Secrets of a Fortune Cookie: A Memoir

By Vanessa S. Yang

What constitutes a good parent, and when do they go too far? We often hear stereotypes associated with strict Asian parenting, and yet, although the accreditations on paper are known to many, still we find ourselves wondering, But at what costs?

Secrets of a Fortune Cookie: A Memoir describes the harrowing journey of author Vanessa Yang, a young woman of Chinese descent, who was born in Singapore and educated in schools across the globe.

She experienced a traditional Asian-style upbringing, with no consideration to social development. As a strictly raised Chinese Singaporean expatriate student in international schools, she was also influenced by her friends and peersand their Western ideals. Her mothers relentless Eastern upbringing, dominated by an isolated focus on academics alone, was not a productive fit to a teenagers growing desires to fit in and find encouragement and love.

These disparate experiences and lifestyles were the seeds of her vicious teen rebellion against everything her parents honored, and it was these acts of defiance that ultimately climaxed her insecurities. Satirically funny and heartrending by turns, her story of independent self-discovery brings to light, the aptly pondered detriments of the causes and consequences of stereotypical Asian-style parenting.

In the end, the clash of cultures she and her sisters faced drove her to resort to drastic measures in order to find the love and confidence she never received at home. A remarkable memoir with valuable life lessons, Secrets of a Fortune Cookie offers an inspiring look at a young womans turbulent past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Jan 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452503486

Vanessa S. Yang

Vanessa S. Yang, a Chinese Singaporean, was born in Singapore in 1988. Her family left Singapore when she was one, and she and her two sisters grew up as children of expatriates around the world, living in the United States, Thailand, Taiwan, Germany, and China. While her sisters opted to study and live in Boston, Massachusetts, Vanessa completed her tertiary education in Sydney, Australia, and currently lives and works there.

Book preview

1

An Unusual Voice

We consider a fortune cookie to be a dessert of sorts, that is characteristically Chinese. When we visit a Chinese restaurant in a western country, that crunchy golden cookie is often handed to us with the bill, and those of us who are not better informed will assume that it is a tradition of the Chinese. Existing only in Chinese restaurants, we deem it a novelty product and crack it open for the fun of it, anticipating a fortuitous message. After all, it is a fortune cookie. And when the message does not relate to our present circumstances, the majority of time, we toss it out impervious and simply eat the cookie.

Ironically enough, that fortune cookie, which is so commonly presumed to be Chinese thanks to its overwhelming presence in the West, does not have a place in China. As with Singapore noodles, "dim sims, and chop suey," the fortune cookie is just a misplaced food item that is associated by blasé assumption to a culture that hasn’t even heard of such a dish. We could blame it on ignorance, or we go so far as to blame the restaurant for ignoring the value of its cultural origin, and adapting their foods to be more appealing and identifiable to the West. But, regardless of who’s to blame, the easily overlooked circumstances of a fortune cookie are, as a matter of fact, rather unfortunate.

Likewise, I’ve found myself to be on a similar tangent as that unfortunate fortune cookie whose manufacturing, while within a Western environment, consists of ingredients that are wholly Asian. Like the cookie, despite having an Asian aesthetic, I was educated in Western environments and therefore have become a contrived product of the West. And to top it off, in my affiliations with Westerners, I’ve found that they tend not to care much for my complicated origin; they assume that because I’m Westernized, I’m exactly like every other white person around—except, of course, with yellow skin. What they don’t know are the underlying secrets of my Asian past that have polluted my ability to grow up fully Westernized.

This offhanded assumption that Westerners tend to apply to us Westernized Asians is comparable to the impervious attitude of popping a fortune cookie into their mouths, assuming it is Chinese without so much as a second thought. And, even if they were told, Guess what? Fortune cookies are actually American, they’d likely just shrug their shoulders and say, Oh, really?—and they’d think nothing more of it. Because of this, I’ve had to acclimatize to the unconcerned parties with whom I interact on a daily basis, and I continue to face a lifetime of conflict over my past. It has been a burden on my shoulders that I’ve had to lug with me for quite some time.

Come to think of it, I am, very much, a muddled result of the perplexing clash of culture that—just like that little golden cookie whose origin is questionably Chinese yet whose presence is Western—doesn’t really belong anywhere, and is misplaced, misinterpreted, and misunderstood. And, sadly, I don’t have the luxury of sitting on plate, waiting to be devoured and thus freed to oblivion.

In reading this book, you are invited to consider a perspective that until now has very rarely had a voice in this world. You will be exposed to some of the poignant, demoralizing tribulations and emotional detriments that I was forced to experience as an Asian child growing up internationally with strict parents, smack-dab in the middle of the culture-clash of East versus West; a clash where both sides presume that they are the superior party for arbitrary and cultural reasons. Having to endure this my entire life, you will notice my cumbersome journey in finding happiness; a task which I have spent a good chunk of my latter years trying, in vain, to accomplish.

There is often talk about the Asian student in the class being the brightest, and perhaps over a meal, third-party parents and children may discuss the possibilities as to why the Asian kids always seem to academically overachieve. Yet, there never really has been a deep enough consideration of the facts for the general public to fully understand their commendable disciplinary ethic and educational prowess. Until now, I have witnessed quietly on the sidelines, the passionate and, in some cases, heated opinions and criticisms on the topic of strict parenting, and I quickly realized that this subject never seems to shy from attention.

When I turn on the television or read the news, it seems to be a mere matter of time before the topic is raised again. And, regardless of my desperate attempts to tune it all out and put on the kiddy earphones, I have been unavoidably bombarded by the never-ending debate between Asian and non-Asian parents on the controversial topic of good child-raising. In previous years, I would happily sit and watch as parents hurled dodge-balls back and forth at one another, attempting to inflict insult without crossing the line, with their varying personal critiques and professional analyses on the opposite’s parenting methods. At best, I would find the controversy, and ignorance, in some cases, mildly amusing.

Like a guai hai zi, Chinese for obedient child, I listened to the debates and was a sitting duck to the comments and criticisms, and I would never so much as dare to nod my head in agreement at some of the blatant arguments coming from Western parents. Silencing myself in the name of respect for my parents and elders and the Asian culture, I subdued my views and betrayed my urges to side with the Western culture. Not wanting to betray my cultural roots, I gulped down the voice inside me struggling to be heard like a bitter medicine, each time I came across autobiographical accounts or heard CNN or Oprah interviews with psychologists, psychiatrists, parents, and teachers, in which they were all fervently having an adult discussion on the topic.

While I am indebted to the fact that at least the topic has had a voice in recent decades and has managed to raise some awareness or, at the very least, pique some interest on the matter, I realized that, arguably the most critical perspective has almost altogether failed to be similarly acknowledged. Somehow the debate remains between the parents, the family with seven children, and the learned older generation possessing degrees and thirty years of psychiatry or psychology experience under their fat, complacent belts. Apparently, having a degree in psychology or having a child qualifies you to become a certified contributor to the debate.

What about the perspective from the topic itself? Are we mute witnesses and unheeded victims? Do our accounts not matter to the jury? And above all, why does the perpetrator always seem to get the last word? I say it’s about time the tables were turned, for a five-minute interview clip with an Asian child, inserted into an otherwise adult discussion to broaden the range of sources in attempts to make it look well-researched, does not suffice.

Somehow the fundamental perspective of the child has not managed to find its way to the public in the way that it should have. There really is no point having a debate if the most crucial accounts keep failing to be explored. After reading this book and perhaps finally hearing at least one of many suppressed voices of the subject matter, then you can be the judge on which culture does it better. I also invite you to play Swiss and remain the neutral party, if that suits you best. This time, at least, you may be a little bit more informed than before, and if nothing else, you will have some conversation topics to keep handy.

I was that stereotypical Asian student, who turned up every day to school with a smile on her face, politely obeying her teachers and elders, and excelling in academics, sports, and music, including being able to play the piano and flute beautifully among other talents. But, casting academic grandeur and the glamor of my superficial achievements aside, I find myself itching to shine a modest light on how the conflict of culture my siblings and I had to endure, along with my mother’s strict, academically driven childrearing methods, managed to permanently inhibit our paths to developing a positive inherent self-esteem and self-confidence with which to successfully move on in life.

I was the middle child in the family. My two sisters, Anna and Hayden, and I, were all two years apart. While each of us lived under the same roof until we were eighteen, when we were finally freed to greener pastures and leave for college, we ended up going in different directions, adapting to our newfound lives and trying to banish our pasts in our own individual ways. The only similarity is that each of us remains, to this day, inherently self-conscious, and extremely vulnerable to criticism. While I chose to live in Sydney and my sisters chose Boston, we continue to interact with Western peers our age, and we have begrudgingly observed the brighter, more beautiful, and more loving side to the term family. We have become bitter and remorseful that we weren’t fortunate enough to develop that kind of familial bond with our mother.

In the past, we often tried to justify our familial shortcomings with the fact that we were Asian, telling ourselves that our upbringing was normal in the Asian culture. We attempted to convince ourselves that this was a natural consequence of being born with yellow skin. We found, later on, that this was a ridiculous justification that we had adopted to persuade ourselves that we were, in fact, living normal lives. And, while I have no doubt that shoddier cases than ours exist, we couldn’t continue living life, continuously justifying the way our mother chose to raise us with the fact that she is Asian. Because of that, we’ve become spiteful toward her for forfeiting our chances to develop confidence, just for the sake of a good education. In the end, her obstinate decision to carry this through ended up plaguing our paths to happiness.

I wouldn’t like to pretend that I see the elephant in the room, by suggesting that every Asian child growing up in a Western world is subjected to as volatile a roller coaster ride as the one that was arranged for me. Nor would I be suggesting that others who may have had similar upbringings have not managed to rid their ghosts of the past—if they had any at all—and continue on to triumph in the name of a successfully raised, confident, and highly educated product of the strict Asian or strict parenting regime.

I’m not here to screw a cap on the stereotype and put all controversy into a bottle to be signed, sealed, and delivered as fact. And I am also aware of the prospect that this book may be misconstrued as a churlish retort from an ungrateful, spoiled expat-brat. In that light, I had contemplated for many years, whether or not to publicize such a jarringly honest piece of insight into my life, at the enormous risk of opening myself up to criticism, and, more importantly, at the ruinous risk of dishonoring my parents and tarnishing their reputations as decent human beings—which, I believe wholeheartedly, they are. But, I believe there are things greater, and there are imperative messages that can be extracted from stories like mine about the broken familial bonds that dot the planet like ants on a dead cockroach. These are the great lessons and notions of inspiration which we can retrieve from the mistakes of those we speak about. I see this publication, not as a tell-all or an ungrateful rant, but as an unusual avenue for betterment in parents who aspire to be loving and kind.

Simply, my decision to press on was made with the intent to lend a hand in unraveling some of the mysteries of the Asian phenomenon which seems to be hotly debated these days. In so doing, I also hope to finally give others like myself a voice in shedding some much-needed light on this fiercely disputed topic. Being aware of the consequences, I will fashion a shield to render myself immune to any controversial criticism that may result from this, for there are valuable lessons from my past that must be learnt. And, while the voice that I am offering up may be one of many that are scarcely heard or acknowledged, at least this way, the gateway for a daring chance to speak, will be forcefully pried open.

In speculation as to why we’ve never really been heard, I’ve come to realize that in many cases, our once belligerent and spiteful adolescent attitudes toward our parents are often tamed in our latter years, by our fruitful careers that have resulted from our particular upbringings. Many of us lose our steam, our anger, and our desire to put up a front, by the time we have settled into our jobs and see our parents but once a year, giving us our space from their caging antics—hence, on occasion, even giving us a chance to miss them.

As youths, many of us may have been intent on making public our shortcomings, on which occasions we would have just ended an argument with our parents, storming off into our rooms, fuming and upset. And while blood and adrenaline is still lividly pumping through our systems, we swear to ourselves that we will make them pay by publicizing their horrible parenting once we become free and independent adults. And yet, as time can be both our ally and our foe, it flies by; many of us move on in life, trying to free ourselves from the burdens of our pasts that once weighed us down.

By the time we mature, many of us who are happy with our jobs and our newfound financial circumstances will abandon our vindictive attitudes toward our parents for the sake of pursuing happiness. When we’ve reached those stages in life and are eager to press on and continue to mature, we try harder to appreciate the fruits of our tainted childhoods, and we often realize there are quite a few. By then, we try to understand the hard love we once experienced, in order to appreciate what our parents had sacrificed for us.

We also have the intrinsic capacity to forgive and forget as we grow older. Because of this, with money from our lucrative career coming into our bank accounts as our parents had always promised, we lose incentive to be as critical toward them. And when we find that there is, in fact, this financial justification to why our parents once treated us so, we try to banish the ugly memories for the sake of restoring peace to a broken familial bond. Due to this penchant, the perspective of the once angry and repressed child continues to hold a very unstable ground, and has thus far been limited to less-informed debate and coffee-table banter. The cold, hard, facts, however, remain scant, and often go generations undisclosed.

In that respect, as I am only twenty-three, regardless of the person I will become, and regardless of whether I will later regret publishing this, in writing this book now I am attempting to stop time. With every milestone accomplishment, the tracks we make on a grueling journey should be documented and revealed, or it may not be fairly recognized for what it really was. As time has shown, our tracks are often covered too quickly with maturity and time, and the information we could have collected by analyzing them, normally becomes inaccessible by default. Capitalizing on this slim window of opportunity before I eventually decide against it, I am thus able to showcase, now, some of the varying avenues for potential parental failure. Consider this a snapshot of the tracks that I may, nevertheless, also wish to cover up in a matter of years.

My sisters and I were educated in international schools across seven countries, which were backed by an American curriculum in a Western-dominated expatriate community. Even our teachers were mainly American, seconded by Australians or Canadians, which would likely explain our tendencies to have American accents, despite being schooled in an international institution. This upbringing gave us the chance to experience and observe the pros and cons of both Asian and Western culture. To these observations, my vivid encounters have led me to reach the overarching belief that, just as a nation’s good governance requires a balance of guided policies and varying individual freedoms, true success in life must be founded on an equally delicate equilibrium of achievements—both on paper, and, in psychological and emotional success. That said, I might even be so bold as to suggest that the latter may be—as unimaginable as it might be to some parents’ tunnel-vision perspectives—far more important to your child’s ultimate contentment than the former.

If I have managed to whet even a sliver of your curiosity, I welcome you to sit behind the scenes and witness, first hand, the raw, uncensored, and absolutely unsolicited version of my story, prior to the director’s cut. This way, you will finally be exposed to some of the hapless circumstances of one of the many children of strict parents in this world. At first glance, we may seem normal, and you may even find yourselves envious of our academic accomplishments, or of our material wealth. But don’t be credulous enough to assume that, just because we are financially comfortable, we are, in fact, happy. I shall revisit the darker past of mine which I have tried, for years, to hide, in order to expose to you the potential costs associated with trying to force your child to fill the shoes of a successfully raised progeny—if even I am worthy of the honor of receiving such a provocative and scarcely-awarded title.

To all parents who thrive to produce a child with a long list of academic accolades, assuming that this is what they need in order to achieve happiness in life, try to consider the ordinarily unspeakable possibility that, certain achievements are born of unconditional love toward supported talent, and not of social restrictions and coercive toil. As much as you aspire for your child to excel in the academic ranks, proudly leaving the average folk in the dust, as statistics would have it, most children are inevitably average. If you’re not lucky enough to have birthed a child with a remarkable IQ, or one who is innately driven to succeed, you must be open to the fact that not all children will turn out to be prodigies, or natural-born doctors, lawyers, and investment bankers. Although you believe it is paramount that your child be the best in the class, if they are unable to assume that title, could you be content with a mediocre child? And, if such is an appropriate description of your child, is your game of austerity and restriction really the key to their happiness and success? As a matter of fact, must you equate a lucrative career to happiness? If you truly believe that your rigid parenting is crucial for ensuring a money-spinning career for your children’s ultimate happiness, might you consider that you may actually be forfeiting it?

This is my leap of faith that in some way or other, some critical points will finally be made by the once-compliant Asian youth, who has, until now, always been too afraid to outlandishly outcast or disrepute the grand legacies and family secrets of her predecessors. That said, I’m not here to impart my wisdom, which you may deem questionable due to my age. Rather, I am imparting my experiences, in hopes of widening your gaze to horizons that, as a matter of fact, do exist outside of the false world of Jim Carrey’s Truman.

I realize that my tone of voice may be far less submissive than that of the traditional Asian youth, whose meekness you may be more accustomed to. While I’d love to carry out the stereotype further, it seems that we’ve gone nowhere by silencing ourselves and allowing angry adult voices to override our views. Perhaps this is the only way for us to finally get the message through—perhaps this is the only way for some of you to realize how important it really is, to take a step back and tame the tiger, or dull the dragon, for the sake of your children’s happiness.

Throughout this book, I am not asking that you subscribe to any of my notions; rather, I find that some of them may be worthy of a little bit of attention. If you decide to carry on, please take my strong statements with a handful of salt, and leave behind any potential judgment that you may feel inclined to pass prematurely. I then encourage you to pick them up again and dust the salt off your hands upon exit.

2

The Asian Equation

It is not uncommon for us to have discussions on the Asian mentality of toil, discipline, and academic fervor—to which respective successes and prosperities would later be attributed. While the methods toward reaching those successes are often questionable—especially when concerning the West—there remains a general consensus that Asian students often outdo their Western counterparts; at least while they are still young and under their parents’ dictatorial grasp.

Stereotype or not, in many cases there is a lot of truth to it, for there are reasons why we choose to stereotype things. And there is also a lot of truth to the assumption that Asians equate a pristine academic track record to a lucrative career, which, in their mindset, leads to a successful and happy life. After all, in the Chinese culture, one of the most popular blessings that you could wish upon another, especially during Chinese New Year, is for good health, wealth and prosperity, as if to imply that those are the three most indispensable elements for the ultimate life.

In our culture it is customary to reunite once a year for a family reunion dinner on the eve of Chinese New Year. This celebration is a public holiday that spans across roughly two weeks, usually in the month of February—depending on the Chinese calendar. Our tradition sees masses of Chinese people travelling home with their families to visit their parents and extended families, bearing gifts and bringing home money that they’ve earned overseas or away from home.

On the days following the reunion dinner, we wear new clothes to celebrate the New Year. Most people typically wear red, for it symbolizes luck and is the color that wards off evil spirits. We pay respects to the deceased, visit our grandparents and the graves of our ancestors, and participate in bai nian, a custom where we wish well upon our elders, and vice versa. On these occasions, those of us who are unmarried will traditionally offer up a pair of oranges, while bowing respectfully and reciting a few blessings to our elders who are married. In return, we are given our respective blessings, and then given a red envelope containing money.

The tradition of Chinese New Year is one that is very much associated with symbolism—much of which has a deep emphasis on wealth. As Chinese superstition would have it, the offering of oranges and tangerines is to symbolize an offering of wealth and luck, respectively, due to the similarity in the way the Chinese words for them, cheng and ju, sound to the actual words. At the reunion dinner, we often eat fish because the word for fish, yu, sounds like the words wish and abundance.

Throughout the entire celebration, we eat many traditional foods, and you will see copious amounts of the color red, because of its symbolical representation of prosperity and wealth. If you’ve ever wondered why the number eight is always a lucky number to the Chinese, it is because the word eight in Chinese, ba or fa, sounds like the word distribution, which connotes a distribution of wealth. Conversely, the number four is unlucky to the Chinese, because it sounds like the word death.

Common phrases that I wish my elders during bai nian are "nian nian you yu," translated in verbatim to say prosperity and wealth each year, and "shen ti jian kang," meaning wishing good health to your body. In return for our blessings and symbolic offerings, our elders commonly wish us xue xi jing bu, wishing improvement in our studies, and bu bu gao sheng, wishing us to grow tall and prosper. There we have it; it seems that if a blessing relates to money, that is when we can accurately assume that it is a traditional Chinese blessing.

What’s more, arguably the most popular blessing is gong xi fa cai, or gong hei fat choi, which is directly translated to saying, Congratulations on your prosperity in money. While Westerners who are aware of Chinese New Year assume that gong xi fa cai means Happy Chinese New Year, they are tremendously misinformed. Dollar signs—whether disguised in blessings or implied through symbolism—are omnipresent during Chinese New Year.

To be fair, when we incorporate those blessings into our lives, we must admit they are all indeed elements of a successful one. But there is much more to life than what sits helplessly within those confines. As you can plainly see by the near-gaudy displays of red and gold during Chinese New Year, and with all the superstitious and symbolic blessings, wealth tends to be the most popular of the lot. And, while wishing someone happiness is not uncommon, somehow it is always either indirectly or directly tied to wealth—even the unstated path to finding that wished happiness, often has too much tacit emphasis on financial success. Such is the influential mindset of the traditional Chinese.

It’s almost comical, really. It is almost as if our blessings are selected by a Chinese cultural officer who is paid to make the importance of wealth in our blessings, match its weight in gold. Being of Chinese ethnicity, and submitting to the traditional Chinese upbringing, I often felt that we, as children growing up in an Asian household—at least from Generation Y and prior—were inevitably brainwashed by our parents to abide by a confined equation of sorts. This equation is predisposed to reach the ultimate goal of a successful life which, for argument’s sake, I call The Asian Equation. I’m sure you could also easily rename it to Strict Parent Equation if you preferred, or if it described your circumstances better. Nonetheless, I believe this equation is all too familiar to those of us who’ve been raised in strict, academically centered home environments.

This Asian Equation, I reluctantly admit, has in fact contributed to a lot of the material successes that have been observed and praised in Asian youths, Asian multinational corporations, and the vehemently state-monitored economic growth we have witnessed in many developed Asian nations. But the fundamentals of the equation, while cynically constricted and perhaps even candidly amusing, are nonetheless what I sincerely believe is the drive of what sculpts our intrinsic attitude toward life. That said, the Asian Equation—an equation that results in the best possible outcome toward a successful life in the Asian mindset—is the following:

The Asian Equation

Learning Discipline → Good Education → Lucrative Career → Money to be Rich and Healthy

Hard Work + Study + Practice + No Play + No Cavorting With

The Opposite Sex

Inputs: Progressive Outputs:

+

Final Desired Outcome:

= "A Successful Life"

Ridiculous as it may be, the exact order of the equation is inflexible, with no variations. It’s almost as if we are each given a pair of tunnel-vision goggles with which to view and experience life, and if we so much as attempt to remove the goggles we will be chastised for attempting to betray our culture, and for putting to shame the generations of our discipline-driven ancestors and predecessors. As it is adopted and passed on by so many of us ethnic Chinese, like an old fashioned trepanation, the equation is from youth, drilled into our minds by an electric power drill controlled by our parents, who funnily enough are wearing the same hand-me-down tunnel-vision goggles that had been worn by their parents, their parents’ parents, and so on.

In this way, it is cultivated into our belief systems to make us trust that there is no other way to achieve a successful life, suggesting that, to live life in any other way, you would be succumbing to the dreaded, lazy, sexually loose, and highly unproductive Western outlook. If you think about it, it also serves to limit our aspirations, forcing us to select specific university degrees that are projected to put us on the path to profitability. And, if we are ever bold enough to object and propose alternatives to the equation, we will generally get whacked—figuratively and, often, literally.

While following this ludicrous chain of thought, I would also argue that, if you read in between the lines of the equation, you will find hidden somewhere, a deep and dark prohibition toward social relationships, leisure time, work-life balance, and all the other possible things that would be considered equally important in the West and yet considered inanely trivial in the East. The reason, I suppose, is that it is argued that those aspects of life are insignificant ones that during your youth, you are forbidden to distract yourself with. Those tend to be ornamented in our minds as the forbidden fruit, into which you can sink your teeth only once you’ve bogged down your priorities and have gotten the ball rolling during your first twenty to thirty years of life. According to the equation, you are only to be rewarded that succulent fruit once you’ve secured your lucrative career, and once you are prospected—by proof of numbers in your bank account—to lead a successful life.

Additionally disappointing are the limitations placed on many of our childhood aspirations and dreams by that unyielding equation. When we are small, many of us believe that we are good enough to become actresses, singers, artists, food critics, writers, school teachers, and other less admirable occupations in the Asian culture. You could be a talented ballet dancer, an amazing singer, or an extremely creative child with an artistic flare, but, chances are your parents will insist that you focus on and complete your education first before allowing you to pursue your interests. By that time, the enthusiasm, confidence, and vigor you once had to reach those occupations could be easily exhausted. After adhering to the strict regime at home, and trying to temporarily banish your dreams in order to complete university in order to appease your parents, you may have lost your drive, and may fail to recall the desires for your dream career which you once secretly coveted with all your heart.

Eventually, as time would have it, you would have been manipulated enough to believe that your dream career was actually to become a doctor, and that your former aspirations to be an artist were unrealistic, due to the occupation not being lucrative enough. In that light, if you have experienced a life with similar inputs to the Asian Equation, you will agree that the equation is there to put us all in a mold to fill the shoes of a scholar, because scholars are apparently equated to money-makers, and money-makers are supposed to be happy.

Some may believe wholeheartedly that the Asian Equation is the best technique with which to tackle life, while others may find that it is overly restrictive and lacking of other equally significant values. Perhaps, at best, the discrepancy between the two may just be a laughing matter. Comical as it may be, I’d rather weep helplessly, slumped in the corner in my titanium chains, knowing there is no way out—for this equation has directly and indirectly shaped my entire life. Unfortunately, I don’t have the strength of King Kong to break free from my indestructible chains, regardless of whether there is the man of my life waiting for me somewhere out there in the big bad city. Rather, I shall continue writhing and squirming until my wrists and knuckles bleed, hoping that I will, one day, be able to emotionally overcome the damage that has been inflicted by those powerful titanium chains.

Basically, given our parents’ eager anticipation toward the fiercely awaited outcome of the equation, everything other than those five inputs of the equation are deemed sins, as they inhibit our progress in reaching, at long last, the right side of the equal sign. And for that we must mill around on the barren side of the river, and stick to it for our entire education before we can even glance at the beautiful green grass on the other side. My sisters and I often imagined ourselves to be three starving cows, drooling over the freedoms we observed in the Western culture, which looked to be so lush, inspiring, and supportive—and they were almost tangible because our friends were all blissfully frolicking around on that side of the river. Whenever we went to school, we spent time with our Western peers, and we’d have the opportunity to get a taste of what seemed to be the decadent life.

Attempting to be jovial about an otherwise depressing situation, my sisters and I would habitually joke about our strict Asian parents. We’d do so to lighten up the sad fact that, unlike all our friends, we were forced to have extracurricular tuitions, and made to do so much extra studying and instrument practice outside of the school curriculum before being allowed to play. Playtime, to a child, is so important. Because of this, sometimes we flippantly told our friends about our arguments with our mother the night before, in attempts to facetiously explain our puffy eyes and occasional bruises. And when that explanation grew weary, we’d simply tell them that we’d slept unconventionally late.

We managed to be very believable, because none of our friends ever suspected otherwise. At school we always pasted a smile on our faces, and we convinced ourselves that we were unaffected by our limitations at home. But, of course, at the sound of the school bell, we would hop back into our chauffeur-driven Mercedes, and return home to the bald fields and dreariness that existed on our side of the river. And, despite desperately craving to leap over to the other side, we were always tied down by obligations—our sewing and plowing and reciting and learning—for what seemed to be a lifetime. We hoped our parents might, one day, approve of an appropriate time to untie us to finally permit an attempt to leap to the other side, for a taste of that decadent green grass.

The only concern for children—like my sisters and I once were—is that, by the time we are finally allowed to attempt the leap, many of us lose hope and become exhausted. And those of us who hadn’t already rebelled and broken free long ago, may be too weak and famished to make it across. In those cases, the Asian Equation would have succeeded in forcing us to remain in our molds. I know of many who lost their drive to jump, and it was never a pretty sight to see them so discouraged. To both my fortune and dismay, I was one of the feisty cows who did break free; I was the naughty cow who did everything against the book in order to be independent from my parents.

In a way, the equation almost wraps up the entire aspiration process in what I consider the Asian mentality, and that is what oversees the relentless drive of so many Asians, be they the top student in a mathematics class, the well-paid CFO, or the concert pianist, who didn’t develop their skill through an innate talent as much as by practicing for five hours a day without fail, and by getting their fingers whacked with a pencil for every wrong note played.

Of course, as there always are, there are bound to be numerous occasions where the equation fits like a glove, and they go on to become successful and intrinsically happy. After all, while you may agree that the Asian stereotype of draconian dictatorship in households, as well as nations, is, in certain cases, morally and humanely questionable, you have to admit that the majority of us growing up with such strict guidelines, do manage to pick up our feet do something worthy with our accomplishments on paper: perhaps a tap-dance to some Asian music whilst being controlled by our ruthless puppeteers.

Despite, if we consider the bigger picture, the Asian ethic has been credited with producing some of the most capably governed and flourishing nations on the planet. Thanks to the stronger governments of East Asia having recognized the severe limitations of overtly free markets in their once-budding economies, during their periods of industrialization, they strictly monitored their domestic conditions. Using selective government intervention and protectionism to avoid exploitation from stronger nations, their governments provided optimal conditions for their nations to ripen, in preparation for integration toward a more open, export-driven market.

Think Singapore, South Korea, Japan, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and now the budding China—the looming economic giant now inducing fear in all superpowers, past and present. Emulating some strategies of Singapore’s industrialization, China applauds itself for being the newest nation to push on with remarkable economic success, while remaining impervious to democratic pressures from the West, and for maintaining its grasp on rigid Communism. Perhaps we will soon see India follow in the footsteps of China, using the influence of similar fundamental Asian values.

Correspondingly, the same Asian values that have led to economic prosperity in the Asian region can easily be applied, on a smaller scale, to the Asian household. We have read articles and scholarly reviews based on the East Asian Model, suggesting that Asian-style economic growth is unparalleled and unique to its region. With that also comes much doubt, as to whether the same model can be applied to developing nations in Africa or Latin America—some even furtively argue that, among geographical and political reasons, it is because those continents lack the Asian drive. Maybe, maybe not. But, regardless of whether we find the Asian model applicable to other nations of the world, it is no secret that the model