The Real Problem Behind Bitcoins

The news is aflame with stories of hacks, stolen bitcoin, exchanges defaulting, and shamed Bitcoin leadership, but it hasn’t touched on the major impact of bitcoin investments beyond the liquidity of the digital currency itself. The true problem of the currency resides with its legitimate purposes and who it’s making rich.

To understand this, context is needed behind the origins and the purpose behind bitcoin. The cryptographic currency, developed in 2009, was designed to be stored and used anonymously. This currency was originally “mined” using shared processing power and could be stored offline or on virtual exchanges. This meant that, early on, those with the greatest amount of processing power, or the tech savvy, could “mine” for the currency with their unused processing power.

A bitcoins mining rig
(via Gizmodo)

The currency mined or “earned” could then be traded for goods or services just as any other currency is used. In 2013, a smattering of small businesses and vendors began to accept bitcoin; Virgin Galactic even took them as payment for a commercial spaceflight into space. However, prior to 2013 (which was when we saw this surge of interest in bitcoin), what were the legitimate purposes for this currency? The most well-known of markets for the use of bitcoin has been the Silk Road, an online market that is the Amazon of the “hidden” internet.

Where does that leave us today? Bitcoin, once valued around US$30 in 2011 (or pennies in 2009) has jumped to US$630. Investors will leap at an investment like that, and many have. Considering the limited legitimate purposes for the currency, investors should question who are the major holders of bitcoin. That’s an answer no one knows since the currency is anonymous. Yet, looking at bitcoin’s largest known market (the Silk Road) and the processing power needed to “mine” the currency, it stands to reason the ones who hold the most currency are the ones who got in early and who trade services and goods for bitcoin (as true with any currency).

The problem is that the largest marketplace for bitcoin is also a marketplace for drugs, guns, child pornography, and other dubious activities. Another problem is that those who could’ve mined the currency earliest (beyond individuals) were spammers and hackers who developed botnets to mine copious amounts.

So what has the greed of our market done? The unknowing public’s speculation into bitcoin has increased the holdings of these drug runners, gun smugglers, pornographers, human traffickers, and potential criminals by 20-fold, if not more.

Op-Ed Disclaimer: The opinions in this article do not necessarily reflect the views and positions of The Wang Post.

Who Needs a “Tiger Mom” When You’ve Got “Tiger Teachers”: Student Life in China

As the only child of an accountant working in a factory on the branch of the local railway bureau, I entered the Eleventh Railway Elementary School at the age of seven. Due to the fact that my school and my mother’s unit were subscribed under the same “system,” the fees was partially waived and the registration of my enrollment was relatively easy. (It’s no longer the case; a few years ago, the railway schools in my hometown were separated from the railway system by the enactment of a new policy.)

Neither exceptionally smart nor particularly docile as a kid, I was considered “annoying and unteachable” by my teachers in elementary school. On a daily basis, I was punished to stand up through the whole class for being “stupid”, “not paying attention”, or “talking to the neighbor.” Under my teachers’ intense glares and the mockery of my peers, I couldn’t focus on the lectures. My performance at school got worse; it increased the bad impressions my teachers had for me.

Who needs “tiger moms” when they’re waiting for you at schools?

Once, I forgot to bring my textbook to class; the angry teacher called my home immediately, reaching my grandmother and telling her (then a senior in her 60s) to come to my school right away. I remembered my grandmother hurrying into class within less than half an hour, tottering on her bad legs. She looked worried. I felt guilty, thinking of my parents’ warning to “not make trouble” for my aged grandmother, who helped to take care of me. In front of the class, my teacher told her that I was a “fool”, while I stood, looking down at my sneakers.

Another music teacher spent most of her time criticizing us – about our dirty hands, mindless attitudes, and so on. She seemed so frustrated at life that she needed to release her overwhelming anger… in the classroom. Each child was so terribly afraid of her. One girl even peed in her pants because she didn’t dare to ask for the restroom, crying in fear and shame when her wet clothing was discovered.

As I grew up, I learned to behave more attentively while interacting with my teachers so they wouldn’t find fault with me. There was only one exception when I was in third grade. The assigned homework was to review chapters in the textbook; I forgot to have my mother sign the book, which would prove that I’d completed the work; the absence would led to punishment. Realizing the situation, I tried to explain to the teacher.

Interrupting me, she shouted: “Don’t try to argue if you haven’t done the work!”

Unlike what I’d usually do, this time, I didn’t give up. The teacher grew impatient, and she picked a term from the book, ordering me to define it. I was nervous; of course, I failed to give the answer.

Roald Dahl’s Miss Trunchbull, unfortunately, existed outside of fiction

She was triumphant. “Ha! Is that how you reviewed at home? You were just looking over the terms before class, right? You think I don’t know? I’ve always kept a keen eye on you. You’re such a terrible liar.”

Hurt by this new charge, I reiterated my case. The teacher, vexed, frowned and made me leave the class and stand in the hallway until I admitted my dishonesty.

The vexed teacher frowned and ordered me to go out of the classroom and stand in the hallway before I choose to admit my dishonesty. The other students watched indignantly; they were used to, and probably tired, of the scenario – as well, the teacher was bound to win. For her, she wouldn’t make the situation easy for me: she had to make me confess, proving that she was always right, essential to sustain her authority.

Calling me back in ten minutes, she began her interrogation: “Admit it! You’re a liar!” Regardless of how much I protested, I surrendered in the end and burst into tears, believing that everyone in the class would look down on me. Now, I laugh at myself for being so naive: the teacher had dozens of these interactions with kids, and students barely recalled the episode before the week passed.

When I was young, I often looked forward to a cold or an illness so that I could avoid school. I think this may be a common feeling for children, but probably not so many would hope for these uncomfortable symptoms as desperately as me. Unfortunately, I was always a healthy child; under the keen eyes and care of my grandmother, I remained robust.

Years later, I learned from my mother’s colleagues that a few teachers who taught in my elementary school were workers in factories under the railway system. They definitely hadn’t attended colleges, and I’m not sure what level of education they had. In the factories, their employers could no longer bear their terrible performance at work, so they placed these workers on a special short-term training and sent them to schools to teach. Back then, these types of transfers weren’t difficult; the schools were short of staff, and most importantly, the schools and the factories were in the same “system” and under the same administration.

Of course, we have to question the validity of this information, but I don’t doubt the fact that many of my teachers were unqualified and downright unfit to teach children. Recently, some political reforms were launched in China, aiming to simplify the powerful and too-interconnected Chinese “systems,” though the results remain unclear.

The quality of elementary education has improved since my time, partly enhanced by the competitive recruitment of elementary school teachers (from a pool of applicants with university and even Master degrees), as well as the growing awareness of parents in selecting a good elementary education for their children. Some parents buy apartments or homes in the neighborhood of the good public elementary schools because, according to policy, their children will automatically be assigned to these schools; others choose to pay and send their children to private schools. The trade-offs, though, are much higher costs in education, which has put much pressure on today’s parents, as well as increased stress and allegations of corruption.

I don’t have the answers to education policy, but hopefully, the younger generation in China would have a healthier experience in their lower schools than I did.

For another personal narrative of growing up under China’s railways system, check out Lusha Chen’s “The ‘Railway Kids’: Growing Up Under China’s Ministry of Railways.”

Buddha, the “Way”, and Christ: The Clash of Religions or Muddling of Beliefs?

In China’s long history, religious views have been a traditional mix of Buddhism (the religion imported from India), Taoism (a school of religious and philosophical ideas started by the sage Lao Zi), and Confucianism (the ethical and sociopolitical teaching originating from the prestigious scholar Confucius).

As early as the Han Dynasty (206 BC–220 AD), the emperor Wu managed to combine the three ideas into one ruling doctrine: the Unification of Three Religions (三教合一). People were trained in this ruling doctrine both in academic teachings and through their daily life; inevitably, this belief system led to conflicts due to the three different sources it absorbed.

In the 2,000 years after the Han Dynasty, Chinese people, shaped by their hybrid beliefs and frequently encountering new dogmas like Communism and Maoism, prove to be quite capable of embracing and adapting to a highly inclusive and multicultural – yet more or less contradictory – ideology.

Buddhism had a significant amount of influence the lives of the Chinese: a famous Chinese poem “Spring of the South” (江南春绝句) by Du Mu (杜牧) has the lines, The four hundred and eighty temples of the South Dynasty, / How many terraces are in misty cold rains? (南朝四百八十寺，

多少楼台烟雨中). Confucianism, as well, has an indisputable impact in Chinese moral standards: modern codes governing the behaviors of a country, society, and person were developed from Confucian classics. Both Buddhism and Taoism are compatible with Confucianism, a benign worldview with a focus on harmony and uniformity.

From the late 19th- to the early 20th-century, Protestant missionaries entered China through rampant Western colonial activities in the country’s northern coast. They built churches and set up relief charities and schools for children to disperse the gospel of Christianity. Many Chinese village women were converted and trained by missionaries so they could help to preach the new religion in their own dialects. These Chinese women, called “Bible women” by country people, walked on their tiny bound feet into villages and spread the ideas to other peasants. Thus, in such backward conditions, Protestantism grew vigorously among Chinese villages, especially on the southeast coast of China. The multi-rooted Chinese beliefs system became even more complex.

Protestantism seems a little “foreign”, but it’s not unpopular because it represents, to many, the “advanced” Western civilization. Blame it on cultural imperialism: in my childhood, I perceived Christian spiritual leaders only as fair-skinned, golden-haired, and elegant images that I gleaned from watching and reading Western media. In comparison, with Buddhism, one often sees the scenarios of elderly women, some of them illiterate, kneeling before a golden Buddha statue and murmuring prayers with incense.

So how do other Chinese actually deal with these varied and often contradictory ideas?

From my observation, their behavior tends to be ambivalent. For example, unlike those who are born into Muslim families, whose family lineage and traditions tend to determine their religious beliefs for life, many Han people have had too many choices. (Or, sometimes, during the years of the Cultural Revolution, deadly choices.) While the ruling Communist Party is atheist, it allows the presence of Buddhism, Taoism, Islam, Protestantism, and Catholicism in the country.

My aunt was a Buddhist from her youth to her forties, probably because her mother has been a pious Buddhist for over fifty years; yet, both of them believe in fengshui (风水), the philosophical Taoist concept. While my grandmother conducts Buddhist rituals, she also believes in ghosts and deities. A few years ago, a friend of my aunt persuaded her to convert to Christianity. They went to a local church together, and my aunt started to read the Bible; she still holds a belief in Taoist fengshui and still keeps a jade ornament of the Buddha. In her case and others, it seems perfectly natural for modern Chinese to have all of these religions present in their lives.

In my opinion, Chinese individuals are culturally acceptable to foreign religions, though it might take a long time to convince them in a new belief. Over time, Protestant idea was localized and absorbed by domestic cultures into China. Whether it – or something else – becomes a more compatible part of the Chinese beliefs system, remains to be seen.

Why Do We Blame Asian International Students?

Earlier in January, my university’s newspaper ran an opinion piece titled “Internationalization effort should be scaled back”. It was a simple article, one that most people from the school probably found themselves agreeing with. Yes, my university’s administration is often criticized for its active recruitment of international students; yes, it’s true that 14% of our student body are international students, and around half are from China; yes, most of the students are from Asian countries, and yes, there’s only a handful from Europe or Africa.

These are the facts; it’s the interpretation that I find problematic. Globalization is a good thing: we can learn from different cultures and backgrounds. The concern isn’t that my university should stop trying to recruit students from all over the world – it’s that they’re finding them from all the “wrong” places.

Problem #1: Why are there so many Asian students coming to the U.S.?

The U.S. has some of the world’s best universities for undergraduates, graduates, and professionals. In the past, people came to America in search of gold, or trade, or land; now, they come in search of education.

The selective mindset of wanting to pick and choose which countries can send their students to the U.S. recalls the reaction to the 20th-century immigrant waves chasing the “American Dream”: Americans didn’t want the Eastern Europeans or the Irish, but “proper” Western Europeans.

Let’s stay away from this

The same principle applies here: while much of Europe has settled into developed societies and economies, countries like China and India are still developing and changing. It’s natural that Asian students would want to come to the U.S., learn about subjects like economics and biology, conduct research, and network with employers and companies. It’s natural for them to want to better themselves and their countries through education, similar to how upper class elites in Western societies sent their sons away to Oxford and Cambridge or the Grand Tour and their daughters to “finishing school”.

We live in a globalized society; why not make use of it?

Problem #2: Why aren’t there enough international students from the “right” countries?

I’m going to assume the “right” countries mean Western Europe, Australia, Russia – basically, the countries where American students themselves study abroad.

When countries have more higher education and employment options, students tend to stay home. This is the case for countries like South Korea, Japan, and Turkey, all of which send fewer students over. This question relates to #1: a country’s opportunities for its youth – based on history and economy, as well as other factors – creates or limits the channels for its students to study abroad.

Unlike American students, most international students like those from China stay in the United States for at least four years, either completing a degree or conducting research. In all exchange programs, studying abroad involves leaving behind a familiar culture and adjusting or assimilating quickly; for international students in the U.S., this difficulty is compounded because they also invest a large chunk of their life, not just a semester or a summer.

Problem #3: No, really, why are there so many Asian students at my university?

Sharks vs. Jets

Perhaps what underlies this question is discomfort. The U.S. has been through many dramatic social changes lately – the legalization of gay marriage in some states, marijuana in others, immigration, etc. One of the arguments many people use to argue against gay marriage is that it’s against the norms of expectation: how are they suppose to explain to their children why two men are getting married? It’s just so… different. Icky.

The same kind of mindset surrounds the debate around international students. Americans who grew up with Western traditions – either they themselves are “mutts” of European extraction, or simply for the fact that they live in the U.S. and participate in the culture – go to college and are met by the unfamiliar presence of Asians on campus. They may feel uncomfortable talking to them, having to struggle to understand their words around their accents or encountering different values and perceptions.

When it’s time to socialize, everything breaks down into groups: domestic students eat with each other at meals, and international students have their own tables, speaking in their own languages and not having their expectations challenged. When I’m at lunch, it’s astonishing to me how people naturally divide themselves: it seems as though the groups don’t want to interact at all, and therefore, don’t.

Problem #4: Is there actually a problem?


No. While we’re at university, it’s best to look at what we can learn from the international students instead of trying to pick at nearly nonexistent problems. One of my friends from China regularly shares her tea with me; others make plans to go out for dinner every month. Regardless of how they got here, they are here and are part of our community. As fellow students, we should accept them for what they contribute, not shun them for what we imagine they take away.

China’s “Tragedy of the Commons”

“Tragedy of the commons”, primarily an economic term that describes the phenomena of overused common resources, has become the drama in the everyday life of Chinese people. Public facilities like parks, libraries, and transportation, poorly maintained and regulated, are excessively exploited. Here are some typical scenes in China:

“Rush hour” at bus stations and subways

For many Chinese people living in big cities, fighting for seats – or even a space for one’s body – is a routine part of their life

A traffic jam to rival the notorious Los Angeles lanes

A dance in the square (广场舞)

The activity you see in the picture is called 广场舞, or “dance in the square”, which literally means a bunch of people dancing in a public square. “Though not artistically designed, this activity is quite popular among middle-aged women in China: indeed, such exercise is good for their health, though it’s definitely not the only option for exercising. However, these dancers take up a large public area, and the music they play is always loud and noisy.

In my hometown, I could barely walk in a nearby park without stepping on someone’s feet after the nightfall, because there were sometimes over four hundred people moving around in a space no more than 1,000 square meters (10,784 sq ft, or about the size of a baseball diamond). Due to the music and other noise, I needed to shout to my friend in order for her to hear me.

In my city’s public library, there was a study room. In China, from June to August is the period when many college students and graduates study for the civil service examination (a test used to select government officials) and the postgraduate entrance exam (think of it like the Chinese GRE). Yet, most of their dorm rooms or apartments are unbearably hot at this time of the year. As a result, the air-conditioned study room becomes highly desirable.

Last year, I witnessed the Rumble in the Library: by 8:00 o’clock in the morning, a large group had already thronged outside the gates of the library. A few guards stood inside the gates, keeping a keen eye on these people. Once the gates opened at 8:30 a.m., the group, some men in suits and some women in high heels, wrestling about and pushing aside their neighbors, stormed upstairs to the study room. I was dumbstruck by their valor and energy.

At the door of the room, there was a second line of security. A guard dragged a desk to block the door and let in only a limited number of people. Arms akimbo, he yelled to those of us who swarmed outside the door: “You, don’t push! If I ever see anyone sneaking in, I will kick that person out of the room!”

Inevitably, a large portion of those who successfully got in were young men, because they were physically advantageous. Once they’d secured a seat, these men sat down with a relieved sigh, fanning themselves with their papers and books. Not hurrying to their original purpose, they took their time, and with amusement, instead studied the crowd outside, as if they themselves hadn’t been one of the anxious, pushy mass a minute ago.

Other reading rooms in the library wouldn’t let people in to study. Each room had a staff standing at the door, checking the readers’ personal belongings: they weren’t allowed to bring in any of their own books, and they could only read newspapers or books offered in the room. In the end, I had to sit on the stairs and read my own book. It was even cooler on the stairs, though, compared to the air-conditioned rooms pack with bodies.

Excepting the problem of “moral rust” that exacerbates in the competition of common resources, I can see from my personal experience that this chaos also invited bullying by the library staff. Despite the intentions of the controversial “one child” policy, China’s population remains a large number. The amount of public facilities, on the contrary, is far from enough. Both factors compound the competition of common resources in China: the ideas of rule and morality evaporate in the face of scarce public resources and overwhelming needs.

Chinese Scholars and the Dream of a Second Child

In 2011, I met Dr. Yuan in Boston. He was a visiting scholar from Shanghai, China and worked at the Boston General Hospital’s clinic. His wife was in her sixth month of pregnancy; at that time, they already had a 9-year-old son.

Doctor Yuan said he was pretty lucky: during their second month in the U.S., his wife became pregnant. Their baby would be an American, born during their length of stay in the States; they wouldn’t have expected this– a second child– if they were in China.

In comparison, Zhiqi Cai, who was teaching in South China University of Technology, was fired recently for allegedly breaching the one-child policy. Cai and his wife’s first child, now a 6-year-old girl, was born when he was a Post-Doctorate candidate at Ohio State University, in 2007. As the child was an American citizen, Cai assumed it would be legitimate to have a second child in China– their first in the country– since his family hadn’t “met” China’s one-child quota.

Cai’s second child was born in Tianjin, in northern China. Later, a whistle-blower exposed the family, and Cai received a notice from his place of employment (the South China University of Technology) that he was in violation of the one-child policy and would be fired according to Guangdong’s family planning regulations. Mainland Chinese scholars aren’t supposed to have a child during their one-year study period in the United States; or, to Cai’s situation, despite whatever other citizenship his first child held, he wasn’t “allowed” another Chinese-citizenship child.

Cai is starting a lawsuit against the University’s Office of Family Planning. To illustrate the difficulty faced by Chinese academics, Tingbing Cao, the head of the Department of Chemistry at Renmin University, who’d conducted research at Harvard University from 2002 to 2005, jumped to his death from the ninth floor of a campus building in March after being threatened with dismissal for having a second child. His colleague, Jianxin Li, a Beijing University professor, attributed his death to extreme pressures brought on by his colleagues’ accusations on Weibo of having another child.

Under such circumstances, if Dr. Yuan wanted to back to China, he’d be fired for violating the three-decades long family planning policy, even though the easing of the policy is just around the corner.

Dr. Yuan is lucky: he’d already found a job in Boston, and he said he would quit teaching in China.

For many scholars with short study periods in the U.S. or abroad, it’s tempting (and risky) to flout the one-child policy. After overseas studies, these academics tend to enjoy higher reputation and better employment prospects. Adding to that a freer social environment, a more convenient passport, better social welfare systems, and modern education– many of them choose to take the risk. Sometimes, this means possibly losing almost everything back in China and starting from scratch.

Dr. Yuan told me, “I’m not doing anything good for myself here; I’m doing something good for my kids.” His nine-year-old son was standing by his mom. He showed her his first award: ranking number one in the class, in English.

Plastic Surgery in South Korea: The Same Face Epidemic

Sitting on the floor of my uncle’s house in Seoul, I watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as a young woman came out on the television screen. She had undergone extensive plastic surgery on the South Korean show, 렛미인 (Let 美人), a reality program where regular people (usually women) receive free plastic surgery by agreeing to have their lives featured on TV.

I was watching the climax of the show, the big reveal where the participant came out and shocked viewers with her dramatic makeover. This girl had almost every plastic surgery procedure possible done on herself: a nose job, double-eyelid surgery, a forehead implant, jaw reduction surgery, etc. When her family members came out to see her, they couldn’t recognize her at all.

“Her mother and brother can’t even tell who she is anymore. Why would she change herself so much?” I exclaimed, in Korean.

“Isn’t it worth it, being beautiful?” replied my uncle.

At this, I had no response because as a woman, of course I could sympathize with the girl I saw on the screen, crying tears of joy over her new appearance. I myself put on makeup and try to dress nicely every day because I also want to be seen as beautiful and care about others’ perceptions of me. But looking at this young woman’s before and after pictures, I couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable and even a little sad because while her former appearance was not like that of a model or a celebrity, she was not ugly or deformed like how others seemed to make her out to be.

I found myself unable to smile and clap for her like the audience members in the show were doing. She had undergone intense cosmetic surgery and major facial reconstruction, despite the fact that she had no real physical abnormalities and despite potential risks like facial paralysis, infection, lifelong pain, or worse, death.

And for what? All to be considered beautiful.

In South Korea, a lot of women and men don’t hesitate to go to extreme lengths to change their looks (like this girl on the show) because in a society where your appearance determines how others treat you, whether or not you get that high-paying job, or who you end up marrying, beauty becomes a sort of social power. Due to the strength of this social power in the country, South Korea has the highest rate of plastic surgery per capita in the world.

But Koreans aren’t using plastic surgery to pursue unique, individualistic appearances; rather, they attain the same ideal look: a small face with big eyes, a slim jawline, and a thin, high-set nose, all features that are more common amongst “white” Americans and Europeans but less common amongst Koreans.

If everyone pursues the same standards of beauty, their appearances inevitably become the same as well. Who could forget the uproar that Miss Korea (a South Korean beauty pageant) contestants created this year as their strikingly similar profile pictures went viral on the internet? There’s even a .GIF, highlighting how each woman’s face looks like the one before her.

With the popularity of plastic surgery, Seoul has become a city of cookie-cutter faces, since everyone goes under the knife to achieve exactly the same look. Gangnam (yes, of “Gangnam Style” fame), one of Seoul’s most affluent neighborhoods, is crammed with plastic surgery clinics, so much so that Koreans jokingly say that in Gangnam, everyone’s faces are identical.

If this “same face” epidemic continues, the statement “Asians all look alike” may very well transition from an ill-founded stereotype to a valid observation.

Letter from the Editors: Happy Holidays from Jane and Audrey

Good morning, dear readers!

We’re using December 25th as the placeholder to celebrate this wonderful time of the year in much of the world: family, friends, food, part deux if you were in the U.S. and were here for Thanksgiving. In fact, please refer here and replace the appropriate sentiments with mostly parallel sentiments, because to reiterate is too cheesy, and, as we know, most Asians tend to be lactose-intolerant.

If you’re not around for Thanksgiving, we want to wish you a very Merry Christmas, or happy holidays, or very simply a happy Wednesday.

This is one of Audrey’s favorite clip — don’t examine too much into this — film. Back to a time when moxie could potentially avert disasters and LiLo pre-desperation (i.e., The Canyon).

The Asian Parent’s Approach to Dating

One of my first romantic encounters with the opposite sex was when, in the seventh grade, a boy (I’ll call him Carlos) asked me if I would go out with him. I liked Carlos and Carlos liked me back, so I told him yes.

Yet, even at the tender age of twelve, I was apprehensive as to how my parents would react to my newfound romantic interest. My parents had never explicitly told me I couldn’t date before, but their reaction to me even hanging out with boys had been frigid with a lot of the stern glances that Asian parents know how to wield so well. Also, Carlos was Latino, not Korean, so I knew my parents would disapprove on the basis of race.

Although I tried to hide my little middle-school relationship from my parents, my shrewd mother found out and forced me to break things off with Carlos; all because she and my dad felt that I was too young to date and needed to focus on school rather than boys. Ever since then, throughout middle school and high school, my parents made it very clear to me that they didn’t want me dating. To them, boys were an unnecessary distraction to my studies and just the sort of thing that could turn their good Asian daughter into a troublemaker.

So you can imagine my surprise when one day, in the summer before I started college, my mother suddenly asked me if I had a boyfriend. She was folding laundry while I was watching TV, and she casually slipped this question into the conversation.

“Are you dating anyone?” asked my mother, in Korean. I could only stare at her for a few seconds and then reply with a quick “No”.

“Why not? You know, you need to get married soon,” she said, “before it’s too late!”

“Mom, what are you saying? I’m not even in college yet,” I replied, in utter disbelief. When I asked her why she wasn’t more concerned about my brother’s romantic life (since he’s older than me), she informed me that guys stay “good” for far longer than girls, who age quickly and are only beautiful for a short while. According to my mother, if I didn’t get a boyfriend and get married to him soon, it would be hard for me to find a husband later on in life (when I’m presumably too old and ugly).

No one wants to end up with an old maid

Upon hearing these oh-so-charming gender expectations, I could only roll my eyes and throw my hands up in exasperation. Still, I couldn’t help but feel shocked at my mother’s attitude change towards me dating because it almost seemed like it happened overnight. How does one go from banning all boys to practically demanding a wedding date?

Judging from what my other Asian friends have told me, I’m not the only one who has gotten caught in the epiphany that our parents have about our romantic lives. Asian girls and guys alike, forced at a young age by our parents to hit the books and stay at home rather than going out on dates, suddenly find ourselves bombarded by questions like: “Why don’t you have a boyfriend yet?”, “Why don’t you try and meet a nice Korean (or Chinese, Japanese, etc.) girl?”, and “When are you going to get married?”

Unlike most conventional American households where parents cover “the birds and the bees” and are fairly open to their children dating at a young age, those of us from Asian families are often discouraged from even thinking about dating for most of our youth. My parents, like many other Asian parents, never went over “the birds and the bees” with me or my siblings, so everything I knew about romance and dating, I had to glean from teenage novels, word of mouth, and chick flicks. I’m pretty sure there is no Asian equivalent to “the birds and the bees” because Asian parents just don’t talk about it. Period. If there is, I think it would go something like this:

You meet boy (or girl).

You meet parents.

You get married.

The end.

And yet one day, the demand for a spouse is thrust upon us when we reach the age that our parents deem to be “good”. Frustrating, right? How are we supposed to enjoy committed relationships at the drop of a hat when we’ve been romantically stunted for all these years? As I get ready to go back home to my parents for the holidays, I find myself mentally preparing for their endless barrage of inquiries about my romantic life and my nonexistent boyfriend. But then again, as any Asian person can tell you, not even the ring on your finger will stop Asian parents from digging into your personal lives.