Chinese Americans and Their Immigrant Parents

Conflict, Identity, and Values

Terry S Trepper, May Tung

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2013
• eBook ISBN: 9781136389436
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Emigration & Immigration
• Index: Social Sciences

Based on culture-related themes derived from the author's psychotherapeutic work with young Chinese-American professionals, this important book relates personal problems and conditions to specific sources in Chinese and American cultures and the immigration experience. Unique and practical, this is a nonclinical work that will help Asian Americans connect historical and cultural meanings to their Chinese roots. It will also give educators, mental health professionals, and those working with Chinese populations firsthand insight into the lives and identities of Chinese-American immigrants. Exploring the meaning and arrangement of Chinese family names, the bonds among family members, and the different contexts of "self" to Chinese Americans, this valuable book offers you insight into the dilemma between "self" and "family" that both the younger and older generations must face in American society. In order to help you understand Chinese immigrants or help your clients, Chinese Americans and Their Immigrant Parents provides you with information about several differences found between the two cultures, such as:

• understanding that words and concepts may not relate to the same emotions or translate exactly between languages
• realizing that strong family bonds of the Chinese fosters interdependence, unlike Americans who admire self-assertiveness and independence
• recognizing the fear that Chinese immigrant parents have of losing their strong family ties and seeing their children forsake customs because they do not want to be seen as "different"
• discovering why risk-taking and adventurous acts are discouraged by many Chinese parents
• comprehending the great importance to Chinese parents of continuing their family and raising successful children
• acknowledging the different roles of men and women within several different contexts in American and Chinese societiesWith personal vignettes, humor, and interesting insights, Chinese Americans and Their Immigrant Parents: Conflict, Identity, and Values demonstrates how some Chinese Americans are connecting historical and cultural meanings to their Chinese roots and bridging generational gaps between themselves and their parents to create a truly cross-cultural identity.

Chapter 1

What Is in a Name? Culture and Personal Boundary

When my oldest nephew and his wife, who is Caucasian, were expecting their second child, a Chinese name was given by the grandfather, my oldest brother. The expectant mother asked me about the wording of the Chinese name, as they planned to use it as the child’s middle name on her birth certificate.

“How should we word her Chinese name?”

“Anming.”

“But ‘An’ is also her brother Andi’s name.”

“Yes. The two words go together; ‘An’ is their generational name.”

“What is hers and hers alone?”

“Ming.”

“How will people call her by her Chinese name?”

“Anming.”

“What is her complete Chinese name?”

“Tung Anming.”

This exchange once again reminded me of the vast cultural differences in personal boundary and their implications. By “boundary,” in this context, I refer to a sense of knowing where one stops and others begin, the proper degree of concern for other persons, and the source of energy and motivation in life decisions. There are countless ways to address this all-pervasive phenomenon. Clarity about boundaries is important because it is the basis for self-identity, social and interpersonal interactions, and belief and value systems. There are implications in practically everything we do or do not do. I chose three areas to demonstrate these implications because they are among the most familiar aspects of daily living, namely, one’s name, the individual person’s role in society and in marriage, and the ways in which our dwellings reflect boundary issues of who are the insiders and who are the outsiders.

WHAT IS IN A CHINESE NAME?

If we think of a Chinese person as more like a branch of a tree or a musician in a symphony orchestra and not as a separate tree or a soloist, we may be able to better understand what is symbolized in her or his name.

Unlike in the West, Chinese always place the family name first, then the “generational” name, and last, one’s individual given name. In some cases, the generational name may come last, with some people having only two words to their names. Even in these cases there is usually a family theme, such as all names are precious stones, large evergreen trees, mythical animals, or words reflecting traditional Chinese values. Chinese names are almost always chosen because of some meaning that the family wishes to represent or express. One is not named after someone. That is considered being disrespectful, and it also means cutting short the “longevity,” even after death, of the person for whom one is named. In spirit one “lives” forever, which is consistent with Chinese ancestor worship tradition.

The most intriguing part to me is the generational name. In our example, “An” means peace, tranquility, or security. This word appears in the names of all children who share the same grandfather, great-grandfather, and beyond on the father’s side of the family. By seeing the family name and the generational name one can immediately place oneself in the proper lineage “slot,” knowing how one is related to the others. The effect can be magical, at least it was for me. When I first met my uncle’s children in China, pieces of a large puzzle fell into place at high-tech speed! This brought an immediate sense of belonging and closeness, a feeling that much can be taken for granted because we already “know” something about one another. After all, two out of the three words in all of our names are the same.

One way of detecting cultural values is to study the degree of linguistic refinement regarding certain aspects of life. For example, the English word “cousin” is all-inclusive. In Chinese, different terms specify generation, gender, paternal or maternal side, and birth order to indicate precisely how two persons are related. Using this familial “blueprint” as a basis, relational terms are also generously applied to other non-blood-related persons to show goodwill and to pull for closer ties. My siblings and I addressed our parents’ contemporaries as “aunts” and “uncles” long into our adulthood. These terms of address are even more endearing when one is away from home, as expressed in the Chinese saying

When at home, one depends on one’s parents.
When away from home, one depends on friends.

The word kao literally means “to lean on,” showing the interdependent nature of Chinese relationships. The persons one can count on the most are one’s family members. To address non-blood-related persons with familial titles is both to honor them and to establish mutual support. Such mutuality is especially essential when one is overseas in a hostile environment, as was the case in most of the family origins of Chinese Americans. To cluster together for protection is not only a tradition but a necessity, even to this day.

As with practically everything in life, there are always two sides to a coin. When cultural values and traditions are carried to an extreme and demanded indiscriminately, the results will be problematic. This is true no matter in which culture or what values. Chinese family emphasis can be a source of support, an anchor and a haven, but it can also be suffocating and paralyzing. If I were to name one particular area of life in which the Chinese Americans I see in psychotherapy have the most problems, it would be the area of family of origin. Most other problems are derivatives. This may sound shocking, but the phenomenon is actually quite universal. In the days of ancient Greek tragedies, the power of family feud in the form of intrafamily intrigue and murder was portrayed. Freud made famous the drama of Oedipus who killed his father and married his mother as foretold by an oracle at his birth.

A “birth oracle” symbolizes the innate, inevitable nature of familial complications that no one can escape completely. Differences are found in the role and value assigned to “family” and how each culture resolves conflicts. In an individualistic culture the young are expected to go off and be a separate “tree.” Even in this arrangement, psychodynamically oriented psychotherapists know well how much time and energy is devoted to “transference.” This term means, basically, one’s perceptions of others may be distorted based on one’s experiences with one’s parents. In Chinese and Chinese-American cases, the saliency lies in dealing with the conflicts while the parties live in close proximity, both in physical distance and frequency of contact (Tung, 1991). I have been repeatedly amazed by the amount of mutual assistance that exists when the chips are down, no matter how excruciating the conflicts, in the Chinese-American families I know. In China and in the immigrant parents’ generation, even friends receive such painstaking personal support. Often, requests and expectations do not need to be expressed to be met. People simply know what to do, for example, when there is illness, death, or birth. Inconveniences to oneself are overlooked. We have to keep in mind, however, that these actions must be mutual and continuous to work smoothly and to avoid a strong sense of social wrongdoing.

The American counterpart for such “comprehensive coverage” is the extensive variety of insurances we buy, the support groups, sororities and fraternities, professional and civic organizations, etc. The basic difference is that a Chinese person is born into a group while the American person joins by choice. The former is permanent, the latter, usually temporary. There are advantages and shortcomings in both cases. In the Chinese-American families I know, mutual assistance is often provided in times of financial and medical difficulties. Parents and children buying homes for each other is a common practice. The helping hand is also automatically extended to other blood relatives, such as bringing them to the United States, a practice responsible to a large degree for the increased Chinese population in this country.

The reliability and effectiveness of such traditional mutual assistance, interestingly, was demonstrated in San Francisco’s Chinatown during the Great Depression. While some Chinese men lost their jobs along with the rest of the country’s workers, Chinese-American women, who mostly worked within the Chinese community, were able to maintain their jobs, improve their circumstances, and keep their families together. Second, since very few Chinese invested in stocks and bonds, owned property, or had savings accounts because of their low-paying jobs, they were less affected by the economic disaster. Third, the “town fathers” put their energy into procuring whatever resources were available from China as well as ensuring that their people were not denied public assistance to which they were entitled in this country (Yung, 1995).

In reading this book, it should be remembered that this all-pervasive tradition of mutual assistance did work for the Chinese, at home and abroad, and this is the continuing expectation Chinese immigrant parents have of their children. Parents enforce methods that worked for them. They are not “bad” parents. The younger generation, however, is caught between a past that is puzzling to them and a present they cannot live up to, be it Chinese or American style.

INDIVIDUAL PERSONS IN CHINESE CONTEXT

The Self

Most of the young Chinese-American professionals in psychotherapy with me have used the word “confusion”: where does oneself end and others begin? “I always put other people’s feelings first. I don’t even know how I feel.” “Is it selfish/bad/wrong to think of oneself first?” Moving out of the parental home before one is married is looked upon as being selfish; visits less than once a week displease the parents; not living up to parental expectations is frowned upon. And, there are the relatives who want to know and comment on how xiayidai, the younger generation, is doing, to the pride or chagrin of the parents. It is true, East or West, that children are reflections of their parents. In Chinese tradition, the children are more part of the parents, not mere reflections. The valued overlapping personal boundary is sometimes compounded by poverty and large families, so that many Chinese Americans grow up in physically cramped spaces as well.

In recent years, I have seen a few persons who are new emigrants from China. I noticed the large casts of characters when they tried to tell me about their situations and how these circumstances evolved. Relatives, co-workers, supervisors, neighbors, and, in one case, the landlady of a cousin living in Canada—all had a hand in one another’s lives. At the same time, they also offer endless accounts of mutual assistance, as described earlier, and discuss how just the thought of family sustained them through their ordeals during political upheavals, such as the infamous Cultural Revolution. These Chinese are referring to zijiren, literally, “self-person,” meaning all those who are close and important to one’s life and history.

A few years ago I saw an interracial couple. The Caucasian husband spoke no Chinese, and the Chinese wife spoke little English. The husband requested that I ask his wife if she was willing to make a commitment to their marriage: “We’ve gone around this over and over again, looking [it] up in the dictionary, getting nowhere.” My immediate reaction was, how do you say “commitment” in Chinese? I then proceeded to explain to the wife what Americans mean by that word in the context of a marriage. A few sentences into my explanation she waved her hand to show how useless it all was: “We Chinese, we are married; we are married.” What she meant was that it is not up to the individual whether to make the “commitment” or not. Once one is married, one is married for good. That evening I looked in my English-Chinese dictionary. “Commitment” is only cited in connection with business dealings, such as a contract. It is not an issue in personal matters. To make a commitment implies two separate independent parties have free choices. This phenomenon of overlapping boundary finds an eloquent enactment in formal Chinese banquets. There, one is not supposed to help oneself to the food. Instead, both the host and all the guests heap food on one another’s plates. Everyone is amply fed at the end, without anyone ever having served oneself, a true symbol of interdependence. All for one and one for all seems an appropriate motto.

The pervasive “other-aware” (in contrast to “self-aware”) interconnectedness seems to me to be the basic reason why so few Chinese Americans or Chinese societies can relate to Western-style dynamic psychotherapy; in therapy one has to step out of the familiar to be a stranger and look into oneself. While in the West the “self” is “consistently connected to the attainment of a degree of reflective awareness” (Johnson, 1985, p. 94), the Chinese “self,” as Hsu (1971) delineated, penetrates all the way into and through layers of interrelatedness with other persons, societies, and the “spiritual” world, as indicated by Chinese beliefs in “fate,” “destiny,” and ancestors. To this, Chinese Americans must also add their immigration history and adjustment. Effective psychotherapy has to include all these layers and spheres of meanings, a fiercely challenging demand for Western-trained psychotherapists. Personal boundary is also closely related to problem-solving styles and the role of emotions, which will be the themes of Chapter 4. Going outside of one’s personal world to an “irrelevant” stranger is simply not the Chinese idea of an effective way to solve problems.

In addition, the inward-connected tendency of the Chinese and the outward-moving position of Westerners can be expected to clash in intercultural comparisons. To use a recent example, during the 1998 Winter Olympics, Michelle Kwan, a Chinese-American skater, and Tara Lipinski, a Caucasian American, were compared: “Lipinski and Kwan stuck to completely different schedules at Nagano,” reports Time magazine (Labi, 1998, pp. 67-68). “Journalists handicapped the event in favor of Lipinski because she was so carefree and relaxed. She was all over the Olympic village.… Kwan, in contrast… [i]nstead of sharing cramped quarters with Lipinski and the flu that took Germany’s skater Tanja Szewczenko out of the running, bunked with Mom and Dad at a hotel (Its location was kept secret).” “Mom and Dad” infantilizes a person more than the word “parents.” Earlier in the same report, referring to Lipinski who was fifteen (Kwan was seventeen), “On Friday … in her parents’ hotel room, the 15-year-old just wanted her mother’s comfort. ‘It’s O.K. to be scared. It’s good to be scared.’ said Pat Lipinski. ‘But you can do it.’” Here, the scene between child and parent is portrayed at a much more mature level, with attention paid to feelings. The report continues: “Conventional wisdom says Kwan should have played it differently, a little looser perhaps” (Labi, 1998, pp. 67-68). I also watched the interview when both skaters were present. The interviewer brought up Kwan’s living arrangement again. It is as though Kwan had to justify herself for staying with “Mom and Dad.” This type of inquisition and curiosity, in effect, is saying, “What you are doing is strange and wrong,” a message Chinese Americans receive only too frequently. I have known both Asian and non-Asian mental health workers trained in America who, in treating Asians living with their parents, would automatically consider such an arrangement pathological and make it a treatment goal that the person should move out and live independently.

The ultimate symbol for Chinese interdependence is inherent in the word ren, the highest virtue in the Chinese value system. The word is formed with a “human” root and the number “two,”

and is therefore interpersonal in nature. This word, not surprisingly, has no English equivalent. It embraces qualities of love in a broad and humanistic sense, benevolence, compassion, and respect for others. The word is so fundamental to the Chinese that it is depicted on numerous decorative household articles to serve as a constant reminder.

It may be illuminating at this juncture to take a look at the often-debated issue of “human rights.” Simply stated, human rights is an individualistic concept and value. A person need only be born to be entitled to these “rights.” To the Chinese mind, if the conflict is between one individual and an entire group, the former clearly carries less weight. The Chinese individual must earn her or his place in society by serving and by being valuable to other persons. The Chinese individual, in other words, is never evaluated in isolation or in absolute terms. One’s “entitlement” is always considered in the context of how one fits into the larger goal.

Let me give an example. In a Chinese language newspaper, I noticed an item that illustrates this East-West difference. Shi Cheng, a town in Jiang Xi Province (central China), holds elections of city officials. In the past few years, a total of forty-two persons were not reelected because, in the residents’ evaluations, they were considered not “filial”: they did not treat their parents well (New Continent, 1997). Even in a Western-style “democratic” practice, the Chinese are, first of all, family oriented. Family, as we know by now, is the basis for group-oriented philosophy in life. In Chinese thinking, the suffering of a reference group, such as one’s family or village, is by far more serious than individual suffering.

Liang Qichao, a journalist recognized as China’s foremost modern intellectual, visited the United States in 1903. While observing American democracy and Chinese character he wrote, “Our (Chinese) character is that of clansmen rather than citizens” (Liang, 1903, p. 92). Clansmen relate to local community concerns and citizens, national concerns. American-style democracy requires citizens. After nearly a century this shrewd observation still seems true, and it is directl...

Table of contents

• Front cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• About the Author
• CONTENTS
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction
• Chapter 1. What Is in a Name? Culture and Personal Boundary
• Chapter 2. The Environment for Chinese-American Self-Identity
• Chapter 3. “You Have a Chinese What?!”: Internalized Inferiority
• Chapter 4. Emotions: Coping Style, Allocation, and Communication
• Chapter 5. Moving Out from the Shadow of the Eclipse: Integration
• Chapter 6. Ancestral Ghosts Meet Superman: A New Cycle of Chinese Immigrants
• References
• Index