Between My Mother’s World and Mine
Preface
To my friends and peers, each reflective piece I write serves as a lens through which I examine my experiences in contrast to those of my mother. A central theme that emerged during this introspective journey is the concept of intergenerational inheritance. Although my mother is not an immigrant herself, she is the first generation born to an immigrant father. The life experiences she has undergone, including the words spoken to her and her upbringing in Dorchester, have profoundly shaped her worldview. This perspective has, in turn, influenced my own thinking and experiences.
Despite the bond we share, there exists a generational gap that complicates our understanding of race. The societal landscape and educational systems have evolved significantly since my mother’s youth, leading to distinct challenges in how we perceive and discuss race.
Questions arise: What did our race signify to my mother during her formative years? How does it resonate with me in my contemporary context?
The answers to these questions are far from straightforward.
In my vignettes, I explore these intricate dynamics. I have woven together my personal narratives with secondary sources that I hope will offer readers insight into my mother’s perspective. This exploration has not only deepened my understanding of her experiences but has also illuminated the complexities of her views on race. My intention is not to excuse any outdated or wrongful thinking regarding race, but rather to position myself as someone who can still hold my mother’s hand, honoring the history she has navigated while acknowledging that my generation, and the next, pushes through challenges differently.
Between My Mother’s World and Mine
The pressure was on. I was projected as the next skater because I was another small-framed skater—a lucky trait skaters and mothers envied, one that being Asian “grants” them.
"They're just jealous," my mother says when the gossip from coaches and competitors gets back to me after every mistake that's tallied. But when I reach success in opposition, it's suddenly credited to that same trait. Because I am, once again, that small-framed skater with a life assumed to be painted by my parents' riches and the stereotype of my mom being "the tiger." Suddenly, it's as if the word “success” is stamped on my back.
"Asians work hard to get whatever they want, regardless of what it takes," they all say.
My mother believes this too. “We’re humble and don’t brag like others. We have standards better than the rest. That’s why they don’t get us.”
I was too young and too burdened by the pressures of skating to even understand the sentences coming out of her mouth.
When I quit skating and shifted my focus toward education, feelings toward my mother changed—the workings of time and distance. It could be the normality of growing older, or maybe it’s because I’ve gained an education that challenges my mother’s view of herself in relation to others. There’s a resentment that has built within me toward her, but somehow, it also brought me closer to her than ever before.
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My learned Asian History in college brings out a truth: my mother’s inherited ways of thinking and her determination to instill them in me come from love, fear, and strength. It is her being the best mother she can be for me. But the question arises: how do you show appreciation for your mother while saying, “No, Mom, that’s not the right way to think”? How do I break it to her that there is, indeed, a right and wrong way of thinking about one's own race?
The article “Continuing Significance of the Model Minority Myth: The Second Generation” by Lisa Sun-Hee Park explains that the model minority myth defines Asian Americans as a “problem-free” minority, implying they have succeeded due to hard work and education. While this myth marginalizes Asian ethnicities by creating a monolithic identity, some Asian individuals praise it as a beneficial view. Internalizing the myth can lead to the denial of racial barriers and associated psychological distress, perpetuating a false narrative that Asians and Asian Americans do not need support to confront discrimination. This perception obscures systemic racism and promotes racial hierarchies, positioning Asian Americans as “honorary whites” while simultaneously reinforcing the “yellow peril” stereotype of Asians as perpetual foreigners.
The model minority myth can be traced back to American Puritanism and the rags-to-riches stories of the 19th century. This historical lens reveals how deeply ingrained notions of individualism and moral distinction have shaped the collective understanding of success in America. The myth functions as a narrative device that not only normalizes the presence of Asian Americans but also demands their compliance with an ideal that is often unattainable for many.
The Ethnic Competition Paradigm, as suggested by Portes, describes how minority immigrant groups experience contact and competition with outside groups, leading to a heightened awareness of their own ethnic identity and solidarity. This is particularly evident among groups that have achieved some level of socioeconomic assimilation but still face barriers to full acceptance and equality in society. When in-group solidarity develops, it can lead to a belief that one’s own ethnic identity is superior, especially if the group perceives itself as more cohesive or successful in navigating societal challenges. Within this solidarity, cultural pride and comparison are often interwoven. Pride in one’s own culture can translate into a belief that one’s ethnicity possesses unique strengths or qualities that are superior to those of other groups. Alternatively, if a group perceives itself as facing challenges that others do not, this can foster a sense of superiority based on resilience or cultural values that are viewed as more favorable. When competition fosters a dichotomy of “us versus them,” it enhances in-group pride while diminishing respect for out-groups.
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In Mr. P’s high school U.S. History class, Shreya, one of the first friends I made since quitting skating, leaving online school, and going back to a brick-and-mortar high school, whispers, “I think I like this group we’ve created for ourselves – being the three Asian girls in our history class who are just in the corner.”
We unconsciously gravitated toward each other on the first day of class when we perhaps noticed everyone else had friends, but also that everyone else was white. For me, it was partly the fear of entering a new school where most already had their groups of friends. I find that it was not luck that the three of us ended up being pals in that class with Mr. P, who’d clap his hands once to grab our attention, and then twice because we didn’t say “Good morning, Mr. P,” loud enough for his liking.
According to Mr. P, this was U.S. History: voyages of Columbus and other explorers, and then American Indians, and then colonization, then the Declaration of Independence, then the Revolutionary War, the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, Washington’s presidency and the new political parties, the War of 1812 and the Monroe Doctrine, sectionalism, slavery in American culture, and the rise of abolition, life during the Civil War and the Southern surrender, and then Lincoln’s goals for Reconstruction and the rise of Jim Crow laws.
Anything regarding Asian history never seemed to appear in our curriculum. Sure, the Indian Removal Act of 1830, but it was never about race we were learning about, but rather the greater advantages it meant for the U.S. After that, I learned nothing else about Asian history until junior year of college, when I took a class specifically designed as an “Intro to Asian American History.” I use the term 'Asian' in a very broad sense. In educational contexts, this term often encompasses a wide range of ethnicities and cultural backgrounds, so it should. But if my school couldn’t dive into race, how would I learn about my ethnicity? I’m caught between I want to learn more about my race, my community, and my ethnicity, about me! And then the fear and critic voice whispers You mean you already don’t know everything about your ethnicity as an Asian American?
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When I return home from college, I am stepping into a space where she has planted her roots and tended her life away from her childhood. It’s as though I can see the entire history of her struggles and triumphs in the way each piece of our house remains in perfect shape, chairs in the same spot since I’d left. Sometimes, when she is cooking, I believe I can smell the held beliefs that she has tried to pass down to me, as much a part of her legacy as her love. It stirs something complicated in me—a desire to embrace her history, to hold it close as a reminder of where her hurt comes from, while also wanting to extinguish the spread of her inheritance.
I am not a mother, but I often wonder how I would keep parts of her inheritance with me and how I would leave the other parts distant from my own children.
In Asian American literature, motherhood serves as a significant theme that closely parallels the immigrant experience. Maxine Hong Kingston’s The Woman Warrior portrays the working mother in an immigrant family, while the film Everything Everywhere All at Once illustrates the pressures on immigrant mothers as they navigate their dual roles. Within Asian American narratives, mothers represent not only the motherland but also the cultural heritage and traditions they transmit to the next generation.
Kingston’s character Brave Orchid embodies the connection to Chinese customs, emphasizing the importance of maternal guidance in preserving cultural memory in a new homeland. This theme is spread across various works, where mothers are portrayed as custodians of cultural identity. While my mother is first-generation, exposure to this kind of literature has helped me see her more clearly.
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My mother grew up with a father who came to America as a “paper-son”—married to a white woman to gain citizenship. He changed his name and ran a laundry business in Dorchester, where my mom was born. Every day, before and after school, she lived her life helping her father in the store.
“One time,” she tells me, “I was a bad child and secretly submitted my drawings and designs to a publishing place. These were just stuff I made when I was bored in my father’s laundry store.” She continues, “The next thing I knew, a man dressed up fancy with a suitcase came into my father’s store. I confirmed my name when he asked for it. He was very shocked to see I was just a little girl, but nonetheless wanted to publish my work. I got so scared; I shooed away the man. Luckily, my dad was in the back taking care of clothes to not see any of this.”
I thought her story was about growing up in a laundry store. But my mother emphasized: “And then, as my father and I would be going down the streets, leaving the store, they [the Irish] would call, ‘There goes the chinky father and daughter again!’” I realize this was the heart of her upbringing.
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I tag along with my boyfriend to pick up nail supplies for his parents’ salon in Dorchester. We always order bánh mì from our beloved small Vietnamese food shop and grab groceries at the Ba Le. For my mother, Dorchester was once a city of mostly Irish people.
While being a minority means Whites still outweigh us in population, in 2022, there were 23.9k Black or African American (non-Hispanic) and 13.3k Asian (non-Hispanic) residents, the second-and third-most common ethnic groups after Whites. The most common non-English languages spoken as the primary language in households in Dorchester are Spanish (12,086 households), Vietnamese (6,482 households), and Haitian Creole (3,445 households).
The transformation of Dorchester from a predominantly Irish neighborhood to a diverse community with significant Asian representation is a complex process shaped by historical immigration patterns, legislative changes, economic factors, and community development initiatives. As Dorchester continues to evolve, it serves as a microcosm of broader trends in urban America, reflecting the ongoing dynamics of immigration, integration, and cultural diversity. Dorchester was initially settled by Puritans in the 1630s, but it experienced a significant demographic shift in the mid-19th century with the arrival of Irish Catholic immigrants. These immigrants were largely drawn to Dorchester due to employment opportunities in local factories and the burgeoning urban environment. The establishment of Catholic parishes, such as St. Gregory and St. Peter, served as cultural and social anchors for the Irish community.
After World War II, demographic shifts began to accelerate. Irish Americans began to leave for the suburbs. This exodus was partly motivated by the desire for improved housing and the changing dynamics of urban life.
The passage of the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 marked a significant turning point in U.S. immigration policy, abolishing discriminatory quotas that had previously limited immigration from non-European countries. As a result, Dorchester became a key receiving area for new immigrant groups, including Haitians, Cape Verdeans, West Indians, Dominicans, and Vietnamese.
This demographic evolution reflects broader trends in urban America, where immigration, integration, and cultural diversity shape communities. Daniel T. Lichter’s article “Integration or Fragmentation?” explores the U.S.'s transition to a majority-minority society by 2043, emphasizing the economic challenges faced by many new populations. Without proactive measures, poverty and segregation may worsen, as minorities are projected to make up the majority of the nation’s poor by 2050. Dorchester’s evolution demonstrates the opportunities and challenges of fostering a diverse, equitable urban community in the face of changing demographics.
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My mother is not quiet when at home. She’s an advocate—not letting our family get walked on by other people. The bigger issue is that my father hardly takes sides with her the way she’d like him to. When she’s pointing out someone who’s done her wrong, she’s looking at him like she wants him to intervene and defend her. But my father is too much of a people pleaser. He doesn’t try opening his mouth. He sits in silence, and lets my mother do her talking. And when he does decide to speak, it’s not to defend her.
“Jade, don’t ever be like Dad,” she orders, “don’t sit there like the old ‘China-man’ he is. Silence will not get you through in life.”
I’ve made the pledge to not be like him, a “China-man”, but I am then internalizing everything I’ve been trying to resist. Can I find a balance between advocating for myself and breaking free from the bits of internalized racism so deeply rooted in my upbringing? How much of that balance is shaped by the dominant American society's willingness to change the narrative it imposes on our lives?
Works Cited
Park, Lisa Sun-Hee. “Continuing Significance of the Model Minority Myth: The Second Generation.” Social Justice, vol. 35, no. 2 (112), 2008, pp. 134–44. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/29768492. Accessed 17 Dec. 2024.
Porter, J. R., and R. E. Washington. “Minority Identity and Self-Esteem.” Annual Review of Sociology, vol. 19, 1993, pp. 139–61. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/2083384. Accessed 17 Dec. 2024.
Butler, Jaclyn, et al. “Population Change and Income Inequality in Rural America.” Population Research and Policy Review, vol. 39, no. 5, 2020, pp. 889–911. JSTOR, https://www.jstor.org/stable/48733034. Accessed 17 Dec. 2024.
Lichter, Daniel T. “Integration or Fragmentation? Racial Diversity and the American Future.” Demography, vol. 50, no. 2, 2013, pp. 359–91. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/42920530. Accessed 17 Dec. 2024.
