My mother is Chinese, and as her biological daughter, I, too, am Chinese. However, there was a big cultural difference between us, beneath our ellow” skin. She was born in Taiwan, and I am an ABC kid. American-Born-Chinese. For most of my life, I let this difference separate me from her, not understanding that I was Chinese, too, and not knowing how important it was to make up for that difference.

Five years ago, my family moved to a community where 99% of the people were Chinese, spoke Chinese, and characteristically did “Chinese things.” Because the cultural differences between an American and a Chinese person were so vast, it was hard for me to adjust. However, I gradually began to pick up pieces of the Chinese culture. In the learning process, I played both observer and listener roles. My knowledge of Chinese culture was like a jig-saw puzzle missing too many pieces. I never knew there was so much that I, as a Chinese person, lacked knowledge of.

I was discouraged at first. When I spoke Chinese, it came out smothered in meiguo qiang, American accent. The little kids laughed when I didn’t understand their simple conversations. I didn’t know any Chinese history. Most importantly, I didn’t understand the meaning and the responsibilities of xiao, filiality.

Xiao traces back to the traditional Chinese lifestyle. Xiao is the root of moral education in China. Xiao is like loyalty and faith, and yet, it is much more than that. It lies in love and respect. It means repaying your parents for bringing you up, for providing you with what you needed. Xiao is also thanking your teachers and respecting them because they give you an education. Xiao has much to do with your own character; it is learning how to humble yourself. Xiao can be described as the foundation at home which molds all your morals and virtues.

Five years later, I am at a different standpoint. I feel Chinese. I am Chinese. I am still learning the Chinese culture and trying to master the language before I graduate from high school. It is a difficult language to learn, one in which every character has not only a meaning, but also a history. I am willing to struggle to learn this language, because I am aware that there are too many ABC kids who don’t have the same opportunity to learn exactly who they are. There are even more kids who lack knowledge of xiao. I came to realize that xiao was also the bond that needed to form between my mother and me.

I learned about Chinese culture through stories. I cannot remember when my mother told me a certain story from her childhood, but I think it was when I got a note from my school, saying that I did not respect my teachers—that I always talked back. I was angry as I explained this to my mother. I expected her to scold me and tell me how tired she was of hearing about rebelliousness. Instead, she started to tell me a story. Red-faced and burning inside, I sat down and listened.

My mother, Jennifer (Xiumei Sun) Lin, lived in Taiwan as a child, and schooling was extremely strict. She wore uniforms every day and her hair had to be cut precisely below the ears. There was no First Amendment that allowed students to defend themselves against a teacher that accused him or her. There was nothing a student could do if a teacher decided to punish her by hitting her with a stick, or whipping her, or throwing chalk at her. “I didn’t have any problems with that,” my mother said. She was not only her mother’s favorite child, but also her teacher’s favorite student.

One day, my mother went to school, and the usual teacher was absent. When the stern-looking substitute asked the students to turn in their homework, my mother realized she had forgotten her notebook that day. “I never forgot my homework. It was just that day,” my mother said. As she feebly explained this to the substitute, the substitute marched to her desk and gave her a loud scolding that silenced the classroom, even the rustle of papers. She then took a fistful of my mother’s hair, on the left side above her forehead, and yanked it out.

My mother went home that day with a note to my grandmother written by the substitute. It berated my mother’s “careless and unacceptable behavior” in harshly written characters. My grandmother was shaken at first when she saw her daughter come through the door, crying and clutching a bleeding head. Through tears, my mother told her what had actually happened, and then handed her the note. My grandmother instantly became quiet as she read it.

“I know that, inside my mother’s heart, she was crying, too,” my mother told me. She continued, “But back then, you respected the teachers and you thanked them for educating your schoolchild. After I told my mother what had happened, she just held me in her arms and cleaned off the blood. Then she said quietly, but not too harshly, ‘Who told you to forget your notebook?’” My mother listened to her mother and accepted the painful lesson. “I did not talk about this horrible incident again.”

I thought that this was the end of the story, but my mother insisted that there was more. “I’m not done,” she said. And she continued,

The following week, my mother took me to visit a faraway relative. On the way there, she told me that the relative we were to see was an extremely filial daughter. This woman gave up her life—her chance of a marriage and a career—to devote it to the care of her old mother. My mother told me how poor they were, how they lived in the back of an old temple in a borrowed house, and how hard she worked to support her mother. I was anxious to see this daughter who had so much xiao. She seemed almost unreal. But when that woman, so full of xiao, opened the door, I could not believe it was the very substitute who had pulled out my hair. It was a good thing that I did not hate the substitute for what she did to me. Actually, after the visit, I began to admire her. I could not blame her if she had been having a bad day. She must’ve had bad days every day of her life.

My mother looked at me with soft black eyes that told me to forgive, to not be angry, and to always be patient. Finally, she said, “Look,” and my mother lifted her long hair to expose a slightly bald spot on the left side, right above her forehead. “Even today, I still have that scar.”

I looked at the pale white baldness on her forehead that had always been covered by hair, and I was surprised not to have noticed it all these years. Sometimes, when I think about it, I don’t know what her point was in telling me that story. She taught me by telling me a story, and I had to figure out the real meaning, what she intended for me to learn that was behind her voice. Then again, perhaps she was just telling me a story to calm my anger.

I keep thinking of xiao when I recall this story. Her story portrays the true essence of xiao, and perhaps that is the reason why it has stayed with me all these years. Or perhaps it is because xiao is such a difficult virtue to uphold. From this story, I have come to realize that the hardest part of xiao is to respect, even when you don’t want to respect, and to accept, even when you can’t accept. It is constantly testing your endurance and self-worth. It is as simple as it is complicated.

That story was a piece of my mother’s childhood; it was a piece of her Chinese background. When she gave it to me, it became a piece of my jig-saw puzzle, an addition to my own Chinese background. This jig-saw puzzle is a valuable collection, for it contains many pieces of xiao.

Statement of Purpose
There were many points in this essay that I sought to make known. I wanted to introduce xiao as an important part of Chinese culture, and also as a virtue worthwhile to learn and practice. I wanted to mold it into a story form that shows how xiao helps relationships between parents and their children, and between students and their teachers.        

This story has a double meaning for ABC kids. If they can read between the lines, I want them to realize how important it is to sustain and nurture the roots of their background, to realize what being Chinese really means. Upon further thought, this also applies to all kids that are born in the United States and “forget” who they are, and what their roots are. I hope that they come to know how learning back (Notice, I say ‘learning back,’ and not ‘learning about’) their culture shapes their real person.