像几乎所以的华裔父母一样，思慕从小被送去学钢琴，去中文学校学中文，踢足球,学这学那的，时间总是排的满满的。父母的付出很多，经济上，时间上，精力上，为了孩子的成长可谓呕心沥血。我们再穷再苦不能苦孩子，思慕的父母经济上再窘迫，也舍得掏钱给他买full price的玩具。思慕上的还是私立高中，每年的学费近一万，他说父母把他养大至少花费了25万美元（加币？）。在他大学一毕业刚刚踏上职场，父母又掏钱给他买房，替他付了首付。华人家长为孩子所做的这一切都是心甘情愿，希望下一代不要吃我们吃过的苦，拥有我们不曾拥有的 （My mother was tireless in her efforts to raise me, and often went above and beyond to ensure that I had everything she never did. (p. 95)。书中提到一个细节，他母亲刚到加拿大时去餐馆打工，碰见一个十七岁白人小孩也在打工，说要赚钱偿还欠父母的钱。他母亲感慨地说，我们不会这样。
可为什么孩子感受不到这样的爱和付出，相反却把伤痛牢牢记在心里呢？书中的刘思慕高中一毕业就恨不能远走高飞，从此摆脱家庭的桎梏。他甚至说自己不会homesick, homesick是相对于有home的人而言，他没有家。当我看到他这段原文时，心就像被刺扎了一下。 (见下面原文 a.)
思慕书中有一段关于她母亲的述说，多多少少帮我们找到部分答案-- 哪怕父母在抚养孩子过程中90%所做所为都是好的，也无法弥补因10%的错误留给孩子的伤疤。这不是功过相抵的一件事，也不能因为这90%的好而忽略了另外10%的错。不管错大错小，错就是错, 伤害就是伤害。（见下面原文 b.)
如果养孩子可以是一份工作，那它该是世界上最难做好的。世上的家庭各异，孩子各异，不可能有一本universal的养儿手册，好心可以办坏事，over or under do, 严格圈养或是放养，都可以出错， 都可以让人抱憾。
其实，在我看来，中国父母是最具有牺牲精神，为了下一代可以舍弃一切。当然，他父母的有些做法值得商榷，我们的很多观念做法也需要与时俱进, 至少要入乡随俗。在这张口闭口“I love you“的北美世界，我们还不习惯对孩子说一声“I love you“； 当白人孩子常常为微不足道的小事被Ta的父母赞不绝口时，我们依然习惯严苛，不习惯赞美表扬， 生怕孩子“骄傲”。又比如，常常以“我所做的一切都是为孩子好” 而不尊重孩子的想法，以“我吃过的盐比你吃过的饭要多”自居，殊不知，世界变化如此日新月异，我们有可能落伍了。
昨日（2/15）请一位远房亲戚的孩子来家里吃饭，饭后带他去海边走了走聊了聊。孩子书卷气足，也比较quiet，在加州最顶尖的学校做博士后，学的physics, 现专精quantum这个方向。在人人都想打破头进花街，在他父母也希望他能进大厂赚大钱时，他依然有心于学术研究。漫步在海边，我半开玩笑地指着边上的豪宅豪车问他，你有没有想过以后赚大钱，买像这样的豪车豪宅？他说他自己无所谓，但为家人，yes。 当问他，比较牛津的英国教授和美国教授，你觉得他们有什么不同？他答，他遇见的英国教授做这行业很多是当hobby做, but of course lots of efforts。英国的教授比较淡泊，而美国这边的教授跟中国人一样追求成功，追求名利。
a. And while some of my classmates may have been feeling anxious about leaving home for college, I could not have been more excited. Homesickness was for people who actually had homes; I was an astronaut, after all, whose only home was the eternal vastness of space through which I floated, untethered and unencumbered by any familial attachment.
b. She （his mother) was, by her own admission, 90 percent good and 10 percent bad. What happened in that 10 percent, though, would leave deep emotional scars that couldn’t be reconciled by the other 90.
More quotes:
Pinching every penny they could save to survive. (p.86)
Despite growing up “poor”, I truly never felt like I was missing anything material in my life. (p.87), full price, Nintendo
“don’t you want to make your parents happy?”
My trust in my parents shattered
I finally realize that my mom’s scolding is considered par for the course in manyimmigrant families- parents need to discipline their kids, and it’s totally unrealistic to expect them to only ever offer praise and words of affirmation.
That was so shockingly different from the images of Max’s family that had left such a positive impression on me. I couldn’t reconcile how our parents could be so cruel in comparison.
At age 6, he was forced outside just because he bragged
My mother was tireless in her efforts to raise me, and often went above and beyond to ensure that I had everything she never did. (p. 95)
Even in their splurging, my parents never spent frivolously.
In order to truly win, in order to be truly happy… I needed to be free of their control.. Long term, it meant landing a good enough job that would get me as far away from them as possible.
When I say that high school was the worst fucking time of my life, I’m not being hyperbolic. I was a troubled child plagued by insecurity and self-doubt, with massive hole in his heart that he was always trying to fill with the love of other people. (p.139)
Relief after six years of disappointment, unmet expectations, arguments and even physical violence, there would finally be peace.
Given that talking about feelings was exceedingly rare in our household, a cordial relationship was the best we could collectively muster.
Thank you for your willingness to revisit the bad memories with me, and for allowing me to tell our story honestly and openly in the hopes that families today could learn from us and steer themselivves from the same mistakes.
“But what about the experiences of second-generation kids like us—like feeling ashamed of the lunches our parents packed us because they were too “ethnic”? Or having to translate things for our parents because our English was better than theirs? Or struggling to communicate with our relatives in our home country because our Mandarin/Cantonese/Hindi/Korean/Viet was absolute horseshit?”
“Exchanging I love yous was a uniquely Western custom, and I had long ago come to terms with the fact that my parents expressed their love in a very different way—by telling me to put on a jacket, asking if I had eaten yet, or yelling at me when they felt like I wasn’t studying hard enough. The actual words were not a part of our family’s vocabulary at all.”
“In trying to undo what my parents had done, I had become just like them - vindictive, hurtful and cruel.”
“I had only been exposed to the straight-and-narrow way: go to school, get a degree, graduate, get a job, make money, buy a house, and then die.”
“Nobody forced us to come here,” he says. “We made a choice to immigrate. We knew that nothing was going to be handed to us, and we knew we were going to have to work twice as hard as everyone else.”
My parents were not interested in concepts like political activism or social equality; there was only work, and survival.”
better life. As the beneficiaries of their courage, we in the next generation are responsible for keeping their stories alive so that our great-great-grandchildren will know their roots and, in the face of adversity, will remember that they are descended from wide-eyed dreamers who never gave up on their goal.”
Asian men were frequently depicted in Western media as awkward, nerdy and completely undatable. (p. 104)
The double whammy of being teased on the playground with ching-chong noises and then seeing ourselves ridiculed on the screen robbed us of our natural confidence. Without proper guidance from our parents, who were not terribly concerned with our self-confidence, most of us grew up feeling like we weren’t worthy to be loved or desired. (p. 105)
Disillusioned and embittered, I began to pull away from my parents, my upbringing and my heritage. I started acting out, talking back and refusing to do homework. I didn’t want to be a math genius, or a scientist, or a sidekick.
“Look at everything we’ve invested in you,” they spat. “You’re a spoiled brat who’s squandering all of our effort and money, and wasting time on useless things. You’re nothing but a loser!”
I can’t pinpoint exactly when my parents graduated from spanking to full-on hitting, but I remember that this one particular argument ended with a slap to the face. My cheek stung from where it had been stuck, and I felt my eyes well up immediately.
I didn’t come to Canada by choice, and I would have been just as happy growing up in Harbin with my grandparents. Because I was in Canada, though, I was constantly surrounded by images of what a family ought to be, and mine wasn’t it.
I caught glimpses of a picture-perfect family through the friends I made and through TV and movies. I felt a pang of sadness whenever I’d visit a friend house; they always seemed so close to their parents, who in turn showered them with love and affection.
I, on the other hand, had grown physically distant from both my parents in the past few years. Even as I struggled to make them proud, I felt myself pulling away from them emotionally. I stopped wanting to rush into their arms, stopped wanting to be held by them and stopped confiding in them.
But they had failed emphatically at creating a home environment that was safe for me—a place filled with warmth, physical affection and unconditional support. (p. 106)
A person with his own lens of the world
Never did they just tell me they loved me, or that they were proud of me. (p. 116)
Despite all of the bumps and bruises that we had been through since, a part of me had always held on to the hope that we would find our way—that my parents would one day sweep me into a deep, powerful embrace that would mend the holes in my heart and melt away all of my doubts and anxieties. But that fantasy was gone now, burnt to ash and replaced with the kind of darkness and rage that My Chemical Romance wrote songs about.
Home was not a place to go to feel comfortable and safe—it was a war zone where violence could break out at any second. (p120)
My parents would always deflect any compliments I received from their colleagues about my appearance. (p.122) 四肢发达
My mother was a constant instigator, as stubborn and unwilling to back down as I was, and ever so quick with her venomous words. (p. 124)
Although he definitely hit harder than my mom, my father’s physical violence paled in comparison to his skill in psychological warfare… He would frequently barge into my room to yell at me, sometimes six or seven times a night, as if to let me know that there was no hiding from him.
It seemed like there was no line my parents weren’t willing to cross. (p. 125)
The truth was that, deep down, there was actually nothing I wanted more than a true moment of reconciliation with him. But my father saw me showing a sliver of vulnerability, and then twisted the knife in the wound. (p.127)
回复 '7grizzly' 的评论 : Thanks, my friend, for dropping by. We are now also used to ending a phone call with "I love you". But the more we say, the more I feel it diluted:-)
Unlike your father, who never laid a finger on you, Liu's father actually slapped him on the face, leaving deep scars that take years to heal... This is not just a lack of exchange of "I love you":-)
赞暖冬的书评，书没读过，但暖冬的精彩书评引发我们的思考。“世上的家庭各异，孩子各异，不可能有一本universal的养儿手册，好心可以办坏事，over or under do, 严格圈养或是放养，都可以出错， 都可以让人抱憾。” 赞同暖冬，可不是，没有人生来就会做父母，都是摸着石头过河，做父母不容易，严格了孩子觉得不爽，放松了将来如果孩子没成才可能还会怪父母当初没有严格要求自己。
暖冬的书评一如既往的的专业，写得太好，太全面了。“90 percent good and 10 percent bad. What happened in that 10 percent, though, would leave deep emotional scars that couldn’t be reconciled by the other 90.”，关于这段，我当时读的时候也是印象非常深刻，不过我心里想的是孩子们为什么不多想想父母对他们90%的好？暖冬今天的“这不是功过相抵的一件事，也不能因为这90%的好而忽略了另外10%的错。不管错大错小，错就是错, 伤害就是伤害。”让我再次陷入深思。。。。
像几乎所以的华裔父母一样，思慕从小被送去学钢琴，去中文学校学中文，踢足球,学这学那的，时间总是排的满满的。父母的付出很多，经济上，时间上，精力上，为了孩子的成长可谓呕心沥血。我们再穷再苦不能苦孩子，思慕的父母经济上再窘迫，也舍得掏钱给他买full price的玩具。思慕上的还是私立高中，每年的学费近一万，他说父母把他养大至少花费了25万美元（加币？）。在他大学一毕业刚刚踏上职场，父母又掏钱给他买房，替他付了首付。华人家长为孩子所做的这一切都是心甘情愿，希望下一代不要吃我们吃过的苦，拥有我们不曾拥有的 （My mother was tireless in her efforts to raise me, and often went above and beyond to ensure that I had everything she never did. (p. 95)。书中提到一个细节，他母亲刚到加拿大时去餐馆打工，碰见一个十七岁白人小孩也在打工，说要赚钱偿还欠父母的钱。他母亲感慨地说，我们不会这样。
可为什么孩子感受不到这样的爱和付出，相反却把伤痛牢牢记在心里呢？书中的刘思慕高中一毕业就恨不能远走高飞，从此摆脱家庭的桎梏。他甚至说自己不会homesick, homesick是相对于有home的人而言，他没有家。当我看到他这段原文时，心就像被刺扎了一下。 (见下面原文 a.)
思慕书中有一段关于她母亲的述说，多多少少帮我们找到部分答案-- 哪怕父母在抚养孩子过程中90%所做所为都是好的，也无法弥补因10%的错误留给孩子的伤疤。这不是功过相抵的一件事，也不能因为这90%的好而忽略了另外10%的错。不管错大错小，错就是错, 伤害就是伤害。（见下面原文 b.)
如果养孩子可以是一份工作，那它该是世界上最难做好的。世上的家庭各异，孩子各异，不可能有一本universal的养儿手册，好心可以办坏事，over or under do, 严格圈养或是放养，都可以出错， 都可以让人抱憾。
其实，在我看来，中国父母是最具有牺牲精神，为了下一代可以舍弃一切。当然，他父母的有些做法值得商榷，我们的很多观念做法也需要与时俱进, 至少要入乡随俗。在这张口闭口“I love you“的北美世界，我们还不习惯对孩子说一声“I love you“； 当白人孩子常常为微不足道的小事被Ta的父母赞不绝口时，我们依然习惯严苛，不习惯赞美表扬， 生怕孩子“骄傲”。又比如，常常以“我所做的一切都是为孩子好” 而不尊重孩子的想法，以“我吃过的盐比你吃过的饭要多”自居，殊不知，世界变化如此日新月异，我们有可能落伍了。
昨日（2/15）请一位远房亲戚的孩子来家里吃饭，饭后带他去海边走了走聊了聊。孩子书卷气足，也比较quiet，在加州最顶尖的学校做博士后，学的physics, 现专精quantum这个方向。在人人都想打破头进花街，在他父母也希望他能进大厂赚大钱时，他依然有心于学术研究。漫步在海边，我半开玩笑地指着边上的豪宅豪车问他，你有没有想过以后赚大钱，买像这样的豪车豪宅？他说他自己无所谓，但为家人，yes。 当问他，比较牛津的英国教授和美国教授，你觉得他们有什么不同？他答，他遇见的英国教授做这行业很多是当hobby做, but of course lots of efforts。英国的教授比较淡泊，而美国这边的教授跟中国人一样追求成功，追求名利。
a. And while some of my classmates may have been feeling anxious about leaving home for college, I could not have been more excited. Homesickness was for people who actually had homes; I was an astronaut, after all, whose only home was the eternal vastness of space through which I floated, untethered and unencumbered by any familial attachment.
b. She （his mother) was, by her own admission, 90 percent good and 10 percent bad. What happened in that 10 percent, though, would leave deep emotional scars that couldn’t be reconciled by the other 90.
More quotes:
Pinching every penny they could save to survive. (p.86)
Despite growing up “poor”, I truly never felt like I was missing anything material in my life. (p.87), full price, Nintendo
“don’t you want to make your parents happy?”
My trust in my parents shattered
I finally realize that my mom’s scolding is considered par for the course in manyimmigrant families- parents need to discipline their kids, and it’s totally unrealistic to expect them to only ever offer praise and words of affirmation.
That was so shockingly different from the images of Max’s family that had left such a positive impression on me. I couldn’t reconcile how our parents could be so cruel in comparison.
At age 6, he was forced outside just because he bragged
My mother was tireless in her efforts to raise me, and often went above and beyond to ensure that I had everything she never did. (p. 95)
Even in their splurging, my parents never spent frivolously.
In order to truly win, in order to be truly happy… I needed to be free of their control.. Long term, it meant landing a good enough job that would get me as far away from them as possible.
When I say that high school was the worst fucking time of my life, I’m not being hyperbolic. I was a troubled child plagued by insecurity and self-doubt, with massive hole in his heart that he was always trying to fill with the love of other people. (p.139)
Relief after six years of disappointment, unmet expectations, arguments and even physical violence, there would finally be peace.
Given that talking about feelings was exceedingly rare in our household, a cordial relationship was the best we could collectively muster.
Thank you for your willingness to revisit the bad memories with me, and for allowing me to tell our story honestly and openly in the hopes that families today could learn from us and steer themselivves from the same mistakes.
“But what about the experiences of second-generation kids like us—like feeling ashamed of the lunches our parents packed us because they were too “ethnic”? Or having to translate things for our parents because our English was better than theirs? Or struggling to communicate with our relatives in our home country because our Mandarin/Cantonese/Hindi/Korean/Viet was absolute horseshit?”
“Exchanging I love yous was a uniquely Western custom, and I had long ago come to terms with the fact that my parents expressed their love in a very different way—by telling me to put on a jacket, asking if I had eaten yet, or yelling at me when they felt like I wasn’t studying hard enough. The actual words were not a part of our family’s vocabulary at all.”
“In trying to undo what my parents had done, I had become just like them - vindictive, hurtful and cruel.”
“I had only been exposed to the straight-and-narrow way: go to school, get a degree, graduate, get a job, make money, buy a house, and then die.”
“Nobody forced us to come here,” he says. “We made a choice to immigrate. We knew that nothing was going to be handed to us, and we knew we were going to have to work twice as hard as everyone else.”
My parents were not interested in concepts like political activism or social equality; there was only work, and survival.”
better life. As the beneficiaries of their courage, we in the next generation are responsible for keeping their stories alive so that our great-great-grandchildren will know their roots and, in the face of adversity, will remember that they are descended from wide-eyed dreamers who never gave up on their goal.”
Asian men were frequently depicted in Western media as awkward, nerdy and completely undatable. (p. 104)
The double whammy of being teased on the playground with ching-chong noises and then seeing ourselves ridiculed on the screen robbed us of our natural confidence. Without proper guidance from our parents, who were not terribly concerned with our self-confidence, most of us grew up feeling like we weren’t worthy to be loved or desired. (p. 105)
Disillusioned and embittered, I began to pull away from my parents, my upbringing and my heritage. I started acting out, talking back and refusing to do homework. I didn’t want to be a math genius, or a scientist, or a sidekick.
“Look at everything we’ve invested in you,” they spat. “You’re a spoiled brat who’s squandering all of our effort and money, and wasting time on useless things. You’re nothing but a loser!”
I can’t pinpoint exactly when my parents graduated from spanking to full-on hitting, but I remember that this one particular argument ended with a slap to the face. My cheek stung from where it had been stuck, and I felt my eyes well up immediately.
I didn’t come to Canada by choice, and I would have been just as happy growing up in Harbin with my grandparents. Because I was in Canada, though, I was constantly surrounded by images of what a family ought to be, and mine wasn’t it.
I caught glimpses of a picture-perfect family through the friends I made and through TV and movies. I felt a pang of sadness whenever I’d visit a friend house; they always seemed so close to their parents, who in turn showered them with love and affection.
I, on the other hand, had grown physically distant from both my parents in the past few years. Even as I struggled to make them proud, I felt myself pulling away from them emotionally. I stopped wanting to rush into their arms, stopped wanting to be held by them and stopped confiding in them.
But they had failed emphatically at creating a home environment that was safe for me—a place filled with warmth, physical affection and unconditional support. (p. 106)
A person with his own lens of the world
Never did they just tell me they loved me, or that they were proud of me. (p. 116)
Despite all of the bumps and bruises that we had been through since, a part of me had always held on to the hope that we would find our way—that my parents would one day sweep me into a deep, powerful embrace that would mend the holes in my heart and melt away all of my doubts and anxieties. But that fantasy was gone now, burnt to ash and replaced with the kind of darkness and rage that My Chemical Romance wrote songs about.
Home was not a place to go to feel comfortable and safe—it was a war zone where violence could break out at any second. (p120)
My parents would always deflect any compliments I received from their colleagues about my appearance. (p.122) 四肢发达
My mother was a constant instigator, as stubborn and unwilling to back down as I was, and ever so quick with her venomous words. (p. 124)
Although he definitely hit harder than my mom, my father’s physical violence paled in comparison to his skill in psychological warfare… He would frequently barge into my room to yell at me, sometimes six or seven times a night, as if to let me know that there was no hiding from him.
It seemed like there was no line my parents weren’t willing to cross. (p. 125)
The truth was that, deep down, there was actually nothing I wanted more than a true moment of reconciliation with him. But my father saw me showing a sliver of vulnerability, and then twisted the knife in the wound. (p.127)
