Growing up, my parents had a phrase they’d repeat: you have to be xiào shùn (孝顺). It usually gets translated as “filial piety,” but that sounds stiff and ancient. It’s closer to relational honor. The kind you practice, not perform. The core character is 孝 (xiào). It’s drawn as 老 (lǎo), meaning “elder,” placed above 子 (zǐ), meaning “child.” An old person over a young one. The image is the child bearing the weight of the elder. It’s cool that in Hebrew, kavod connects to the root for “weight”: to honor someone is to make them heavy, to give them gravity. In Chinese, the character draws that exact act. They’re like philosophical cousins.
Confucius sharpens it further (roughly): “Nowadays, being filial just means being able to provide nourishment. But dogs and horses can do that too. Without reverence, what’s the difference?” It’s not the actions, the money sent, the boxes checked. It’s the presence. The tone. I have a complicated relationship with my parents, like a lot of Asian American immigrant kids. No one on this earth can get under my skin like my mom can (she doesn’t even have to try). Oof. But this week I tried to bring more grace, patience, and actual presence. Not only did I pick up and have multiple hour-long convos listening to her complain about the latest thing on her mind, but we also did a family FaceTime on the evening of V-day with me, my brother, and all our partners, because it’s what my parents actually wanted. We could have texted. Could’ve done a quick solo call. Those are lighter, easier. But kavod means choosing the heavier thing. When everyone got on that screen, you could just see it on their faces. That was the whole teaching right there.
The one I want to push on more in the future is honor in everyday life. Because if I can bring that kind of presence for my parents, I can bring it to anyone. The stranger on the street. The coffee shop. The networking call. Kavod isn’t just for the people who created you. It’s for everyone.