My Son Said to Me: Dad, I Am Not Like You

A few days ago, my child delayed his homework to play games, and I criticized him a few words. That night, my son steeled himself and deleted every game and entertainment app from his computer and phone. I did not learn about this until the morning of the third day, so I said to him that I congratulated him on finally making up his mind to delete the games—it was truly remarkable; now that he was in high school, he should indeed be managing himself.

But my son wore a pained expression and said to me: "Dad, I am not like you. After I deleted all these apps, it was as if I had wiped away every trace of my existence in this world." He went on to say that these apps were important tools through which he connected with the outside world and sustained his social life. He had not really wanted to delete them, but because he had been criticized by me, he had steeled himself and done so.

I told him that in high school, socializing was not the most important thing, and that reducing it by a bit was no big deal. The child said, almost angrily: "You can do without socializing, but I need it. I am not like you."

After hearing him out, I fell silent. He was undoubtedly right. Children and parents are not the same; this is a very simple truth, but as a father I sometimes, deliberately or not, impose my own ideas on him. No matter how much I tout myself as an open-minded parent, I cannot avoid doing such foolish things. But the child chose to delete the apps himself; it must have been a decision made after careful weighing, so I need not interfere further. Whether he chooses never to install game apps again, or reinstalls them after a week or two, I will not interfere too much. Deep down, I actually hope to see him become self-disciplined; I myself had strong self-discipline from about his age.

When I came back last night, the child was again chattering cheerfully with me about the difference between general and special relativity. The reason for the topic was that he had recently finished reading Hawking's A Brief History of Time and had, along the way, looked up material on general and special relativity. He said he had figured out the difference between them, and I rather inappropriately threw cold water on him, saying that he was not yet capable of grasping that distinction.

I really should not have thrown that cold water. To make up for it, I later discussed the difference between general and special relativity with him, and found that he really had done some homework on the question. His ideal is to become a mathematician or physicist, so interest in such questions is only natural.

I feel that when I talk with my child I am always half a beat slow, overlooking the side of him that is growing up with such enthusiasm. For a high school freshman to have the patience to finish A Brief History of Time is highly praiseworthy. Especially, after finishing it, to still be in the mood and put effort into understanding the difference between general and special relativity. Though it smacks slightly of overreaching, human curiosity is just that vigorous, and it is undeniable that many of the world's hardest problems have been solved precisely by this spirit of overreaching; a person with no courage to challenge hard problems will never solve them. When the flame of curiosity is kindled in a person's heart, it can open a door to a vast expanse of learning.

My home is full of many books of all kinds; the child has been reading books like The Crowd since junior high. Once he even discussed The Crowd with his mother, explaining to her what group psychology is and interpreting the inner causes of some unhealthy phenomena in society. Another time, when his mother talked to him about collectivism and individualism, he cited classics and argued eloquently to refute her view. Recently he has even discussed with us the reasons for Tan Sitong's failure and the future of Chinese society; the depth of his knowledge of Tan Sitong surprised me. The child has truly grown up and is no longer that ignorant little boy.

For a while he was even enthusiastic about such a dry, massive tome as Will Durant's The Story of Civilization—the vast majority of adults may never in their lives open this work, hailed as the New Records of the Historian of the 21st century, to understand the full sweep of human civilization. That he could be drawn to this book is already quite good.

At his age, although I too had read many books, I had not read anything of such depth, because in my childhood my family did not have this kind of book—back then I mainly read books bought by my fourth uncle and my older brother, and all of theirs were literature. Now, my home has a very rich collection, and the child can choose whatever he likes from among the various books I have collected. The internet also offers him unprecedented convenience; he can expand his horizons through online searching.

While growing vegetables I understood a truth: for climbing plants like loofah, as long as the trellis we build is large enough to give them room to spread and they get sunlight, they will grow and bear fruit as much as they can. Parents are to children as a trellis is to the loofah; we need not worry about the child's growth. As long as we follow his nature and build him a good frame, he will thrive. Of course, how far he grows is determined by innate talent; what human effort can change is actually limited.

One person cannot copy another. Growing freely is, most of the time, a happy thing. But when a person is forced to copy another, his growth is no longer free or happy, and in the end such growth ends in failure.

Parents respecting their children's individuality and freedom of expression, and the state respecting the individuality and freedom of speech of its members—these are the inevitable direction of civilized development. We must learn to accept the reality that others are different from us, respect their differences, and not force others to accept our ideas. Exerting ideological and willpower coercion on one's own children is harmful to their growth.