没大没小 is a prompt that has been in my mind since my childhood growing up in a Chinese diaspora family in Malaysia. I heard it in various Chinese dialects (Hokkien, Hakka, Cantonese, Mandarin) and even in English—“no big, no small”—as I was reminded of my position: a child who needed to respect those older than me, which at the time seemed like everyone. If I questioned my parents, talked back to a grandparent, interrupted a grown-up conversation, or tried to scold my older sister, I would be reprimanded and chastened with this maxim.
To be told that you’re “no big, no small” is to be taught about social hierarchy, where ignorance of the system means you’re being disrespectful to those who are older than you. And when it comes to Chinese culture (and more broadly, East Asian culture), being disrespectful, especially within immediate family, is to cause disharmony and to be unfilial—at the risk of being over-dramatic, the worst crime one could commit. But why is filial piety so important?
有子曰：「其為人也孝弟，而好犯上者，鮮矣；不好犯上，而好作亂者，未之有也。君子務本，本立而道生。孝弟也者，其為仁之本與！」
“It is rare for someone who is filial to their parents and respectful of their elders to oppose their superiors. And it is unheard of for someone who dislikes opposing their superiors to start a rebellion.… Filiality and respect for elders are perhaps the foundations of Rén1 behavior.”
The Analects 1:22
In Chinese households, parenting often draws influence from ancient teachings—from Confucius in particular. His teachings, through The Analects, alongside practices of Buddhism and Daoism, have been a core part of Chinese culture for more than 2,000 years. While time has changed how Confucius’s teachings are shared and their popularity has waxed and waned through the millennia, they are still embedded in a variety of practices, forming prompts for proper conduct.
Ai Jiang’s Future Tense Fiction story “Prompts for a Perfect Daughter” explores how the relationships children have with their parents’ teachings change over time. The prompts in the story—embedded in children’s heads through some sort of brain-computer interface—make parental teachings literal (prompts selected by our protagonist’s parents include 熟能生巧, Practice makes perfect, and 良药苦口, Good medicine tastes bitter).
When we’re young, because our parents are our first teachers, we tend to interpret what they say as infallible, to be followed precisely.
When we’re young, because our parents are our first teachers, we tend to interpret what they say as infallible, to be followed precisely. When a 13-year-old tries to disobey a prompt in Jiang’s story, it ends in an anguished outburst, reflecting the unease a child might have about defying their own parents. Later, at 18, Jiang’s protagonist grapples with how to balance the realities of adult life with her embedded parental prompts, assessing whether they are helpful. At 30, the protagonist finally comes to terms with the prompts and begins to understand why her parents installed them. The prompts serve as a medium through which to navigate the complexity of the protagonist’s relationship with her parents—who, with the exception of a single phone call, are otherwise absent from the story.
Growing up, like the teenagers in Jiang’s story, I took everything I was taught literally. Being filial to my parents meant being obedient, often unquestioningly. If my parents gave me chores, I would do them; if I wanted to purchase something they dubbed frivolous, I relented; when they were speaking to other grown-ups, I wouldn’t interrupt. Among my parents’ friends, ours was one of the more liberal families—I could ask my dad to bring me a glass of water if he was in the kitchen, I could voice my opinions in conversations at home—and yet there were hidden lines that I wouldn’t dare cross.
孟武伯問孝。子曰：「父母唯其疾之憂。」
“On filial piety: Let your parents’ only worry be of your health.”
The Analects 2:6
While I didn’t learn of this Confucius maxim until I was an adult, it reflects how I was taught to behave as a child. It was my duty to do well in school, to act appropriately, and to avoid getting in the way. If I made my parents angry by neglecting my schoolwork, doing badly on exams, or getting into trouble, I felt like I had let them down. To cause concern about my future prospects was to be unfilial.
In Chinese households, parenting often draws influence from ancient teachings—from Confucius in particular.
I came to London when I was 18. My parental prompt system was more than 6,000 miles away, or so I thought, and I felt a sense of freedom and excitement, accompanied by anxiety. While it would’ve been easy to assume that I could behave however I wanted in the absence of cultural obligation, my parents’ teachings continued to keep me levelheaded. I was never taught explicitly to budget or cook for myself, and yet I figured out how to because I knew my parents would approve. I learned to be a responsible adult—seemingly on my own, but with my parents’ teachings as foundational support.
Like Jiang’s protagonist, I was well into adulthood before I was able to view my parents’ teachings as guides rather than gospel. Recently, I saw a comedian say on social media that the new genre of Asian-American cinema is “parents asking for forgiveness,” referencing the films Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings and Everything Everywhere All at Once. East Asian storytelling tends to focus on the intricacies of relationships—especially familial ones. This is important in understanding Asian storytelling because our identities are inexorably linked to our relationships; it’s only through relationality that we are able to discover the different parts that make us whole. And by remembering that Confucius encourages harmony while discouraging friction (see Analects 1:2, about opposition and rebellion), the audience for these stories can begin to grasp how obedience—the ability to follow instructions—is the simplest way to maintain harmony, and how, through relationality, that becomes one of our first ideas of personhood.
This experience is by no means culturally exclusive. But in cultures that promote a more individualistic worldview, children may learn that their identity comes from how they stand out and assert themselves, rather than how they maintain harmony in their community. And if harmony is foundational to building, maintaining, and navigating a community’s culture, it’s understandable that the culture would welcome “people pleasers”—what Jiang’s protagonist is called out for by her coworker, Assistant Lam.
As we traverse into adulthood, many of us begin to understand that we can’t please everyone, that it is impossible to maintain constant harmony. This realization brings with it a sense of guilt—for not living up to the expectations of our parents, for not being able to fulfill their wants and needs, for disrupting harmony.
When Jiang’s protagonist is 30, she tells us, “I think of my parents, the way I have always believed that they implanted the Prompt System as a punishment, but thinking back, I realize now that it was out of fear, out of worry.”
子曰：「當仁不讓於師。」
“In Rén, do not be afraid to surpass your teacher.”
The Analects 15:36
As Confucius’s teachings have been passed down verbally through generations of parents, it’s inevitable that lessons would change as perspectives and needs shift. The Confucian maxim about surpassing one’s teacher is one that doesn’t get as much attention. Confucius never taught unquestioning obedience as part of being filial. Harmony is encouraged and friction discouraged, but that doesn’t mean we cannot oppose our elders. It means that if a disagreement happens, we can gently and respectfully guide them, as necessary.
In cultures that promote a more individualistic worldview, children may learn that their identity comes from how they stand out and assert themselves, rather than how they maintain harmony in their community.
Recently, in a conversation with a few Asian diaspora friends, we talked about how there are many silences in our familial relationships. Things left unspoken, quiet gaps. We surmised that these often come from our inability to figure out a suitable action for the moment, and so we let things slide. As it does for Jiang’s protagonist, who runs away from her family; time passes.
When Assistant Lam teaches the protagonist to see the prompts as just “guides,” her relief is palpable: This is the key to preserving harmony while still being herself. She finally allows herself to understand that no one expects her to obey the prompts mindlessly, that they just want the best for her, that the prompts were just another method of teaching. “They wished for me to be able to navigate this world, even when they couldn’t be beside me, especially when they could no longer be beside me,” she concludes. As the protagonist finds newfound freedom from her prompt system and joy in wanting to reconnect with her family, we can take one last lesson from Confucius.
子曰：「君子恥其言而過其行。」
“The learned is ashamed when their words overshadow their actions.”
The Analects 14:27
Maxims, prompts, and lessons may echo in our minds and linger stubbornly, but Jiang reminds us that they are only a small part of relationships: tangled relationships filled with actions, emotions, and experiences.
