They Always Think They Know Better
On restrictive parents, self-doubt, and what that taught me about treating my friends right
For many people, it’s a fun game to point at young people and call out everything wrong with them. This love for turning condescension into advice is why there are newspapers from the 1870s complaining about familiar things like “this generation needs to work more and be grateful…”
These critiques are often untrue because the people giving them aren’t living through change the same way the new generation is. So the bulk of their “wisdom” is a way of validating their outdated, less nuanced experiences.
My parents are masters at giving this type of advice; it rarely lands because I can feel that it’s coming from a place of trying to protect their ideas rather than help me with them. This is why society moves on after the condescension-as-advice people scream from their centuries-old soapbox: what counts as lazy or hardworking adapts due to technology and social norms. But we still tune in every twenty years because it’s the experiences (and therefore wisdom) signaled by their old age that grant these people respect and power.
Those are also the two marks of being an independent person, something that I appreciate my parents for wanting out of me and my siblings. But even a good trait is soured when it’s filtered through their experiences: own a business, ideally work in healthcare, and live a private life.
This cry for independence was counterbalanced with their hope that we don’t “grow wings.” I thought this was what they meant by those “Ethan, you better not get a girl pregnant” conversations; since they only happened once a year, I could tolerate hearing this at 13. Over time, though, I realized that my parents were actually trying to confine me to their political, religious, and cultural views.
If I joked about religion or commented on some aspect of Nigerian culture, it was always “Oh, but you’re not at that age where you can be thinking for yourself like that.”
Outside of avoiding chlamydia, there’s always been disagreement between me and my parents in all my hobbies, especially writing. My Dad was always confused why I didn’t enjoy Math like I did creating short stories and comics. I remember receiving comments like “why can’t you be this passionate about Math” or “stop wasting your time writing, Ethan.” Because my Dad knew since he was young that he’d become a doctor, he likely assumed that writing all the time meant that I knew I wanted to be some broke children’s author.
Underneath trying to give sound career advice was his assumption that, like him, I knew my dream job at six and that by doing Math, it could be the right career path. I was some infantilized version of him who was growing up again but having trouble sticking with the plan: love Math, become a doctor, marry a Nigerian, etc. Not only was I not him, but I also didn’t have a clue about what I wanted to do when I grew up.
Next was the time that my parents found out I was an atheist. Before that, I’d congratulate myself for being such a clever 7th grader that no one suspected anything when I complained about going to Mass or didn’t focus in Religion class. I’d tell my siblings that I didn’t care about Jesus and they’d use hellfire — the real reason us kids believed — to get me to shut up… as if humans didn’t rejoice when they discovered fire for the first time.
Eventually, my cover burned down because the priest could see I hated his class. After discovering how I really felt, I imagine Mike downed two shots — one for each of my parent’s contacts he put into a spin-the-wheel — and after landing on my Dad’s, he told him everything.
While writing one day, the door suddenly flung open and an irate man entered with a detailed line of questions about my beliefs. My Dad left so little time for answers that I knew the only way out was by telling the truth.
So I chose to downplay my nonbelief by saying “well, I think Jesus is still a good moral teacher.” But instead of being absolved from my sins like Father does at confession, my confession with this father ended in a “Shut up and don’t ever let me hear you say you don’t believe in God. How foolish! You’re not at the age where you can decide those matters for yourself.”
That evening, I tried going to bed earlier to take my mind off that afternoon when my Mom’s face suddenly appeared, flushed in the slow-burning flame of my bedside lamp.
I laid awkwardly in my covers as she subjected me to stern warnings about a future without God, the emptiness of modern society, and the need for a “center” in our lives. Though I was disengaged for most of the conversation, once she left my room, I felt tears streaming down my cheeks. Why won’t they stop? I could bury my head in a pillow and my face would still come out damp. I didn’t even care about what she said anyway!
I kept wiping furiously, hoping to prove that religion, Mom, and Dad would never win. I’d never give them that satisfaction of knowing they’d “corrected” me. They didn’t deserve my fear or sadness. Screw whatever they think about atheism, at least I have my back.
Why do they always think they know better?
I began to notice that it was always my ideologies that my parents disliked; the way that I thought life should go (write stories and be an atheist) never lined up with loving God and Math. However, unlike our zip code or finances, I could control how I thought about things. So my Mom might say she was “praying I return to God” and my Dad could try and make us all conservatives but nothing would change my mind.
This is why I want to kill the people who tell me what to think! Authenticity is power and my parents knew I had it, so the more they attacked basic maturity as me “growing wings,” the harder I flapped. But it’s ironic because growing wings is how you become independent like they always wanted.
Since the priest incident, I’ve learned to not talk about what I do — right now, it’s the blog; in the past, it was my books — until they are either finished or successful. After that point, any “guidance” my parents try to give makes them look desperate, like it’s a threat that I was successful in something not STEM related. Sure, it means I must succeed to have my way taken seriously, but that destroys their power, which is founded on me being the same as them.
But wait…
What does happen if I fail?
If I change my mind about Algebra, God, or conservatives, would I fail to be myself?
Did I just surrender to parental pressure again?
What if they knew better all along?
While I’m still working on being able to agree with my parents without feeling like it’s because of them, I do really enjoy exploring my mind and its interests. I’m intent on using these teen years to build the foundation for my future opinions to rest on.
Since independence is part of that foundation, one opinion I have is that people mostly know better for themselves. So perhaps my parents should have respected that they couldn’t control my views instead of imposing theirs; you don’t treat your kid like yourself if the stated goal is to have them be better off than you.
In a friendship context, this looks like the person who unnecessarily relates their experience to yours but still ends the conversation with an “I’m here if you need me.” No one likes it because that friend is basically saying “Gosh, that’s nothing. Here’s true pain…” when they could’ve quietly used their experience to understand where you are coming from. These types of people (like my parents or the critics of every generation) aren’t tolerated for very long because they ignore how it is for you, and when you don’t see the differences, it changes the way you “help.”
You snatch the conch out of someone’s hand because you have an idea that’ll “make them feel better.” Your friends become problems to solve instead of a story to understand. When those who have ears should be listening…
Maybe good mentorship comes from seeing how much different you are with someone. The kid or friend receiving your advice isn’t always like you and might be gonads deep in other problems that, together, make their experience slightly different from yours. Best friends listen and can catch these sensitive details; great parents notice their child’s non-receptiveness and stop pushing.
So the next time you’re with the people you care about, ask yourself “have I listened more?” If a good amount of people start doing this, maybe we’ll be less lonely for how connected we all are.
For more vulnerable pieces:
“Your friends become problems to solve instead of a story to understand” really hit the spot! I like that this began with parental pressure but widened into something more universal. Something like how easily experience turns into authority when we stop listening. I think of it like the tension between wanting independence and still wondering “what if they knew better?” Incredible work, Ethan! ✨
Ethan as a Nigerian myself I can just say I understand you.
Growing up everyone has his or her expectations of the kind of like the would want to live put on the younger generation.
And when you say you want to express yourself. They older generation don't really give you an avenue to do that.