As the oldest child of two immigrant parents, I am no stranger to the concept of strict parents.  “I give you an inch, you take a whole mile,” was a quote I’ve heard them say countless times whenever I’d get in trouble. I’ve heard it for everything, from using too much nail polish to paint my toes, to being caught watching Vine compilations on my tablet. But I never thought anything of it because I always believed everyone's parents were like mine. Ones who seemed to think my desire to have fun was a gateway to becoming a criminal. 

I’ll never forget the moment I realized that my parents were overly strict. It was seventh grade, and my friends had just asked me if I wanted to go to their party the next day. Instead of being delighted by their invitation, I was angry. What are these people thinking? I thought. Why would they ask me just a day in advance? I knew I couldn’t possibly ask to go somewhere the night before an event, my parents would flip out. And I couldn’t possibly fathom how anyone else’s parents would allow them to do such a thing. A little annoyed, I asked why they did ask me sooner only to be baffled when they responded, “I dunno, I just decided to throw one this morning.” This response and my friends’ confusion at my negative reaction told me everything I needed to know; my parents were different from theirs. And being an insecure middle schooler, I couldn’t let them know that my parents wouldn’t let me go. I was convinced they’d think I was lame and kick me out of the group. So I made up excuses until they broke me down and made me call my mom so they could ask her on my behalf. When she picked up, she talked to them in a light and pleasant tone, her “customer service voice”, and told them she’d talk to me about it when I arrived home that day. All of my friends were filled with optimism, but my heart was in my stomach. I knew, “We’ll talk about it later” actually meant I was going to be punished.

“Although some parents think that strict parenting produces better-behaved kids, studies show that such a parenting style actually produces kids that have more behavioral problems.” (Li)

Growing up I always had a deep love of school. It provided me with so much joy. Learning was fun for me and I got to hang out with my friends and be creative. Yet when I turned 12 or 13 years old, and school became harder and less enjoyable, I still loved it, all be it, for a different reason: it was an excuse to be away from the prison I called home. 

I hated weekends. 

For most kids my age, the weekend was a time of rest, relaxation, and fun. But my weekends were filled with screaming, insults, and a seemingly endless list of chores which all fell on me. 

Every Saturday and Sunday morning, I would wake up and check on my mother who would usually be battling a nasty hangover from the night before. I’d peer into the room which was stained a dark brown by the tan black-out curtains against the window. 

In a shrill voice, my mother would say, “Can you make me some scrambled eggs with cheese and saltines please?” So I’d bring her a barf bag, head downstairs, and begrudgingly make her a plate of scrambled eggs.

 I hated everything about scrambled eggs. From the smell to the texture. And the taste? Yuck! It was a torturous dish for me to make. But still, I got up every Saturday morning and made them. When I was done, I’d bring the steaming plate to her, set it down on the bed and slip out of the room. Coming back a few hours later to make sure she was okay.

Growing up, I believed this is how everyone spent their weekends like this unless they had something special planned like a party. Hence I was so confused as to how people had so much time to hang out with each other. Didn’t they also have weekend responsibilities like me? 

As I made more friends and met their families I realized that this was not normal. And the reason why my mom was so strict about where I went, especially on weekends, was because she needed me to be her parent on those days. Once I had this revelation I felt taken advantage of, and angry. But with no one to vent to, I kept it to myself, and the hatred toward my strict upbringing boiled inside me.

“Uber-strict parents who rule with a controlling, iron fist -- while not giving their children a chance to speak their mind -- are more likely to raise children who are disrespectful and engage in delinquent behaviors such as stealing, hurting others, and/or substance abuse.” (Mann)

Stealing is wrong and nobody likes people who steal and yet, so many people do it and justify it to themselves. When I was in 7th grade, I stole for a very specific reason. When I’d disobey my parents, (ie. get a C on a test, talkback after I’d gotten my phone confiscated, etc.) my parents would punish me by refusing to buy me things. It was never anything that was vital to my survival but t would also be something I’d prefer to have. For my parents, gifts were how they showed affection. So when I stopped receiving them, it felt like they didn’t love me anymore. I didn’t know this at the time, the way I viewed myself was entirely based on the way I believed others perceived me. If my own parents didn’t love me, how could I love myself? During this time in my life, I felt really empty and unwanted. 

So, my brain determined that in order to correct the self-hatred I was experiencing, I had to give myself gifts. Since I was too young to work and make money, stealing was the only logical solution.

My thefts only included small commodities like headphones, school hallway passes, or hair conditioners. I knew it was wrong to steal and I was stealing out of pure desire and was especially heinous, but the thrill of doing the wrong thing was exhilarating. And the adrenaline that rushed all over my body every time I would slip an object into my jacket was something I chased after. And deep down, I believed that if I could fill my life with tangible objects, then I could fill the emptiness I felt within myself. And once that hole was filled, I could finally feel loved and be happy again.

One day, I went to visit my aunt in Bedford, New York. If you’ve ever been to that side of the state, images of giant mansions surrounded by acres of land and unlit single-lane roads may cross your mind. And you’d be correct: my aunt was loaded. Her house was gorgeous and her room was full to the brim with unworn shoes, clothes, unused makeup, and unopened bottles of fancy lotions, conditioners, and shampoos, all neatly packed. This was a teenage kleptomaniac's dream room to rob. My aunt had so much, she wouldn’t mind if I took some. How would she even know? I carefully crept into her room, my eyes darting back and forth trying to decide what I should take. Then on the left-hand side, I saw it. The most perfect-looking bottle of leave-in conditioner glistened in the light from the window. I was fresh out of conditioner and this was much cheaper than going out to buy some. 

But then, I heard the pitter-patter of approaching footsteps climbing the stairs. Without thinking, I grabbed the conditioner and chucked it under the bed and left the room, and then later returned to stash it in my car. When I arrived home that night,  I quickly washed my hair and eagerly used the conditioner. I expected to feel the utmost satisfaction…but nothing happened. The lack of love I felt persisted. The adrenaline from taking it was gone, and I felt bad, how could I steal from my own aunt? I felt just as empty as I did before. 

“A youngster may steal to make things equal if a brother or sister seems to be favored with affection or gifts.” (American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry)

In middle school, my parents were adamant that I wasn’t allowed to date. Looking back, I barely even consider middle school couples to be “dating,” as it's more like a mutual agreement to release sexual tension and explore their sexuality with one another. Nonetheless, my parents told me it was forbidden.

 But as I walked down the hallways, it seemed like everywhere I turned there were kids holding hands and being all lovey-dovey. And every other snap story was a post about how happy they were with their significant others. I hate to admit it but I wanted that more than anything. So I ignored my parents' warning, thinking that this was yet another one of their weird and pointless rules designed to restrict me.

My first kiss was one of the most horrifying things I’ve ever experienced. I had been dating this boy for three weeks. The whole time, I allowed him to pull me onto his lap in class and let him touch my body in ways that were entirely inappropriate. When I was with him, my stomach turned constantly. And every waking moment was tainted with this feeling of anxiousness. Of course, back then, I believed that crushes were supposed to make you nervous and excused the nauseous feeling in my gut. Now I can see that that was my body trying to tell me that this was wrong, and I didn’t want to be treated and used like this. 

On the day of the kiss, we were on a field trip to the Boston Science Museum. He pulled me away from my friend group and sat me down in this darkened exhibit in the corner of the second floor. 

“What are we doing?” I whispered apprehensively.

Without even answering my question, he sent one of his friends to guard the entrance, pulled me close to him, and planted the kiss on my lips. Immediately the gritty, slimy feeling of someone else's saliva-covered tongue entered my mouth. I panicked. 

Why is it gritty?!

It was one of the most unpleasant textures I've ever had the dismay of experiencing. On top of the kiss being disgustingly wet and almost granular in texture, it was done without my consent. Despite all of that, I continued to date this boy for another month because this is what I thought an intimate relationship was. Similar to the way I was with my parents, I believed I was required to allow my partner to do whatever they wanted, even if I wasn’t comfortable with it.

“A study of college students found that those whose parents were more authoritarian had low self-esteem. They had more behavioral problems and showed less initiative and persistence than students whose parents weren't so strict.” (Brennan)

As the years went on my parents became much more relaxed. Now, I’m not saying they let me throw parties and let me stay out past midnight or anything. But in their own strange way, they allowed their grasp of my life to loosen just a little bit. And for that, I was grateful. 

One of the first positive changes I noticed happened when I started 9th grade when they stopped going through my phone. To most people, the thought of their parents going through their messages, social media, and photos is a literal nightmare, and let me tell you, it absolutely was. Without warning, my mom would burst into my room and demand I give up my phone so she could look through it. If I refused, she’d hurl insults at me, a physical altercation would surely ensue and I would be labeled as the “ungrateful daughter who chooses her phone over her own mother.” 

I’m sure that in my parents’ head, they believed that the random, unprompted phone checks would encourage me to stay off of social media, and only engage in safe and appropriate conversations with my friends. 

They were sorely mistaken.

Their behavior only encouraged me to start hiding and deleting every potentially inappropriate message I’d sent or received. Snapchat was my best friend since every message was deleted automatically after being viewed. I became a master at hiding my double life from my parents. 

After eighth grade, however, when the need for me to hide my social media use vanished, I still found my cheeks getting hot with embarrassment and experiencing that tinge of shame whenever I’d text or receive an inappropriate message and quickly delete it. Although it’s been years since the last time they’ve ever done a phone check, I still can’t help but feel like my privacy can and will be invaded at any moment.

“Helicopter parenting is an approach to raising children that involves high levels of control and monitoring.This approach can have negative effects on children and even hinder their ability to develop independence and autonomy.” (Guarnotta) 

When I sit and think about all the trials I went through during middle school with my family, I can’t help but start comparing it with my younger brother. Ever since I was young, I noticed that he was treated way more favorably than I was. As a young child, his messes were “cute” and “by accident,” which I'm sure they were, but when I spilled or broke something at his age, my parents were convinced it was done on purpose. They always excused their favoritism by saying that since he was younger, he deserved an understanding that I wasn’t entitled to at my more mature age. But as he grew older, I saw that that wasn’t necessarily true. We lived in the same house and physically have the same parents, but the parents that raised him were very different from the ones who raised me.

As the oldest sibling, I was accoustomed to hearing the annoying whines and cries of a younger sibling who thinks they’re being treated unfairly. 

“WhY dOeS ShE GeT a PHoNe???”

“WhY dO I HaVe tO LisTeN To HeR???”

“HOw cOmE I cAn’T…” 

Blah Blah Blah and the list goes on.

I was in my early teens when I received all of these special privileges, responsibilities, (Like my cell phone and being allowed to stay home alone.) and the hardships that came with it, and so my parents told my younger brother that once he reached his early teens, he too would take on the same privileges and responsibilities and hardships.

Now my brother is at the age where I received my first phone. 

When the phone was given to him, there was no long drawn-out list of apps he was banned from downloading. 

There was for me.

In the year that he’s had his phone, it has never been taken away.

Mine was confiscated at least once a month.

His parents have never threatened to do one of their dreadful random phone checks on him.

Yet my parents had no respect for my privacy and would go through my phone unprompted.

This is just one of the many discontinuities I’ve seen with our parents’ style of raising us. And it seems that as my brother gets older, he’s granted more privileges, while as I’ve aged, I was given more responsibility. 

I can’t help but feel conflicted as I reflect on this notion. On one hand, I’m proud of my parents for becoming more mature and not repeating the same mistakes with my brother. But on the other hand, I must admit, watching my younger sibling experience the love, support, and trust that I so desperately wanted at his age makes me feel incredibly jealous. And I can't help but wonder what I did to earn such a different childhood. 

“I felt alone, scared, and resentful that they had so little faith in me. I spent many nights crying, wondering what was wrong with me that I couldn’t make everyone happy.” (Tsui)

As I look back and reflect on all of the negative experiences I suffered at the hands of my parents, I am faced with a decision: How do I continue the rest of my life?

Part of me harbors so much resentment and rage towards my parents. There are nights where I lay awake and stew over how unfair their treatment of me was. Yet another part of me remembers the lessons my grandmother taught to me as a small child. This lesson was to treat others the way I want to be treated. This is why, despite all of the heartaches I’ve been through with family, I still love them dearly. When I sit and think about these times, I try to approach it with understanding. I know that they love me and always had, they just weren’t the best at displaying it. And even if some of these experiences were less than desirable, they undeniably  taught me important lessons like responsibility. integrity and patience. It is that understanding allows me to work towards forgiveness.

As I prepare to embark on my journey to college and adulthood, I’ll keep the lessons I’ve learned from my parents in my back pocket as I continue on my path to forgiving them and moving on to become a better person. 

“[Forgiveness] It’s an act of kindness to yourself…An act of forgiveness is one of the most powerful tools of self-healing…it can give you a sense of peace and calm, and that the world is a safe place again.” (Toxic Ties)

Works Cited

American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry. “FFF Stealing in Children and Adolescents.” American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, December 2014, aacap.org/AACAP/Families_and_Youth/Facts_for_Families/FFF-Guide/Children-Who-Steal-012.aspx. Accessed 27 May 2022.

Brennan, Dan. “What Happens When You Are Too Strict With Your Child?” MedicineNet, 8 September 2021, medicinenet.com/what_happens_when_too_strict_with_your_child/article.htm. Accessed 29 April 2022.

Guarnotta, Emily. “Helicopter Parenting: What Are The Effects on Your Child's Development?” Choosing Therapy, 18 June 2021, choosingtherapy.com/helicopter-parenting/. Accessed 27 May 2022.

Li, Pamela. “Strict Parents - What's Wrong With Them.” Parenting For Brain, 7 March 2022, parentingforbrain.com/strict-parents/. Accessed 20 April 2022.

Mann, Denise. “Overly Strict, Controlling Parents Risk Raising Delinquent Kids.” WebMD, 23 February 2012, webmd.com/parenting/news/20120223/overly-strict-controlling-parents-risk-raising-delinquent-kids. Accessed 20 April 2022.

Toxic Ties. “How to Forgive Your Parents for Abuse (When They're Not Sorry).” Toxic Ties, 9 April 2020, toxicties.com/forgive-parents-for-abuse/. Accessed 27 May 2022.

Tsui, Diana. “I Survived a Tiger Mom.” The Cut, 12 October 2016, thecut.com/2016/10/i-survived-a-tiger-mom.html. Accessed 13 May 2022.