Dear Will Smith
By wchung | 06 Aug, 2026

Somehow we not only survive our parents but even learn to appreciate them.

My beaming family, armed with cameras and camcorders, at my college graduation

At age 10, most girls had just graduated Barbie and entered the tailspinning world of boys, but I was light-years ahead of the curve. I already knew who I was going to marry. His name was Nick Carter.

I wasn’t so concerned about the fact that he was a famous Backstreet Boy, because after all, he didn’t care who I was, where I was from or what I did, as long as I loved him. So I clipped his picture from Tiger Beat, slipped it in the plastic sleeve of my wallet and lugged it around everywhere as fodder for my prepubescent heart.

A week later, my dad discovered this picture and very angrily lectured me on how I was far too young to date. I tried to explain to him that the perfect blonde boy was actually the lead singer of the most famous boyband in the world, but he only narrowed his eyes suspiciously until he flipped the picture over and found Britney Spears’ midriff gleaming back at him.

“See? It’s a magazine cut out.”

“Go to your room and do your homework. And no TV for a week.”

I went back to my room seething. No TV for a week meant that I was going to miss the Disney Channel special on the Backstreet Boys I’d been anticipating for months. I hated my dad. It was all his fault. All this wouldn’t have happened if he wasn’t so Asian, because then he would surely have heard of the biggest teeny-bopper phenomenon since New Kids on the Block.

This unfortunate incident was just one of the many times my dad’s obliviousness impeded our lines of communication, giving credence to one of the most profound and universally-acknowledged maxims of our time – Parents just don’t understand. Thank you Will Smith.

But when it comes to not understanding, the crown has to go to Asian moms. Not only have these perm-haired gossips managed to tune out their children’s words, they have also invented a new language, coded so only their kind could comprehend. These cryptic conversations often journey through cunningly circuitous routes such as this:

Emily’s Mom: What colleges are Anna getting into? My Emily only got into Johns Hopkins. [sighs] I don’t know…

Anna’s Mom: Ai-ya John’s Hopkins is great! Very good MD program. Your Emily is so smart. But our Anna. [sighs] She only got into Princeton. And I tell her… you expect me to be happy just because you got into Princeton? What about Harvard? Or Stanford? Or Duke?

Emily’s Mom: You crazy? Princeton is even better! I tell Emily that all the time, but all she talks about is Duke Duke Duke [clicks tongue disapprovingly] Did Anna hear from Duke?

There’s a slight pause

Anna’s Mom [sounding shrill]: I’m not sure, Anna didn’t tell me about that one yet.

Emily’s Mom [not missing a beat]: Don’t worry. I’m sure she got it. My Emily just got hers yesterday.

Anna’s Mom: Oh Emily got into Duke? [voice rises two octaves] Wow. So great! [voice drops to disdainful lows] Well, like I said, Anna’s hopeless. She’ll probably just end up going to some PUBLIC school like Berkeley. And knowing her, she’ll pick something like engineering.

The phonecall ends shortly after. Phone still warm in her hands, Emily’s mom shows up at Emily’s door, demanding to know why she hasn’t received an acceptance letter from Berkeley yet. And whether she’s considering majoring in engineering, because apparently Anna’s mom had accidentally let it slip that Berkeley has the top engineering program in the country.

Turns out, Emily didn’t get into Berkeley. But don’t despair. Her mom happily walked her to Princeton, then Colombia law school and everything worked out fine as do most Asian parent-offspring relationships. I eventually forgave my dad for not recognizing Nick Carter and he forgave me for mucking up my Yale interview eight years later, even though it broke his heart.

Looking back, I guess our parents did mean well, even if they had a funny way of showing it. And although we all complain about our terrible upbringing, we know deep down it could have been a lot worse. But still, sometimes when I hear that song and that funky 90’s beat, I find myself smiling reminiscently, thinking – “Oh Willy, you think you know, but really, you have no idea.”