When Respect Flows Only One Way
Every Saturday, my parents come over for dinner with me and my son. It has become a simple family routine, one that allows three generations to gather around the same table. Recently, however, one seemingly ordinary evening left me reflecting once again on the meaning of filial piety.
Like most Chinese, I grew up understanding that 孝 meant respecting one’s parents and elders. It is one of those values repeated so often that we rarely stop to ask where it begins or where it ends. Curious, I went back to read a little more and found myself returning to Confucius’ teaching on 孝悌 (xiào tì). 孝 refers to respect towards one’s parents, while 悌 speaks of respect towards elder siblings and those slightly senior to us. In both cases, respect flows in the same direction—upwards.
What I could not find was equally interesting.
Where was the word for respecting the young?
Where was the cultural expectation that elders should also examine how they treat those younger than themselves? Where was the reminder that respect, if it is truly a virtue, cannot simply be demanded in one direction?
Before I had the chance to think any further about it, something happened that evening which made those questions feel unexpectedly real.
The Home I Grew Up In
Perhaps I should begin a little earlier.
I was born into a family where both my parents were what we locally call “bananas”—Chinese on the outside, Western on the inside. English was spoken at home. Chinese traditions were observed more through festivals than through philosophy. Neither of my parents had the opportunity to pursue higher education, as university places were extremely limited during their time. They entered the workforce soon after secondary school, met one another, married, and many years later had me, their only child.
Being their only daughter, I was protected in many ways. Looking back now, some of that protection also became restriction.
Growing up, my parents argued constantly. Every two or three days the house would be filled with raised voices, harsh words and conversations that children probably should never have heard. Neither of them knew how to regulate their emotions particularly well, and social circles outside the family were almost non-existent. They had very few close friends, little community around them and, perhaps because of that, very few opportunities to learn healthier ways of communicating.
Children absorb far more than we realise.
Without knowing it, I grew up carrying many of the same traits. I became socially awkward, uncertain of myself and often afraid of taking up space. As I entered adulthood, I found myself avoiding spending long periods with my parents because those years of conflict never quite left me. More than the arguments themselves, it was the lingering sense that I was never quite good enough, particularly through my mother’s own insecurities, that quietly shaped how I saw myself.
I don’t share this to blame them. They raised me with the knowledge and emotional tools they had, and like many parents, they did what they believed was best. But the home we grow up in inevitably shapes the way we understand relationships, communication and respect. That is why what happened next stayed with me far longer than I expected.
The Dinner That Turned Into a Storm
That Saturday began like any other.
Dinner was simple: tortilla wraps, oven-grilled vegetables, luncheon meat and homemade potato fries. My parents arrived, and as always, my son greeted them politely as Grandpa and Grandma before we sat down together.
Almost immediately, the comments began.
The fries, according to my father, were “not fully cooked.” When my son reached for a little more, my mother stopped him, saying, “Don’t give him so much. It’s only carbohydrate.”
I replied gently that it was alright. With ADHD, he burns through energy quickly and is often hungry.
A few moments later my father casually mentioned an upcoming family gathering. I happily agreed that we should go. My mother, however, was upset that she hadn’t known about it earlier. Within minutes the conversation shifted completely. What began as a small misunderstanding became accusations about keeping secrets, criticism over the choice of restaurant, worries about who would be paying for the meal and, before long, grievances that had nothing to do with the original conversation.
The argument escalated rapidly.
Old resentments resurfaced. Personal attacks followed. Four-letter words that had no place at a family dinner were thrown across the table.
I asked them to stop.
When that didn’t work, I asked my father to leave before things became worse in front of my son.
They continued.
My son, who is particularly sensitive to sound, quietly asked them to stop as well. They barely noticed. Instead, he picked up his iPad, walked to a corner of the house and chose to remove himself from the noise rather than become part of it.
It was only then that I realised the irony unfolding before me.
The adults were demanding respect from one another while showing very little of it themselves.
I finally told my parents firmly, “Please don’t use that kind of language in my house. My husband and I don’t fight in front of our son. Don’t bring this into our home.”
My mother’s response came almost immediately.
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do.”
The Question That Stayed With Me
After they left that evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened.
It wasn’t simply that my parents had argued. Couples argue. Families argue. That, unfortunately, is part of life. What stayed with me was the contrast between the generations sitting in the same house.
My son never shouted. He never answered back. He never disrespected his grandparents. When the noise became too much for him, he quietly removed himself from the situation. Knowing his auditory sensitivity, I could see he was trying to protect himself in the only way he knew how. He wasn’t making a statement. He wasn’t trying to prove a point. He simply chose silence over conflict.
Later that night, I sent my father a message.
“The boy is still young now, and all of you think you’re right in how you behave. But one day, when he’s older and he chooses to walk away from you, will people say he has no manners? Or should we ask what the adults taught him about respect all these years?”
As I reread that message, I realised I wasn’t really speaking only about my son. I was thinking about myself as well.
For years, I struggled to spend long periods with my parents, not because I did not love them, but because the emotional climate I grew up in had never really left me. Children eventually become adults, but they carry their childhood with them far longer than we realise. Long after the words themselves are forgotten, they remember how a home felt. Whether it felt peaceful. Whether it felt safe. Whether respect was something that everyone practised, or something only the younger generation was expected to show.
That was when my thoughts returned to Confucius.
We often speak about 孝, about respecting our parents. We teach children from a very young age to greet their elders politely, to lower their voices, to obey, to give way and to show consideration. These are all good values, and I have tried to teach them to my own son.
But sitting there that night, I found myself asking a different question.
If we spend so much effort teaching children how to respect adults, when do we teach adults how to respect children?
Not by surrendering authority, nor by treating children as equals in every decision. A child still needs guidance, boundaries and correction. Yet correction and dignity are not opposites. Authority and respect are not opposites either. In fact, perhaps genuine authority is only possible when it is exercised with respect.
The more I thought about it, the more I realised that this was the part we rarely speak about. Filial piety has survived for thousands of years because it asks something of the young. It gives them a responsibility towards those who came before them. But every relationship has two ends. If one side alone carries the responsibility of maintaining respect, eventually the relationship becomes unbalanced.
Perhaps that is why so many adult children quietly distance themselves from their parents. From the outside, it is easy to label them unfilial or ungrateful. It is far more difficult to ask what kind of relationship they experienced growing up. Respect that is demanded but never demonstrated slowly loses its meaning. What remains is no longer virtue, but obligation.
As parents, we often remind children that they are always watching us. Yet we usually mean they are watching our successes, our discipline or our achievements. That evening reminded me they are also watching how we disagree, how we speak when we are frustrated, and how we treat people over whom we hold more authority. Those ordinary moments may become the lessons they remember most.
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