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'Do Your Own Homework': Asian Students Should Learn to Think for Themselves

When a Vietnamese American author fields anxious e-mails from high school students seeking help with their English essays, he reflects on Asian conformity and the American ego

By Andrew Lam, Pacific News Service

SAN FRANCISCO - July 12, 2005- The e-mail messages come every few months, like clockwork. "Dear Mr. Lam," one would read, "My name is Dao and I am having difficulties with my essay in English class. We are reading one of your short stories, called 'Grandma's Tales.' It's a good story, but I can't seem to find the REAL theme. Can you please help me?"

Some of my essays and short stories are now taught in colleges and high schools. This being the Information Age, when almost anything can be located online, a few students who can't come up with answers to their assigned questions go directly to the source -- in this case, the author.

What is particular in my case is that, overwhelmingly, these are Asian students. I suppose that because I am Asian -- and an immigrant -- the students assume I'll understand their stress. It would be hard not to. There is an almost palpable sense of desperation in their e-mails. If the subject line isn't "HELP," it might be "Assistance Needed." Or my all-time favorite: "A favor for a fellow Vietnamese immigrant."

Though I'm flattered, I'm also bothered that these young people are so eager to avoid thinking for themselves. They'd rather expose their unwillingness to think critically to the writer than risk actually using their noggins.

Kishore Mahbubani, a career diplomat from Singapore, is the author of "Can Asians Think? Understanding the Divide Between East and West." The book's title is misleading, because the author, an Asian, can and does think brilliantly. But Mahbubani points out that, in general, Asians tend to fall into complacency and conformity. Although more and more are winning prestigious literary and artistic awards, the vast majority rush toward economic success without taking a moment to reflect.

It doesn't help that self-expression is largely discouraged across Asia. The language of criticism and analysis is often frowned upon in a region where harmony is emphasized over individualism, and where, with the exception of a handful of countries, strong democratic traditions do not exist. To do well in the sciences and to memorize the classics have been viewed as enough to make you a more-than-competent professional. Think too hard about an issue, especially an ideological one, and who knows? You might turn into a nonconformist, a radical -- even, God forbid, a dissident, and therefore a danger to the status quo.

Is this a uniquely Asian problem? Of course not. But America still values the maverick, the inventor, the loudmouth class clown, the individual with a vision. American kids grow up saying "I" -- as in "I disagree" -- without a second thought.

But even in America, it is not so easy for an Asian kid in a Confucian family household to say something like that. As a frequent judge of writing contests for high school students, I find it curious that many Asian American entrants, even those with a perfect command of English, don't use the first- person narrative. The word "I" doesn't appear on the page, leaving writers to struggle with the awkward "one," even when addressing issues within their own families.

I remember dull afternoons in Saigon when I had to recite poetry classics in front of a wizened literature teacher. If I always cried at poetry recital, it was for good reason. Each time I forgot a word, the teacher's ruler would land with a "thwap" on my open palm. That class typified literature education in Vietnam, but I got my revenge: I became an American writer.

It is a generalization, but Asia is by and large a continent where the ego is suppressed. The self exists in the context of families and clans. It is submerged in the service of shared values and ritualized language.

When you take into account that two out of three Asians in America were born overseas, it's no wonder that even the most diligent Asian students feel more comfortable in science classes than in English literature, where raising your hand to offer opinions is not only encouraged but counts toward the final grade.

Which explains Dao's problem. There is something endearingly oblivious about her e-mail and the others I've received. She wanted a clear-cut answer. She wanted to know the short story's Real Theme, something she assumed that I knew, and that she couldn't possibly tease out herself. If I would only hand it over, she would get that much-coveted "A."

But I didn't have a theme in mind when I wrote that tongue-in-cheek story about a Vietnamese grandmother who died, came back to life and went to a party with her grandson. A few years ago I suggested a possible theme to another student, but his teacher didn't like it one bit.

So here is what I wrote to Dao: "I'm sorry, but I am out of the homework-abetting business. It may not occur to you that there might be more than one theme to any story, and that, more often than not, there are no wrong answers in literature -- only well-argued propositions. If I were you, I'd go and sit under a tree and read the story aloud to a smart friend. He'll probably have a better answer than I do. And when you figure out what it is, I hope you don't mind e-mailing a note to tell me."

Andrew Lam is a PNS editor and short story writer. He is the author of "Perfume Dreams: Reflections on the Vietnamese Diaspora," forthcoming this fall from Heyday Books.