of my first words was, "aye-shwe" which my parents thought was me attempting to say love-water in Mandarin.  They would bring me water, and I would slap it away furious they couldn't decode my words.  They'd try with food, with toys, anything they could think of, and I would swat it away again and again, all whilst anxiously screaming out "aye-shwe!"  It would be a few days before they figured out I meant ICE CREAM, as I clapped my hands and screamed, "aye-shwe! aye shwe!" as they fed me some.

Some of my best memories come from ice cream.  Ice cream was almost always a happy time for me.  The sweet taste of cold dairy and sugar coupled with the toasty aroma of waffle cones was just so heavenly.  On top of that, ice cream was so lovely and pleasant to the eye!  I can still spend hours pouring over different combinations of sprinkles.  The perfect spirals and dreamy dollups pull at my heart strings.  The chocolate dipped and then covered with sprinkles waffle bowls or cones make my knees weak with delight. 

I loved the pink and brown polka dots from the 31 Baskin Robbins ice cream store, but I was consumed by the pink spoons and everything they embodied - which for me was the reminder of happy moments we had our ice cream trips with me as the only child.  I liked the pink spoons so much that a college boyfriend would attach twelve of them to floral wiring and stems for an anniversary present, one I would cherish the sweetness and look at it, and get happy with anticipation.  Even now, as a grown adult, whenever I see a pink Baskin Robbins spoon, I still get butterflies in my stomach.  The anticipation.  The giddiness.  The excitement.  The pure joy. 

As a child, we also frequented Thrifty ice cream about once a week when we went to the laundromat.  The weekend ritual would begin with loading our clothes into an empty washer, followed by my mom or dad walking me over to grab a Thrifty ice cream cone.  I was pretty basic as a kid, it was pretty much rainbow sherbet, because the flavor wasn't bad but really I liked to stare aimlessly at the swirl of colors, wondering what additional color I'd find with another lick.  My favorite licks were the purple and pinks, but a lot of times, pink would emerge as the leader.  I savored the delicious joy every week as I waited patiently for my parents to finish their laundry.  I loved this little tradition.

The only time ice cream didn't make me happy was when it became a teaching moment from my mom about how to be more filial.  I liked ice cream, but I also liked all things Disney, so when I saw the cute vanilla and chocolate Mickey Mouse ice cream bars that they sold at Disneyland in the local grocery store, I was ecstatic and begged my mom to get some.  She agreed, and I was the luckiest girl ever.  Or so I thought.  When we went home, I asked my mom if I could have a Mickey Mouse ice cream bar, and she said yes.  I opened up my bar, so amped up, carefully pulling apart the plastic wrap so that it wouldn't impact my precious Mickey Mouse bar.  Before I could eat it, my mom asked me for a bite.  "No, get your own," I responded like only a six year old could.  I mean, in my defense, the box came with more than one bar.  Without any warning, my mom swiped the bar from me, and ate it.  I SCREAMED in agony.  As I did, she continued to eat it, telling me that I deserved what I was getting and that I needed to be more filial and loving and supportive of my mother.  I yelled.  I hit the wood floors and pounded with my fiery fists on the floor, all while she kept eating MY MICKEY MOUSE ICE CREAM BAR!  She continued to repeat herself, that I should have just given her a bite, that I should have thought of her first.  What kind of a daughter was I?  Didn't I know how to be a good Chinese daughter?  Obedient and filial, and always thinking of my mother, who by the way, bought me this bar!  Ungrateful little spoiled American child.  She threw away the rest of the box.  At least that's what my memory tells me. 

From that day on, my mom always got offered a bite of whatever I was having, and if I failed to ask first and she wanted a bite, she would get a bite.

I tell my kids this story often.  They gasp at what a monster po po was, and then they tell me that I should have given her a bite first.  I remind them now that they must always offer me a bite, but then reassure them that I would never eat ALL of something the way their po po had.  They nod in unison and praise for their wonderful mother. 

When I tell my mom about this, she recalls that Mickey Mouse bar.  "It was so disgusting, I was so upset that I had to eat it all to teach you.  Oh the sacrificing a mom makes to teach her kids how to being the best." 

Ugh.