While searching for childhood photos of myself, I stumbled upon a picture of my mother as a young woman. It was striking to see how much we resembled each other; our facial structures, hair placement, and even our features. Curiosity led me to wonder what the photo would look like in color. When I shared this idea with my mother, she brushed it off, remarking that I had always resembled her more.
The relationship between mothers and daughters is often fraught with conflict, but our confrontations were different from what I had seen on TV or in movies. French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan proposed the concept of the mirror stage, where children learn to recognize themselves in their own reflection. But what happens when you see your mother in the mirror, or when you see yourself in your mother?
Sometimes it’s difficult for me to differentiate the qualities I share with my mother. I understand that nature and nurture play their roles, and I ponder how different I would be if my parents hadn’t moved to Australia. I wonder if my mother and I would be even more alike if we hadn’t been influenced in separate directions at crucial moments in our lives.
Our clashes were never loud, but they held a certain venom that manifested through glances, eye rolls, or even compliance with a malicious twist. “I regret teaching you girls to be independent,” she once said to me in English. This moment changed my perception of my mother. Initially, I viewed her as vindictive and monstrous, fueled by my teenage rebellion. It was easier to see her as a one-dimensional character, knowing that a serious conversation about her intentions would never occur. I now believe her statement was an admission of the difficulty parents face in letting go and setting their children free in a world they worked so hard to protect them from.
As I’ve grown older, I struggle with reconciling the fact that she did her best based on what she thought was right at the time, while also acknowledging that her controlling behavior prevented me from fully enjoying my childhood. It’s important for me to remember that she is a complex individual with her own experiences and biases. Her actions and decisions were shaped by her upbringing and cultural heritage.
Asian mothers, like my own, often embody toughness. They are strict with themselves, and this extends to their parenting. Many immigrant mothers impart the values of hard work and resilience onto their children. In my younger years, I viewed my mother as somewhat of a tyrant, the queen of our household whose word was law. Although she has softened slightly since my sister and I moved out, childhood habits die hard, and I still see her as the strict, unwavering leader of our family.
I feel uneasy labeling my mother in this way, as it contributes to the stereotype of the overbearing “Asian parent.” However, it aligns with my memories of her dismissing my attempts to express myself, the pressure to excel academically and musically, and the expectation of being the perfect Chinese Christian girl. Asian women living in Western countries are seen as objects of cross-cultural anxiety, subjected to various stereotypes. We are often perceived as either the demanding tiger mother or the submissive Oriental flower. There is no room for us to simply exist as normal, complex individuals. This is why I hesitated to write about this side of my mother, as she is more than just a stereotype.
I acknowledge that I don’t have the right to criticize my mother fully. Like many daughters, I fear becoming my mother one day. This transformation would be gradual, much like something out of a horror movie where my mother’s ghost haunts me while she is still alive. I can already see parts of myself melding with her – the way we retell stories, find similar solutions to problems, or share the same opinions about certain clothing styles.
If I were to have children, I would want them to attend Chinese school and participate in activities like abacus classes, much like my mother did with us. Who knows what methods I might employ to instill obedience? I worry that my intentions would be good, but my execution might falter. I don’t want my children to fear me the way I fear my own mother.
Yet, I also know that I would be lost without my mother. I wouldn’t know how to give my children proper Chinese names or which traditions to uphold. I would lack the right words, or the correct combination of words, to use. In some ways, I have no right to criticize my mother. I have no understanding of what it’s like to be a mother, let alone a mother in a foreign country, navigating a different language and culture while single-handedly running a business. Perhaps her approach was necessary to get things done. However, a part of me will always wonder why, by virtue of being her daughter, my voice holds less weight than hers. We will never truly be equals, and our conversations will never truly be discussions between two adults.
While this may seem unfair, it may be the way things need to be, at least for now. Perhaps my perspective will change as I age, as I become a hybrid of my mother and my own distinct self.
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