Forbidden Rule: Blame the Roots
You wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where Asian children are raised.
Have you ever wondered what main principle that shaped who you are today? It’s the environment you grew up in. In the garden of our lineage, the soil is rich with burdens, fertilized by generations past. You wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where Asian children are raised.
In an Asian household, no parent would admit their wrong, often projecting blame onto their children instead. Even if they realize their wrongdoings, an unspoken apology would be received. A simple “I’m sorry” is replaced with sliced fruits or material gifts — it’s complicated to make amends, as Niki said.
Who do you blame when you fail? You, of course. It’s always you. It would be unthinkable to blame the heavens or point fingers at parents for their unfulfilled dreams or lack of belief in you — that would be absurd behavior, little one. The weight of self-blame is ever-present.
Raised in such an environment, self-sabotage becomes second nature. Since you’re exhausted from taking the blame, you stop taking responsibility for your actions, adopting the habit of deflecting accountability, and seeking refuge in excuses and evasions. “It’s your fault,” they whisper, “because you didn’t pray enough.” You’ll hear it until it becomes a haunting echo.
Was it the fertilizer that my grandparents used on my parents that made me choke whenever they projected everything on me?
Imagine having a mother — a perfect daughter who happens to be the eldest, is enough to kill every child. She, who raised children who weren’t hers with a love that shone brightly but left little room for praise. She did this and that… every star with a leftover light burning. To be like her was not a choice; it was an unwritten decree and ending up as a spoiled rotten child. Trying hard to shine is not an option, you are born with it — raised, even, so what do you need to try for? Falling short was more than a disappointment; it was seen as a disgrace, a failure to fulfill your mere purpose. Don’t even try to find a guiding light. Individuality is crushed under her oppressive expectations. Her affection was conditional, reserved for those who mirrored her perfection. Yet, praise was a scarce commodity, and the efforts met with a resounding silence, having to tolerate it.
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Beside her stood a father, hungry for the love denied by his own mother — she never granted the hunger he had been relishing, so you need to deal with his yearning, making you not enough for your own mother. He never learned how to be quiet — enraged, always. As the eldest, ingrained with principles and worries for the future, rob him of the present’s ripe opportunities to the point that the best has passed. A mad bug who’s always an angel, needing to figure out everything on his own. Living with pride, a constant battle to prove his worth in the eyes of his mother. He may live with regret… No one is certain about it. Despite being never quiet, his voice rarely carries the weight of his thoughts, like his wife.
Principles and morals would be the cause of your cracked flowerpot. Acceptance is a rare bloom in this household; Loving someone of the same sexuality risks losing the pedestal of perfection, where being the best is everything.
Arts, theater, and acting are mere extracurricular pursuits in the eyes of Asian parents, who value practicality above all else. “Get yourself a real job with real money,” they say, dismissing your true path. Passion has been buried beneath the weight of your family’s expectations.
If you’re angry, control your emotions, and be silent — emotions must be reined in, and silenced. There are no rights for a child to speak unless they’re already providing benefits, it’s only valued if it serves a practical purpose. “Nothing great happens when you talk back to your parents,” is a caution. Mind you, no one cries — a crack in the façade of strength. It is seen as pointless and ineffective, as if tears hold no power for a change. Perhaps, only behind closed doors, it will help you grow.
Nurtured in this kind of environment, the prophecy whispers that we must bet on losing dogs, that our destiny is predetermined by the seeds from which we sprout.
But who bears the blame for these entrenched patterns? Do we fault our parents for perpetuating the cycle, or do we, too, shoulder the responsibility for perpetuating our own upbringing?
Was it my parents’ fault for approving how they were raised?
Or is it my fault that I somehow raised myself with milk teeth, craving for individuality? Tied to the past, following our ancestors’ path. All alone, screaming my desperate prayers to change what kind of seed I am, while clinging for recognition of the pain etched into our daily existence.
I am the way I am because I’m planted the way my parents were planted and grew. Across generations, from parents to grandparents and beyond — plucked, even though not ripe, carrying the imprint of its predecessors. There’s no cure in form, not even one experienced how to be sane.
