3 Brutal Lessons From Being the Child of Elderly Asian Parents (That No One Talks About)

Notes from 2 AM, When Returning an iPhone And Writing A Substack Post Feel Like a Completely Normal Thing to Do

It's 2 AM, and I’m sitting here trying to return a perfectly good iPhone. An iPhone that would let my mom video chat with her sister in Taiwan for free, but apparently that doesn't matter because the screen is “too small.” Mind you, I'm between jobs right now, and my bank account is giving me concerned looks. But you know what? This feels exactly right.

This is what happens after 40+ years of trying to crack the code of making elderly Asian parents happy. You end up doing completely rational things like returning expensive electronics at 2 AM while questioning your life choices. If you've ever watched your mom stick with her flip phone because “this one work fine” after you gifted her an iPhone 15 Pro Max Ultra Whatever, pull up a chair. We need to talk.

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Lesson 1: Your Parents' Love Language is Criticism. And That's All You're Getting

Perhaps you’re sitting in a performance review getting praised for your work, when suddenly your brain performs a PTSD jump and starts replaying your dad's voice from sophomore year: “Uncle Lee’s son Jimmy buy HOUSE. Why are you renting with Filipinos?” It's like having two parallel soundtracks playing in your head, except one is permanently stuck on Asian Parent FM.

The solution isn't explaining your parents to your friends or your friends to your parents; the solution is accepting that these two realities will never align. Your parents' criticism comes pre-installed with love, like bloatware on a new PC.

When I got the job as a Front End Engineer at Yahoo! after my second attempt at interviewing, I called my mom. She managed a whole fifteen seconds of restraint before reminding me that it did take two tries, and maybe I should work harder at getting things right the first time, hmm? Two weeks later, I overheard her telling her church friends that her son works at “Number One Internet Company.” (Google wasn’t a thing yet. Burn, yes, I know.) The praise comes wrapped in criticism, delivered sideways, never direct.

Lesson 2: Material Gifts Will Never Make Them Happy (Stop Trying)

The iPhone incident isn't my first rodeo. My parents still use their rice cooker from 1987. It has exactly two settings: “on” and “slightly less on.” The timer doesn't work, the non-stick coating is mostly theoretical at this point, and it makes concerning noises when you plug it in. I’ve bought mom a brand new one. It sat unopened in the original box, serving as very expensive shelf supports for — you guessed it — the 1987 rice cooker.

Back in fourth grade, I got chastised because the embossing of fake gold leaf on my Mother's Day gift wasn't as good as the embossing on my Father's Day gift. This was apparently a serious enough offense to warrant a parent-teacher conference about my “showing favoritism.” I was nine.

My parents were born in 1931 and 1938. They grew up in bombings and world wars, in a world where keeping things until they disintegrated wasn’t being frugal — it was survival. New things aren't upgrades; they're unwelcome reminders that the old things might not last forever. Every refused gift is their way of saying, “we already have everything we need.”

Usually followed by “except grandchildren.”

Lesson 3: Success Is Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose (To Quote Mom's Favorite Kenny Rogers Song That She Definitely Misunderstood)

When I was 25, I made it to the final round of The Weakest Link — you know, that nationally syndicated game show where Anne Robinson professionally destroys your self-esteem on television? I lost one question in sudden death overtime. One question away from the big prize.

Mom's response? "應該看多一點書." You should read more books.

Not "congratulations on making it to the end." Not "wow, national television!" Just a suggestion to improve my study habits. At twenty-five. After nearly winning a game show. Peak Asian mom energy.

The truth isn't that my parents don't love me. They do — profoundly, overwhelmingly, and in ways that would probably break several laws of physics. It just comes packaged in criticism, wrapped in worry, and sealed with a lifetime supply of leftovers in ancient Tupperware that somehow still smells like fermented soybeans from 1995.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to finish returning this iPhone. Maybe I'll get her a flip phone next time. One with extra-large buttons. That should work, right?

Narrator: It would not, in fact, work.

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