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| As a kid, I spoke English to my Chinese immigrant parents, who replied to me and my siblings mostly in kind. My grandmother, who lived with us, was different. She could communicate to us only in Mandarin; what we couldn’t understand in words, we’d figure out through pantomime. A few phrases in Mandarin are particularly vivid to me — the ones my parents used when they grumbled about something: hulihutu, or “muddle-headed”; fa feng, or “to go crazy”; and most striking of all, mamahuhu, which means “so-so” or “mediocre” (and also “careless”). |
| In Mandarin, ma means horse and hu means tiger; the idiom mamahuhu literally translates, then, as “horse horse tiger tiger.” In one of the fables that explains its origins, a slapdash artist paints a tiger’s head but changes his mind midway and completes the creature with a horse’s body. (Etymologically, it most likely began as a colloquialism borrowed from Manchu culture during the Qing dynasty.) According to Chairman Mao’s personal physician, in 1956 the revered leader met an elderly woman living in a dilapidated shack on an island in the Xiang River. When he asked about her quality of life, instead of proclaiming that the revolution had liberated her, she defiantly muttered, “Mamahuhu.” She hadn’t experienced the prosperity that Mao promised. |
| Mamahuhu became a family in-joke for me and my siblings. At first we found the concept funny — and the sound of it, too. Sometimes my brother and I chanted the string of vowels, hooting the “hu” like owls — bewildering our parents — before dissolving into laughter. But as we grew older, we realized mamahuhu also described our family. |
| My parents and my grandmother could be precise when it mattered — say, when my father, a structural engineer, conducted a total stress-test analysis of the Sears Tower, as it was known then. But they handled much else inexactly, with varying degrees of success. My grandmother could pleat pork dumplings with grace and speed. But when she packed my lunchbox, she stacked an inch of processed meat between white bread with no condiments, in imitation of the American sandwiches she rarely ate. My mother is a retired plant physiologist whose research led to multiple patents related to improving plant growth and food safety. But when she helped me on an elementary-school project, she scooped out steamed rice to use as an adhesive, instead of buying a glue stick. My tinfoil crown fell apart in class. |
| Neither my grandmother nor my mother had been schooled in American norms; they had to fake it to make it. When I was a child, the mamahuhu attitude sometimes embarrassed me. But it also taught me not to get hung up on mainstream ideals of perfection — and to embrace originality instead. That old woman who told the truth to Mao didn’t seek his approval by telling him what everyone else did — and among her neighbors, only she remained sharp in the memories of his physician. My elders, too, forged their own path in a country that could be hostile to, or dismissive of, Asian immigrants. |
| Out of a sense of pride, my siblings and I transformed mamahuhu from an adjective into an ethos. It’s the name we gave my mother’s car, and it’s the philosophy behind my brother’s repairs around the house or on vehicles: “So-so, good enough,” he told me. “Because a lot of the time, that’s all that’s needed.” |
| Growing up, I talked about mamahuhu only at home. But lately, as elements of Chinese culture have spread throughout the world, I realize my family isn’t alone in our affection for the term: A Michelin-starred chef playfully borrowed the expression for his restaurant in San Francisco, as did sketch comedians in Shanghai who specialized in viral videos, with their own line of mamahuhu-logoed apparel, throw pillows and face masks. A Paris restaurant group chose the name to break free from the “conventional codes” of Asian food and embrace their “quirky side.” Various accounts on TikTok, Twitter and Instagram use the word in their names; it’s also an entry in the Urban Dictionary. |
| My sons — who are of Chinese, Serbian and Northern European descent — don’t speak Mandarin, but they find the mamahuhu fable darkly hilarious. “That’s probably how I would have drawn the picture, too,” one said. It’s our family’s practice to make do, and as the pandemic set in — no in-person school, no travel possible — the philosophy helped us survive. I hiked with my twins in the hills, doling out Starbursts or Skittles every half-mile — history, science and recess, all in one — at times inspired, at times mamahuhu, with its power, possibility and irreverence. |
| With this cleareyed worldview, my 10-year-olds don’t rely on tradition or precedence as their only guide. They understand that best-laid plans are no guarantee of safety or happiness. It’s a lesson — one of mamahuhu’s many — that I want to impress upon them most of all. Last summer our family considered visiting Hawaii, and again for spring break earlier this year, but we’ve repeatedly postponed the vacation because of the pandemic. In the end, we settled for a road trip to Southern California to see their grandparents and baby cousin. As the blankness of the interstate scrolled by, I asked the boys if they were excited. |
| “This trip is mamahuhu,” one joked. Everyone laughed. A manifesto for the next generation, too. |
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