Asian Fathers, Authority, and Attachment
A Personal and Professional Reflection
By Edward En-Heng Ng, a Registered Psychologist in private practice and the founder and director of Eastgate Psychological Services.
“Because you know, Asian dads.”
As a psychologist in private practice, it’s a phrase I hear over and over again. I know my clients don’t mean me, their therapist—even though I am an Asian dad and I embody a lot of what “Asian dad” could possibly mean. Rather, they are likely referring to the immigration stories of my father’s generation.
What my clients usually mean by “Asian dad” are those who came to North America when it was still a white majority and anyone not of European descent was either (politely) “Black” or “Oriental.” Whenever a client brings up “Asian fathers,” we tend to have a similar image in mind: diligent but emotionally distant, stern but occasionally given to bursts of silliness, prone to anger, and many times a bearer of deep narcissistic wounds. Without meeting many of the fathers that I’ve discussed with clients, I can safely say that this image is more accurate than I’d like to admit.
My father was born during World War II, but he doesn’t remember much of those years. His earliest memories are colored by post-war privations, a modicum of lawlessness and corruption, and the millions of refugees who clamored into Hong Kong to escape China’s civil war. Hong Kong, like much of Asia at that time, was nowhere near the wealthy city-state it came to be. As the milieu in which my father was raised is quite different from my own Canadian context, it’s inevitable that we exemplify two different species of “Asian dad.” But what, then, of me? What makes me different from my dad?
A particularly pernicious fear many people have is that they might unwittingly repeat the sins of their fathers against their own progeny. Although it’s legitimate to be cautious of how our dads’ temper, addictions, or selfishness would carry onto the next generation, it’s not always true that we will express it, or our children will experience it, exactly the same as we did when we were young. What I say to them, and hope is true, is that the significant difference between our parents and us is that we who are sitting in a counsellor’s office are growing in our awareness of our lack as parents, and that cultivating humility in the face of our instinct to be harsh or cruel is what it’s like to move away from repeating those mistakes. The ability for self-reflection is how we might stand a chance of changing our family dynamics.
Contrary to what you might have heard about Asians, psychological mindedness—or the capacity for self-reflection and understanding—is not absent from traditional Asian thought. Confucius, Meng Tse, and Lao Tse all promoted daily self-examination as one’s duty to be perfected in virtue and righteousness. But in latter days, the oppressive interpretations of Confucianism that make my clients nod sadly—namely, the Five Cardinal relationships and their application in hierarchicalism—hold the greatest sway. That sadness is likely because they have only experienced Confucianism as a blanket explanation for the abuse, neglect, or self-serving social stratification that have characterized the worst parts of Asian family dynamics and societies. In other words, it’s likely that Confucian ideals have been held up as excuses for bad behavior. But the domineering way in which these power differentials have been cultivated and carried out goes against what Confucius and his followers wrote. Instead, there is a great deal of evidence that true Confucian thought asks for those with power and authority to be worthy of it by using it for the benefit of those who don’t have it.
…It’s likely that Confucian ideals have been held up as excuses for bad behavior.
If this is true, then why have Asian fathering styles of a certain generation tended to be perceived as being harmful, and in extreme cases, abusive? Why haven’t they practiced more self-examination and “done better”? In short, they haven’t because of sin, both in what we individuals do and leave undone, and in the structures and systems that propagate from relational harm.
Personal sin in Confucian systems moves the needle from reciprocity towards domination, and once power is held, it is rarely given away or used solely for the benefit of creating justice in relationships, both small and large. As a further consequence, fathers who were raised in patriarchal cultures were more likely to be seen as prized carriers of clan prestige, and therefore might not have had their infantile selfishness chastened in any way, by indulgent parents who only sought the perpetuation of their family line, the reality of raising narcissists be damned.
But there is also the systemic side of sin that, even in good families, will warp the best intentions.
…Fathers who were raised in patriarchal cultures were more likely to be seen as prized carriers of clan prestige, and therefore might not have had their infantile selfishness chastened in any way, by indulgent parents who only sought the perpetuation of their family line, the reality of raising narcissists be damned.
What shaped my father and other fathers of his generation was seeing how desperate the times were and the resultant need to become successful (read: wealthy) at all costs in order to escape.
As a result, many of the immigration stories from Asia to North America at that time have narratives of fortune-seeking. Some saw the opportunity to train in stable, well-paying white-collar professions and others saw greater monetary rewards in business and trade. But, when seeking to understand our fathers, we need to keep in mind that each of them endured the struggle of moving to places that didn’t necessarily welcome them.
My dad was a tenured university professor in Microbiology who once won a teaching award. Later that term, my father’s department head met with him and asked, “Do you speak English when you teach?” Such was the North American life of even the most brilliant and productive Asian men at that time.
There is a lesson here. Before we resent our fathers for not being what we’d hoped they’d be, we need to reach for compassion when we recognize that many of our fathers lived through dramatic sociopolitical upheavals in Asia during the mid 20th Century. Many of our fathers came of age in a time that did not foster the luxury of self-critique. Their lack of childhood nurturance combined with the hustle to escape the lingering bondage of wartime instability ultimately led to a paucity of self-observance and reflection.
One response to this is to become more mindful of the way we approach our familial relationships. Some have posited that fostering secure attachment with our children is the answer. Attachment theory is the part of Developmental Psychology that is concerned with how families model and practice relationships. The reason why this has come to be an important principle in both pop and academic psychology is that it’s thought that the earliest relationships we have on earth—those with our primary caregivers—are the ones that set us up for how we will relate to others for the rest of our lives. But the very little-known fact about attachment, with all its attendant styles (and all the books and seminars designed to help you in your specific attachment style), is that it is a Western construct with limited validity for non-Western populations. How non-Westerners develop and foster secure attachment—and for what ends—differs from those who think Western psychology is gospel truth, slavishly parroting what Western-trained psychologists uncritically practice and profess.
So, for those of us who were born and raised in North America, and continue to live with largely Western mores concerning what we hope our families will look like, is it feasible to say that we should only accept that Westernized picture? Absolutely not. Having said this, I actually think and try to parent as though there is a tremendous amount of good in developing warmth, closeness, and safety with our children as attachment theory hopes to do. But merely adopting psychological advice without examining its underlying assumptions is a bit like jumping from lily pad to lily pad, hoping one will hold us up.
Character is more “caught” than “taught.” How might our actions speak to our children of an alternative way of being in our world than is commonly offered? Is there a way where we can foster a healthy self-awareness, humility, and willingness for correction while still acting with the strength and courage to make the most of every opportunity?
If you are a Christian—meaning one who is devoted to discipleship of Jesus and living out the principles of the Kingdom he’s established—you immediately have an advantage in finding another way of being that is neither rooted in oppression nor coddling. Seeking to raise our children “in the way they should go” is a call for parents to disciple their children.
Ever since I became a father, I’m struck time and again with the realization that they need to be shown and supported in how to live their lives well. I hope that this includes an orientation to following Jesus, but that will ultimately involve their will and not merely my own. But in the meantime, while they are just waking up to the idea of wisely navigating their circumstances, they often look to me and their mother for guidance and the assurance that they’re on what we think is a good track.
Here's where the whole East-West split can come in handy: While I often call them “buddy” in the most affectionate way I know how, I’m fairly sure that my children don’t want another capricious friend. What they want is the security of someone who seems to know what they’re doing and has a place in the order of things while also prizing and being prized as a member of a family.
I’m hesitant to give too many examples of what we try to do around our household, as it may make it sound as though I’m a perfect parent with perfect kids. And I’m afraid that not only is this untrue, but that if my kids read this one day and compare their experience with my stated intentions, the disparity would be too much to bear. Nonetheless, there is one way I’m trying to hold Asian tradition and attachment together.
We live in a prosperous suburb of one of the most expensive cities in the world. We are awash in displays of wealth. Quite often, we’ll bump up against classmates wearing expensive shoes or their parents driving expensive cars. Small talk is usually oriented around international vacations and extracurricular activities, and frequently, both parents can be found attending school assemblies when their children are performing.
It's inevitable that my children have compared themselves with classmates with respect to who has what. So from an early age, we’ve told our kids that the lay of our land includes a lot of rich folk, and that they’ll just need to get used to living amongst people who seemingly take their deep pockets for granted. But in response to jealousy, I’ve often said, “Other families prioritize having things. Not so with us. I think it’s better to have more of each other than to have a nicer car or nicer shoes.”
You might say something similar and still find the comparison game getting out of hand. But where I hope I’m making a difference with my family is that I regularly acknowledge the existence of “nice things” while never saying that it’s “good” for others to have it. But whenever possible, I try to hold up stronger and deeper relationships as a prize worth having, especially when compared to excesses of material goods. When I wax on about how it would be wonderful to take certain trips or maybe drive a nicer car, I’m trying to foster further attachment by way of aligning with what I already perceive my children are feeling, and for them to feel closer to me because I’m letting them know what’s on my mind and heart. This not only goes against the stoic and contemptuous frugality in which I was raised that elevated my parents to a superhuman level—and thereby reinforced hierarchy—but I hope that when they see me puttering around the garden or delighting in making Sunday morning omelettes, they’ll get a sense that contentment with simple things and being satisfied in relationship is better than newer or nicer things.
I want [my children] to understand that as human beings, feeling deeply is normal and even healthy.
Through my honest self-expression, I hope my children get a sense that they are not alone in occasionally feeling covetous, or sad, or angry. I want them to understand that as human beings, feeling deeply is normal and even healthy. But I hope that when they see me trying to live simply or trying to repair relationships I’ve ruptured, they’re seeing a picture of someone who tries to use what authority is given to him to make as many things better as he can.
“Because, you know, Asian dads.”
I do know. But because I’m also an Asian dad with a vision of other ways of being, I want my children to start seeing that even if we’re handed authority and privilege, we can use it to create safety for vulnerability and peace.
Edward En-Heng Ng is a Registered Psychologist in private practice in Vancouver and is the founder and director of Eastgate Psychological Services. He provides counselling services and consultations for leaders looking for relational and cultural insight.
Prior to becoming a psychologist, Ed worked as a high school teacher and then pastor. Ed’s academic interests have centered around critical psychology and the applications of cultural psychology and relational psychoanalysis to clinical or counselling contexts. Ed has taught at Trinity Western University and Regent College in the areas of diversity and counselling. Ed lives in Richmond, BC, with his wife and two children.