How I Became Friends With My Parents
Improving my relationship with my parents felt intimidating but, really, was surprisingly simple.
For most of my life, if I were asked who my best friends were, I probably wouldn’t have immediately named my parents first. It wasn’t because I didn’t love them, but simply because they were my parents. And I thought parents were not supposed to be your friends.
For many Asian Americans, our families make up a core part of our identities and stories. They can be the beating heart of our most popular and beloved tales, the muses for our most personal creations, and a friction that blisters yet binds us together.
That friction can be especially salient within immigrant families, where research has shown that challenges arising from cultural conflicts — to name one reason — can further inflict intergenerational wounds.
Differences in acculturation, or the process by which an individual navigates differing societal and familial cultures and values, are a significant way these conflicts arise. First-generation immigrant parents, for example, might acculturate at a slower rate than their children, and those differences can lead to cultural strife.
Varying immigration experiences and contexts with which people come to America can also impact acculturation. Matthew Miller, a professor at Loyola University, points out that Southeast Asian families may experience acculturation differently than, say, East Asian families due to refugee status and a relatively more recent immigration history.
But each Asian American family brings its own unique history, beliefs, and values. Our experiences are all pebbles beneath a rushing river. When you pick one up and turn it in your palm, each one of us is different.
In my own experience, I felt incongruities with my parents, ranging from blow-ups over school choices and careers to typical late nights at the kitchen table, tearing up over a math problem I couldn’t understand. Our fights felt world-altering at the time, but perhaps that was simply because I was young and saw my parents as just that — my parents.
Who Are My Parents?
My mom was a traveler of sorts, coming from Beijing to London to Singapore on a journey that ultimately landed her in California. She has a boisterous laugh that only comes out when something exceptionally hilarious or joy-inducing happens, and when it does, it’s a song you hope never ends.
My dad is often the subject of what makes her laugh or what makes her fuse blow. He can infuriate you with how much he doesn’t get, no matter how much you explain it, but can also amaze you in equal turn with how much he can do and figure out.
For most of my childhood, I saw them as authority figures and my teachers. They weren’t “tigers” or even very authoritarian parents by a long shot, but growing up, we’d still often clash over what they expected of me.
Arguments over little things could escalate quickly until they had nothing to do with whatever petty disagreement started them. We have them even now. The most recent incident I remember was the week I moved into my first apartment during my junior year of college.
They’re like bruises — I remember the pain more than what caused them.
Because of that, I often latched onto those arguments, pressing on those injuries rather than remembering the much more frequent good, bruise-free moments we had together. Because of that, growing up, I identified with stories of familial conflicts and the generational inheritance of hurt. They came at a time when I felt at odds with my parents.
The good thing, though, is that bruises fade. Despite our fights in the past, I believe I’m lucky because I had parents who raised me in a way that ultimately worked for me. I could not imagine myself living or growing up with anyone else.
How We Became Friends
The saying goes, “Distance makes the heart grow fonder.” When I moved out for college, especially after I got my own place off-campus, home became a snow globe — a place I could imagine but never quite reach. My parents were two mini figurines in the front yard before my house, right there in my palm, but also worlds away.
Living by myself, cooking by myself, doing laundry, brushing my teeth, buying groceries, and crying by myself, I began missing not just my old friends or hometown but also my parents. I yearned for their steadfast familiarity, the biggest source of steadiness and comfort in my life.
Like with all my friendships, the one I have with my parents grew slowly and blossomed rapidly. I can’t pinpoint a certain beginning point in the timeline, only that it happened in a number of ways.
One was through keeping in touch far more often. I call my mom every day — our “daily bothering time,” as we call it. I phone when I’m bored, when I know my parents have a lull in their work meetings (sometimes even during the meetings), or when I’m cooking dinner and need to learn another Chinese cooking technique.
And when I go home, I hang out with my parents like a little “gen pi chong” (which apparently translates to “bum beetle” but really means a person who tags along). I’ll tag along on shopping trips, adventures to try new restaurants, or around the kitchen while they cook. I’ll stick around especially hard if I know I have to leave home soon, yet again.
Another way we grew closer was through finding commonalities with one another. Cooking became a mode of connection, on top of taking an interest in things they consume — a recently released drama or an older music artist they like.
Thanks to this, I’ve begun to see them less like prototypical parents and more like people with their own quirks and personalities. Now that my sister and I are both away at school, my parents can do more things together — just the two of them. They go on dates to the local mall to try out a new poke place or pick out bottles of wine to meet up with old friends, some of whom they haven’t seen for 40 or some years.
Finally, I’ve learned more about their backgrounds and stories. They’re some of the first people I turn to when I need inspiration. I documented my family’s immigration story for a magazine writing class — a project that led me to not only find a newfound appreciation for how long and far they have come but also how interesting my entire family is.
They have known my whole history for my entire life — and now, I get to learn theirs gradually.
Where We Are Now
Now, we’ve settled into a rhythm that’s seldom disrupted. Our friendship looks like parallel play, where my mom inquires about the latest K-drama I’ve started binging with my friends, or I peep the latest movie my parents are watching over the dinner table. It can look as conventional as receiving cut fruit or as uniquely us as cooking our dinners together over FaceTime.
My experience is not universal, though. Some people cannot keep their families or parents close — nor may they even want to in the first place. That’s okay, too. Growing up is a matter of figuring out who and what is best for you; whatever that looks like might end up different for everyone.
It’s not all smooth sailing for us either, even now. Sometimes, we still have our spats with one another. The subject is often more serious now: When am I applying for that job? What am I going to do after graduation?
But there’s one thing that reminds me of the importance of tending to our wounds, one that compels me to pick back up on that cut-off call again, swallow my pride, and return that text.
It’s Olivia de Recat’s artwork, “Closeness Lines Over Time.”
De Recat traces the lineage of possibly every important relationship we’ll probably have in our lives, from childhood and college best friends to first loves, to precious pets, and, of course, to our parents.
Some lines drift apart at incongruent moments in time. They may diverge and never rejoin. They may come back together at some point in the future, signifying a repaired or revisited relationship. They might end at different times. They might end early.
The parent lines tell what feels like a pretty common story. I spent a good part of my life that I can remember drifting in that tall arc stretching above my parents’ steadfast lines. My parents’ lines never budged or waned, even when I could be a nasty or stubborn kid.
My line has come down now. We’ve rejoined, and we’re closer than we have been before. And we’re good.
I’m realizing now that our time together isn’t as unlimited as it felt in childhood. I’m realizing now that I have my best friends, but my parents are the first lifelong friends I’ve ever had.
Images Credit: Family photos, Courtesy of Katie Liu
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