In Middle Age, I’ve Come to Relish My Role as a Trophy Daughter
Because I love my mother
One summer, I was back in China for vacation. While roaming the country, I received a phone call from Mom. “Come home,” she said excitedly. “The National College Entrance Exam scores are out. Denny did well!”
It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Denny, my sister’s only son, had always excelled in school. However, since the stakes of this once-in-a-lifetime exam were so high, everybody was gripped with anxiety while waiting for the results. With the great news, the whole family breathed a collective sigh of relief. In fact, his score was so high that both Tsinghua and Peking, the two most prestigious colleges in China, reached out to persuade him to choose their institution.
During my stay in my hometown that summer, whenever I accompanied Mom on errands or neighborhood strolls, people stopped us to congratulate Mom on her grandson’s achievement. Mom tried to be modest, but her posture became straighter. Her head held high, her face lit up, and every wrinkle around her eyes radiated happiness.
Towering over her by a head, I watched her fondly. I remembered a scene from Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club, where Waverly’s mother parades her in the neighborhood after she becomes a national chess champion, much to Waverly’s annoyance and embarrassment. Mom, however, didn’t need to be so overt in flaunting her prize. Just walking down the street with her vegetable basket, she drew admirers like a celebrity.
In China, as well as in the Chinese American community in the US, education is highly valued. Consequently, admission to a prestigious university is celebrated by the entire extended family. For Mom, however, this milestone is even more poignant because of her own experience.
Mom is one of the smartest people I know. Even in her 80s, she is very sharp. While some of her peers find it difficult to remember their grandchildren’s birthdays, she effortlessly recites her 18-digit ID number from memory whenever the need arises.
Not surprisingly, she was an excellent student. When she graduated from high school in 1957, she set her sights on Peking University.
However, life threw her a curveball that she couldn’t catch.
During the three-day National College Entrance Exam, “Chinese Language” is typically the first subject being assessed. An important component of this test is writing an essay, and the only prompt that year was “My Mother.”
Mom was dismayed. She didn’t come from a celebrated proletarian family. Her parents were landlords. Her father was persecuted when the Communists took over in 1949 and passed away soon after. Her mother, as a landlord’s widow, continued to be labeled an oppressor.
How could an oppressor be the central figure of her essay? If she portrayed her positively, she might be accused of whitewashing a landlord. If she claimed her mother was a working-class woman, she would be lying to the party. Or she could denounce her as a spiteful enemy of the people, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Panic set in. By that time, she had lived in the shadow of her “exploiting class” family for eight years, and was terrified of any perception of transgression. At a loss, she scribbled an essay that she felt was complete nonsense. Shaken by the setback, she didn’t do well in the other subjects either. In the end, she didn’t get into Peking University.
My nephew’s stellar performance certainly vindicated Mom. Yet I knew she had experienced such pride once before, when I was at my nephew’s age.
Yes, I was once Mom’s trophy. Perhaps driven by her own unfulfilled aspirations, Mom was deeply invested in my sister’s and my studies. Her high standards pushed me to work hard, and I excelled in every school I attended and in nearly every exam I took. When I graduated from high school, I gained entry into Tsinghua University effortlessly.
In the summer before college, I was too busy bidding farewell to high school friends to accompany Mom to market. Looking back, I’m certain she was treated with the same veneration as when my nephew got into my alma mater — Yes, he chose Tsinghua because I started a family tradition.
Similarly, when I was accepted into Stanford and later earned my Ph.D., I’m sure Mom, once again, became everybody’s envy.
I won’t deny that it feels good to have attended the best schools. Beyond the exceptional education, casually dropping the names of Tsinghua or Stanford when meeting new people usually subtly elevates my standing.
However, real life is more complicated than being Mom’s trophy daughter.
Daniel Markovits states in The Meritocracy Trap that elite education often imposes unsustainable pressures on individuals, leading to burnout and dissatisfaction. I fit the description exactly.
The early victories placed me on a “most likely to succeed” pedestal, a badge I didn’t enjoy wearing. In my relentless pursuit of academic excellence, I developed a perfectionist mindset that plagued me most of my life. On top of that, years spent in elite schools instilled in me such a strong sense of entitlement that, despite having a reasonably successful career, the rewards often feel inadequate compared to what I believe I deserve.
I don’t tell Mom this. Maybe she already knows.
However, regardless of what an elite education has or hasn’t brought me, when I witnessed Mom’s contentment the summer my nephew got into Tsinghua, I was reminded once again how much it must have meant to her.
I left home at 18 and later moved to the U.S. It was a great decision, but came at the cost of being very, very far away from my parents. This regret has always weighed on me. Knowing that my small accomplishments have brought them enormous joy has somewhat eased my guilt.
I imagine Mom walking down the street, greeting neighbors with a bag of fresh produce in hand, her still-smooth face glowing with happiness (she was only in her 40s when I left home). Unlike Waverly in The Joy Luck Club, I feel no resentment. Perhaps I might have as a petulant teenager, quick to dissect parents with criticism. But now, in middle age, I’m only grateful. I’ve come to fully understand how much Mom loves me. And my love for her is equally deep.
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