Why do young people resent the lectures of their elders?

Let me use my father as an example.

During my first year of junior high school, I had a minor altercation with a classmate and exchanged some harsh words. Unbeknownst to me, the other student’s parents immediately came to the school to complain, leaving me no chance to explain myself. That afternoon, my father received the “complaint call.” Without asking for details or understanding the situation, he hopped on his old, leaky motorcycle and stormed straight to the school, dragging me out of class and publicly interrogating me.

The sun was blazing on the playground. He stood before me, his anger overshadowing any reason: “What are you doing at school? Who do you think you are?” I opened my mouth to explain, but suddenly realised that no matter what I said, he wouldn’t listen.

What’s more ironic is that soon after, a few “troublemakers” in the class threatened to settle the score with me after school. I gritted my teeth and told him about it—I thought at least this time he would stand up for me, even if it was just a simple, ‘Don't worry, I'm here for you.’ But after hearing it, his tone was as cold as iron: ‘If I hear you've had any trouble with these guys again, you're dead meat when you get back.’

At that moment, I understood: he wasn't being unreasonable; he simply didn't care whether I was wronged or not. His entire understanding of school life was ‘study hard and don't cause trouble.’ As for whether you were bullied or had to endure those gloomy afternoons alone, he never asked and had no intention of knowing. He was only highly sensitive to the idea of ‘others coming to complain’—not because he was worried about what might happen to me, but because he was worried about his own reputation being tarnished.

He often says, “One must know their limits,” with unwavering certainty, but he’s never truly taught me what boundaries are, nor has he ever given me even a shred of security. He warns me not to bully others, yet he’s never asked if I’m being bullied myself; he stresses “don’t associate with troublemakers,” yet he’s never considered that sometimes, it’s not you seeking trouble—trouble finds you.

In such an environment, I gradually developed a nearly pathological ‘people-pleasing personality.’ I dared not offend anyone, dared not refuse any requests, and always carefully maintained a surface relationship that seemed peaceful but was actually oppressive. Because I knew that no matter what the circumstances were, once there was a commotion, it would always be me who got scolded at home.

This state of being overly sensitive to others, avoiding conflict, and never making anyone unhappy accompanied me throughout my adolescence and even into my adult workplace. It wasn't until many years later that I began to slowly dismantle this shell of pleasing the world and suppressing myself.

Later, during high school, I lived in a rented house off-campus. The landlord had a vegetable patch by the door, where they grew some spinach. There was a water tap nearby, which was where the elderly women in the area washed their hair. Every evening, several people would squat there to wash their hair, with shampoo foam and hair flowing into the vegetable patch. My father would dig up a bunch of spinach from the patch, wash it briefly, and cook it into soup. I took a few sips, found hair in it, and even saw newspaper, nearly making me vomit.

In winter, after evening self-study until 10 PM, if my mother was home, there would be hot soup and rice. But if my father was home, dinner was just one or two loaves of bread, the cheapest kind, costing one or two yuan, even two yuan was considered too expensive.

Once I asked him if we could buy better bread, and he said, ‘Why don't you study harder instead of comparing things?’

That night when I came home, I was cold and hungry. I took a couple of bites of the dry bread, sat down, and continued doing my homework. The wind kept blowing in from outside, my stomach was empty, and my head felt fuzzy. I didn't understand. If he was too lazy to boil a bowl of hot soup at night, why did he have to buy the cheapest bread, and why did he think that was ‘normal’?

His frugality stems not from poverty but from a deeply ingrained belief that ‘waste is unacceptable.’ He is exceptionally price-sensitive, as if any expenditure exceeding the bare minimum for survival marks the beginning of decadence. A two-yuan loaf of bread is less practical than a one-yuan one, hot soup is less economical than cold water, free spinach from the doorstep is more practical than buying it, and washing vegetables is a waste of water.

He trimmed life down to a thread, leaving only enough to sustain breathing, cutting away all the excess. Like the pot of bone broth he simmered for three days, never adding any other seasonings, believing salt alone sufficed; he treated ‘saving’ as a life philosophy, yet failed to realise that if one lives too frugally, it can suffocate those around them.

An even more extreme instance occurred during a cold winter. He insisted on moving the coal stove inside to keep warm while sleeping. I reminded him that with the doors and windows sealed shut, lighting the stove at night could lead to carbon monoxide poisoning. He waved it off, saying, “It’s not that easy to get poisoned,” and didn’t take it seriously. The next morning, I was woken up by a neighbour knocking on the window. At that moment, my head felt like it was exploding, I was dizzy and short of breath, and I felt completely disoriented. If I hadn't stayed up late the night before finishing my homework and gotten up early that morning, I probably would have passed out in the rental house.

I also had to be at school by six in the morning for morning self-study. Usually, my mother would wake me up at half past five, and I would wash up and eat breakfast, just in time. But my father insisted I get up at 5 a.m., saying I should use that half-hour to read English, claiming, ‘Morning is when memory is best.’

But I went to bed after midnight every night, had classes all day, and still had homework to do after evening study sessions. Where was the extra energy? He wouldn't listen. Whenever he was home, he would wake me up at exactly 5 a.m. every morning. I read English while fighting off sleep, my mind a blur. I have no idea what use that half-hour of drowsy memorisation serves. He thinks he understands study methods and believes I’m just lazy. But I know I’m not lazy—I’m genuinely exhausted.

His stubbornness in demanding things from others stems from a deep-seated sense of certainty. He believes his judgements are always correct and that following his methods will prevent any problems. Even if something goes wrong, he’ll say it was just an “accident” and not his fault. His stubbornness wasn't the loud, confrontational kind, but a silent, unyielding resolve. It seemed reasonable, and every word he said made sense, but if you didn't follow his way, life became a constant struggle. You'd be worn down day after day, repeatedly told, ‘Only he knows how to live life.’

I've been working for over a decade, striving in Singapore, while he occasionally stays with me for a short visit. Though he's grown older, his passion for imparting wisdom has only intensified. He shares his life experiences with me: how to save money, manage daily life, maintain good health, navigate office politics, and raise children. I listened in disbelief, as if the person who once didn't care whether I was bullied at school, nearly died from carbon monoxide poisoning, and couldn't even afford to buy a two-dollar loaf of bread—eating hair and spinach soup—was now sitting on my sofa, analysing ‘refined lifestyle management’ with me.

He urged me to take care of my health and lose weight, saying that greasy and high-sugar foods are the most harmful. But then, when he saw that pork knuckles were on sale downstairs, he immediately bought some to stew into soup, claiming it was for ‘nourishment.’ When I came home that night and said I didn't feel like eating pork knuckles, so I just boiled some instant noodles to fill my stomach, he flew into a rage, scolding me for ‘wasting good food’ and ‘not understanding thrift.’ His so-called healthy lifestyle was managed through anger. It seems that only what he eats is nourishing; what you eat is wrong.

When he was young, he was marginalised at work and spent decades stuck at the bottom, never rising to even a mid-level position by the time he retired. Yet when it comes to workplace unwritten rules, he endlessly analyses ‘how to build good relationships with superiors,’ ‘when to endure,’ and ‘how to climb the ranks quickly.’ He packages failure as wisdom, beautifies frustration as strategy, and uses the dead-end path he’s walked for decades as a roadmap for your life.

He often taught me, ‘You should spend money wisely and save it for emergencies.’ But when it came to actually going out, his way of saving money was never based on reason, but on willpower. When I went out with him, he refused to spend a few hundred yuan more on a high-speed rail ticket and insisted on taking me on an eight-hour bus ride. After the journey left us nearly exhausted, we stopped at a service area to buy some food, yet he still deemed it a luxury—“Just endure it a bit longer; we can have a bowl of porridge when we get home.” His so-called frugality was about trading physical effort and time for a psychological victory, then telling you that’s what life wisdom is all about.

So why do young people resent the lectures of the older generation? It’s not because we don’t respect the path they’ve walked, but because we’ve watched them stumble and fall so many times, yet they still insist on forcing us to retrace their steps. The saying, “I’ve eaten more salt than you’ve eaten rice,” is never a symbol of wisdom, but more like a self-defence for hypertension.

What we resent is not experience itself, but the attitude of forcing experience upon others as absolute truth. A person who has spent their entire life stuck in a rut suddenly becomes a life coach; someone who never even touched the fringes of power by retirement boasts about their authoritative interpretation of workplace unwritten rules; and someone who has no sense of dignity in life lectures you on what “refined management” means. They use ‘I'm doing this for your own good’ as a universal shield, yet dare not confront the fact that their own lives offer no worthwhile answers to emulate.

As for me, the so-called ‘rebellious son,’ it's not that I refuse to listen, but that I've heard too much and live too clearly. I once smiled as I ate that bowl of spinach soup with hair in it, woke up from the nightmare of carbon monoxide poisoning, and forced myself to swallow every bite of that cheap bread with a bitter smile, but we know these aren't lessons—they're cautionary tales.

Now that I'm a father myself, when my daughter gets into a conflict at school, I won't tell her to bow her head and endure it. I'll only say: Don't be afraid. If there's an issue, we'll talk to the teacher, but if someone starts it, fight back!"

No matter how late her classes go, I'll remind the nanny to heat up a bowl of soup and prepare a meal; whatever she wants to eat or choose, I'll respect her preferences—even if something's on sale, if we don't need it, we won't buy it. We won’t command her to do things or control her life under the guise of “it’s for your own good.” Instead, we’ll show her through our actions: you deserve better choices.

Ironically, what truly teaches us to grow isn’t what they intended to teach us, but rather their own unnoticed stubbornness, failures, double standards, and absurdities. The pain we’ve experienced firsthand will eventually become the legacy we refuse to pass on.

One day, we too will grow old, perhaps sitting on our children’s sofa, but my only hope is that when that day comes, my daughter will recall us and say, “They didn’t lecture me; they simply loved me sincerely and with dignity.”