To mom: For building the backbone I never would’ve had.
I’m always full of dread at the onset of another meaningless argument with my mom. Whether it be something insignificant — my choice to wear ripped jeans — or important — like my decision to switch my career trajectory during college — we seemingly have an endless list of things to squabble over anywhere, anytime. We’ve been at odds with each other since I learned to speak. With her traditional values and perspectives as an Asian immigrant parent and my more modern take on things as an American-born teen, it’s no mystery why we disagree on so many things when our personal experiences are so different — also, the fact that I am the older sibling and hence unfairly not the favorite, but I digress. To me, her views are outdated; to her, mine are foolishly naive.
However long it takes, the torture does eventually come to an end — not in reconciliation, but rather mutual caving into our differences due to emotional exhaustion. Did I mention the freshly peeled, sliced fruit I get as an apology gift? In my household, we don’t give in to the shame of verbally admitting our wrongs.
Our relationship may sound bizarre to those who do not navigate imposing cultural divides with older generations, or familiar to those who face the same infuriating frustrations I do. As a child, I never had the friendships between a loving parent and their little ones I saw on TV or read in books. For the longest time, screens and texts taught me that mothers should be akin to genies: indulging in my every wish, unconditionally, regardless of what annoying temper tantrums and uncivil acts of disobedience are thrown at them (Caillou and Peppa, looking right at you).
I was treated in no such way. My mom and I had a much different friendship. Instead, my childhood was filled with incessant chastising for not practicing multiplication tables and scoldings for my ungratefulness towards my meager collection of dolls and stuffed toys. Gradually, a feeling of resentment festered within me, and I started to envy those pesky fictional characters and their oh-so-perfect families, that didn’t share the same struggles I had to endure.
It wasn’t until I consumed media made by people of Color that I not only felt less alienated but also realized how I could forge a slightly unconventional, unlikely friendship with my mother. Amy Tan’s poignant tale of four Chinese mothers and their American-born-Chinese daughters in her debut novel, “The Joy Luck Club,” taught me that I’ve only seen one side of my mom’s life, the part after she came to America; “Never Have I Ever’’ and its depiction of Devi’s (Maitreyi Ramakrishnan, “Turning Red”) and Nalini’s (Poorna Jagannathan, “The Night Of”) constant bantering allowed me to accept the dissimilarities between quintessential Asian values and American ones; “Turning Red’’ and its depiction of awkwardly entering womanhood made me laugh at the relatability of my own uncomfortable coming-of-age experiences. My preconceived notions of the ideal mom were shattered, soon to be replaced by a more sophisticated and mature understanding of what it means to have an eccentric sort of “best friendship” (or frenemies-ship?) with your mother.
“The Joy Luck Club” was incredibly eye-opening in how it portrayed mothers’ experiences as victims, and how this subsequently influenced their parenting habits to prepare shields for their daughters against the cruel outside world. For much of my life, I always believed that my mom was strict because she wasn’t “hip” enough to comprehend the current trends. After all, she spent too much time scrolling on WeChat, where countless videos warned her of the insidious ways kidnappers could abduct small children. To this day, I roll my eyes every time she tells me to watch a clip that could potentially save my life one day. Indeed, this ridiculous level of paranoia annoys me to no avail, and it’s embarrassing that this is the reason I admit to not having gone to a single sleepover until I turned 18. Surprisingly, I feel less bitter about it now, even if I did miss opportunities to create core memories with my friends when I was younger.
What I didn’t know about my mom was that she gave up her management position in Hong Kong to start a family elsewhere. In her job at the time, women were not allowed to be married because it would indicate a falter in power and require unnecessary maternity leave. By risking so much to start a family she might never have, I have a fresh perspective on what it means to have a protective maternal instinct. I truly mean it when I say I don’t blame her for making me seem like a total recluse in elementary school.
I don’t know much about her life in China and Hong Kong, but each time she tells me a story from before I was born, I realize how many years of her life I never knew about. It’s quite humbling to realize her story started long before mine, with many chapters still untold.
In “Never Have I Ever,” Nalini’s panicked reaction towards Devi’s impulsive nose piercing is an all-too-familiar conflict between a first-generation child wanting to explore new ways to express themselves and an immigrant parent’s opposition towards such radical and experimental changes.
My Pinterest account is a time capsule of my interests and inspirations starting from eighth grade (when I discovered the app). One of my fascinations was the concept of peek-a-boo highlights, where only the bottom layer is dyed. It piqued my curiosity because it didn’t look like the balayage highlights every girl my age had at the time. My hairstyle board became increasingly more abundant with pins that had this unique coloring pattern. My mom was strongly against chemical bleaching and hair dye, which made me even more determined to pick up a job that could cover the hair service and match the beautiful pictures that filled my Pinterest home feed. I finally managed it in the summer before my sophomore year of college, and my hair was a spitting image of the inspiration picture I presented to the stylist. When I got home, I thought the small portion of my head that got bleached would go unnoticed. I couldn’t be more wrong: My mom saw the change immediately and went into a tirade about how frustrated she felt that I was rejecting the beautiful dark locks that she had when she was younger. In her eyes, this was a rebellion against my family’s heritage. In my eyes, I had the freedom to use my money to style myself how I wanted. My mom was so upset she made me sign a contract to never do it again (spoiler, I still got my roots retouched). Like Devi, I had to break a few rules to earn full rights to dictate my life choices.
As time passed, we’ve negotiated our contrasting opinions (who in this generation wears pantyhose under summer dresses in the heat?), but now we’ve reached an impasse. Unless we’re attending an event where my appearance will impact her reputation, she doesn’t care anymore, acknowledging that I’m responsible for maintaining a good impression of myself. Autonomy is difficult to win when it comes to my mom, but it feels good that she has trust in my decision-making skills, despite making such choices with a different cultural context in mind. Perhaps I wouldn’t be so triumphant about the person I built myself to be had she been more easygoing.
“Turning Red” reminded me of some of the most horrifying memories that arose from my childhood, like the scene where Ming Lee (Sandra Oh, “Grey’s Anatomy”) was allegedly trespassing on school grounds to sneak the pads that Mei Lee (Rosalie Chiang, “Suzume”) left at home. Although the same thing did not happen to me, I was reminded of an eerily similar instance.
I was in the school cafeteria, waiting to be released to homeroom, when my friend tapped my shoulder and pointed to the wandering Chinese lady wearing large sunglasses and faux leather gloves, tacky backpack in tow, shouting my name. I was mortified. Not only had I been the only fifth-grader stupid enough to forget to bring my backpack to school, but my mom had to come in and publicly announce it to anyone within a 50-foot radius. I snatched the schoolbag out of her hands and spent the rest of the day red in the face, brimming with humiliation. How could she do this to me? (Well I did need my textbooks for class, but couldn’t she at least be more subtle about it?)
In reality, it was because this was her loud, quirky way of showing she cared. Every time she lost me in the grocery store, she would continue to yell out my name until I found my way back to her. The strong sense of hatred I felt at the time has since transformed into gratefulness. Despite being “all grown up” and attending university, she knows of my unfortunate habit of forgetting everything important at home, including my phone, wallet and laptop. I feel silly every time she texts me a list of all the common-sense essentials I need to bring when I’m coming to and from school, but it serves as a reminder of how familiar she is with my childish flaws. My mom is willing to nudge me toward adulthood and nurture the chunk of me that hasn’t fully matured yet.
It’s funny to think that the same human who always makes sure I have enough blankets in the wintertime is the one who made me cry teaching me long division. I guess that’s the price I’ll pay for a friendship with my mother. And thank you, to the artists who have illustrated that what I already have are my wishes fulfilled.
Daily Arts Writer Michelle Wu can be reached at michewu@umich.edu.