My parents and I have always had trouble seeing eye-to-eye. It definitely has something to do with a major cultural gap—my parents immigrated from China in the 1990s, and my brother and I were born and raised in Northern California. Eastern and Western filial expectations are worlds apart. Where Eastern expectations dictate unwavering submission to parents and elders, Westerners are used to gentle parenting.
There is also a collectivist vs. individualist cultural difference: As I went through elementary and middle school, I longed to become my own person, develop my own opinions, and live my life as mine and nobody else’s. I wanted to be entirely self-reliant and autonomous, and I wanted my achievements to be mine. On the other hand, collectivist cultures prioritize the goals of the collective—in my case, my family.
I thought I was trapped. I thought I would be bending and breaking under the expectations of my parents for the rest of my life when all I wanted was to make my own, separate choices. The attitude of a classic broody teenager—thank God I grew out of that.
When my brother came home from his first year of college, he rushed to tell me the tales of his newfound freedom. He told me about how he and his friends stayed out until morning, got into all sorts of trouble, and how happy he was to eat Raising Cane’s every day. He told me how sheltered he’d felt his entire childhood and how that created a disconnect between him and his friends who weren’t raised like we were. He told me I’d have a blast in college.
My parents always emphasized the importance of education, and for the longest time, I thought it meant that I was never doing enough. My grades could’ve been higher, I could’ve done better on my APs, and I could’ve scored higher on the SAT. I think where I grew up played a factor in that, too. It was so normal in the San Francisco Bay for students to feel overwhelming pressure from their parents to do exceptionally well in school and extracurriculars, all in the name of attending a top-tier college.
I thought that was the only way to make my parents proud, to make their sacrifices—leaving their country, language, culture, and families behind—worth it. So, when I committed to BU, I thought, “I did it. I’m here now.” This fantasy of what college would be like developed in my head. I hoped to take more time to do the things I wanted to do—make friends, have a boyfriend, explore the city on my own, and pursue passions I was afraid to back home.
I hoped that the academic pressure I’d felt for so many years would be lifted now that the concern of getting into college was relieved. But as the first semester went on, and conversations with my parents became biweekly phone calls, it kicked in that I was completely on my own. I am now the only person motivating myself to succeed in my classes. I am now the only person managing my health and safety.
You know when you’re in middle school and you have the realization that grades don’t matter yet? So, you think to yourself, “Why am I trying so hard to do well?” And the most common answer is, “It sets up good habits for high school, where grades do matter.” That’s kind of how I felt during my first semester at BU.
Why did my parents push me so hard to do well in high school? So, I could develop the habits, study routines, and motivation to do well in college, even without them here. Why were my parents strict about where I went and who I was with? So, I could keep myself safe and see signs of danger, on my own. Did it take a couple of poorly written exams and treacherous Friday nights? Absolutely, but that’s what the first semester is for—learning to take responsibility for yourself.
In my last phone call with my parents, they told me they would always be here for me and, no matter what happened, I could always come home. What used to sound like a subliminal message that I would always be held captive, now sounds like what it is and always was: that my parents wish me the best wherever I go.
There’s No Place Like Home.
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