A story about my mother on International Women's Day

Written in 2019, updated in 2022

In Mandarin her name means “singing in the clouds,” but my father chose the English name "Betty" when she came to the United States. She’s always been pint-sized, weighing in at barely 80 pounds. I can carry her on my back like a small child. My mother is 85 this year, and when I think of her story, I am filled with love and gratitude, but also sadness for the hard life she’s led and the opportunities she didn’t have.

Born in Tianjin, China to a wealthy family, she was raised by wet nurses and nannies. Her mother and three siblings died when she was young, and her father, while brilliant, paid her little attention. She led a very lonely childhood. Her grandfather had five wives, all with bound feet, and her first memories were of hearing them cry out in pain every night when they unwound the wraps and the blood came rushing back. Her grandfather was an acupuncturist, a scholar, and a point of light in her childhood. She had the special job of refilling his opium pipes.

When Chiang Kai-shek started losing ground in the Chinese civil war, her father, an officer and spy in the KMT army, fled to Taiwan. He told his brother to leave "the girl" behind, but her uncle brought her anyway. Although she had advanced Chinese calligraphy skills, excelled at math, and possessed a near photographic memory, she was not allowed to go to college. By then her family had gained status in Taipei, and her father had become a well-respected professor of art and Chinese opera. Her family wanted her to marry the son of another influential family. Instead, she married for love and chose a pauper who was studying at the local teacher’s college. My father was soft spoken and kind, and my mother followed him first to Malaysia and then to the United States.?

When I was two, my family landed in a small Midwestern town where my father got a professorship at the local university. We were the first Asian immigrants to arrive in the area—people stared and shopkeepers refused to serve us. The food was processed and strange (my mother thought it was inedible), the winters bitterly cold, and at the edge of town stood vast emptiness. My mother's beautiful silk dresses, jade bracelets, beaded purses, and crocodile heels stayed in trunks in the basement. Looking back, with three young daughters, minimal English skills, and no driver’s license, I’m not sure how she survived those years.

But my mother stayed strong and wanted us to be stronger. When the local school let the bullies harass my older sister and pull her hair for months, she went to the school to yell at the teachers in a mixture of English and Mandarin. In third grade when Jimmy, the class misfit, wouldn't leave me alone, she told me to punch him in the nose as hard as I could. I did, and he never bothered me again. She wanted us to believe in ourselves and stand up for what’s right. But she also taught us that thinking we were better than anyone else was plain foolish.

For years, she volunteered the family for Meals on Wheels. After a snowstorm, my sisters and I would drive with her to distant farmhouses to deliver hot meals to elderly shut-ins. Many of them had never seen an "oriental" and didn't want us in the house. They would slam the door on us and sometimes yell, which always scared me. But my mother would carefully place the meal outside and wish them a good day. She told us that they were lonely, and that sometimes in America the elderly had no one to take care of them. So we needed to help.

About eight years after we'd moved to this small town, she started teaching Chinese cooking classes for adults at the community center. The center reimbursed her for a small portion of the ingredients and paid her nothing, but she willingly gave of our family’s modest resources and her time. She prepared, tested, and practiced, and made me write all the notecards in English. She wore her silk dresses (while cooking!), and was a vivacious, funny, and confident instructor. Within a few years, the classes had a long waitlist. It was during those times that I got to see a glimpse of what my mother might have been.

I have twin ten year-old daughters who lead lives that seem far removed from my mother's childhood. I try to remind them how lucky they are that they get to go to school, to play sports, to learn the trumpet, to speak their mind. I tell them stories about my mother (their Puo Puo) and how she wasn't allowed to do any of those things. They don't understand, and ask me an indignant - why?? I tell them there are still places where girls aren't allowed to do those things. And this always leads to more questions that seem impossible to answer.

I think my mother could have risen to the top of her profession in another life. She would have made an excellent doctor, business leader, or public official. I have spent time mourning this lost potential, knowing she is one of many millions like her in the course of history. My girls and I have a saying that we repeat at bedtime every night, "Be strong, be brave, be kind, and always try your hardest." It’s our special motto and represents my hope for them, and all little girls, but most of all it’s a tribute to my mother and what she taught me.