Love or Hate? The Joys and Woes of Seeing Your Extended Family

On a cloudy Sunday in April, I packed my bags, boarded the plane, and set out on my journey to return to the motherland.

Before I land in China, I should tell you a little bit about me. I was born in China, and moved to Canada when I was 11. Like most Chinese girls in their twenties, I still live with my parents. And like most Chinese girls who moved to Vancouver at the end of elementary school, I spent my summers watching Asian soap opera, reading Kung Fu novels, and listening to Jay Chou’s music in the car. I had my fair share of fantasizing meeting this Hong Kong star or that Taiwanese actress, with an intensity no less than the affection I feel for any of the heart achingly beautiful people from Hollywood. Of course, in order to understand all of that Chinese pop culture, I still speak and read Mandarin fluently. All of these signs have led me to believe, that despite having lived abroad for 15 years, at the core, I’m still very Chinese.

With this fully loaded trunkful of Chinese heritage, you’d think returning to China would be a lovely affair.

But no…

No, no no no no…

On the contrary, my first few days in China were anything but pleasant. Especially upon seeing my extended family.

I wasn’t quite showered with love and adoration like a homecoming baby. Instead, I felt like fish out of water, unsure of my place or how I should behave.

It turns out, there’re a lot of unspoken expectations in everything: table manners, drinking manners, social manners involving how to treat your father, your grandma, your aunts and uncles, your aunt twice removed, relatives I do not know the names of or how they’re related to me, family friends and their families, etc., that I’m totally unaware of. But hey I’m back, aren’t you delighted by my sheer presence that no matter what I do, or do not do, you’ll love me just the same?

Hmm… not quite.

I thought I was Chinese, until I came back to China.

I will shamelessly admit here, that I don’t do any house work at home. I do clean my room from time to time, but I’m in no habit of making the bed when I wake up in the morning. When I’m not at home, I live in a hotel. As you can imagine, when I go back to China and stay at aunt’s apartment, how irritated she’d be to witness this.

It’s like the whole family hates me for being so…dysfunctional, on matters of a household nature. Finally, my aunt, my plump, pushy, Nazi-commander of an aunt, (who’s really just trying to friggin’ help you for god’s sake), couldn’t take it anymore, and says to me, “I wish you would start taking care of your dad. Put food in his bowl. Insist to wash the dishes. Don’t just let him wash them when he offered to! You’re so inefficient at arranging your things. And you don’t even know how to use the washing machine. You have no basic life skills and are completely dependent! How do you expect anybody to want marry you if you don’t even know how to make dumplings?!!”

On top of that, my aunt and grandma and cousin (who’s 28 and male by the way) critique me on my dress and attire, constantly, like, every time before I go out. “Why do you show your bare shoulders like that? Nobody dresses like that in China. And what are those two black rings around your eyes that make you look like a panda? Good little girls only wear mascara!” (I seriously thought I had a great sense of style. What used to be sexy and cute and unique is now repulsive, awkward and weird-looking?) When they’ve collectively expressed their opinions through horrified stares and verbal outbursts on my outfit, they’ll try to pick something out of my suitcase that’s more…China-appropriate, but only to discover it’s full of sweat pants and tank tops. Then, they’ll dig through aunt’s closet and dress me in her clothing, which are way too large for my size. I walk out one day in a silk chiffon dress and sparkling stilettoes (I was only going to the mall for god’s sake) thinking I’m finally all prim and proper and lady-like, my friend Angela takes one look at me and says, “Whose dress is that?!”

I swallow my pride and let them say what they want. It’s more important to maintain peace and harmony, and obey your elders, whether you agree or disagree. I will tolerate this. The Chinese character “tolerance” literally looks like a knife above the heart. Living with family is not nearly as painful as that. I can handle it. No problem. But after a few days, it starts to bother me. And that tolerance concept went completely out of the window. I mean, my mom doesn’t even interfere with what I wear or what I draw on my face, especially when I’m 26! And on top of that, I come all the way from Canada, to celebrate your birthday and visit the family, bringing gifts for everyone, and all you could do is pick on my flaws and FIX me? (Flaws or not, that’s another question) But really, can’t you just focus on the positive and enjoy my company for a while? I almost started to wish I hadn’t come back at all.

One day I’d had enough. I blew up at my Nazi-commander aunt, “I’m on vacation. Why do I need to be efficient? I get to be efficient 12 hours a day, 5 days a week at work. I take care of my parents in ways you may not see. And that washing machine, uncle doesn’t know how to use it either, does that make him dysfunctional in basic life skills too? We don’t make dumplings! We buy them frozen from the supermarket!”

My aunt fell silent, and started doing the dishes. I felt bad right away for talking back at her. Everyone started looking at me in silent hatred. I wanted to move out.

And I did, well, at least temporarily. Coincidentally, my good friend Angela had invited me to sleepover for the weekend, my perfect escape. I felt like a twelve year old running away from home for the first time. The rebel in me is somewhat of a late bloomer, considering at the doddering age of 26, I’m doing what most people have done at 16. Well, we all grow at different paces.