Asian American success is often presented as something of a

Hear the words of Jenny Zhang, who unveils a truth that is often whispered but seldom spoken with clarity: “Asian American success is often presented as something of a horror – robotic, unfeeling machines psychotically hellbent on excelling, products of abusive tiger parenting who care only about test scores and perfection, driven to succeed without even knowing why.” This is no casual remark, but a cry against the prison of perception, the heavy mask placed upon a people by a society that sees achievement yet refuses to recognize the humanity within it. These words pierce us like an arrow, for they remind us that triumph, when stripped of soul, can be made to look monstrous.

From the earliest migrations to the new world, Asian American families bore the weight of survival. They arrived in lands that did not welcome them, and through toil and sacrifice, they carved out a place where none was offered. To survive, they turned to diligence, discipline, and the pursuit of excellence. Yet the very virtues that sustained them became distorted in the eyes of others. Their successes in school, in work, in discipline, were recast as cold and mechanical. Society, uncomfortable with their rise, sought to explain it not as the fruit of resilience but as the product of cruelty and obsession. Thus, success itself became a horror story, stripped of its context, stripped of its humanity.

The tale of the “tiger parent” became a weapon, a caricature that reduced loving but demanding mothers and fathers into tyrants, and children into joyless vessels. But this simplification denies the truth. For many immigrant parents, strictness was not born of malice but of fear: fear that their children would be crushed beneath the weight of poverty, discrimination, or invisibility. They demanded excellence not because they sought robotic perfection, but because they longed to arm their children with armor against a hostile world. What looks like harshness was often an expression of fierce love, distorted through the lens of survival.

History offers us a parallel in the story of the Jewish people in Europe. For centuries, they too were branded outsiders, burdened by prejudice and restriction. And yet, through relentless dedication to study and trade, they rose in achievement. Their diligence was both a shield and a survival strategy. But just as with Asian Americans today, their successes were twisted into accusations: cold, calculating, obsessed with intellect, unfeeling. Society, unwilling to honor perseverance, turned triumph into suspicion. Jenny Zhang’s words echo this ancient cycle—when marginalized people succeed, their humanity is doubted, and their achievement becomes a myth used to wound them.

The deeper meaning of the quote lies in its recognition of dehumanization. To call a people “machines” is to deny their joy, their fear, their laughter, their tenderness. It is to forget the child who studies late not only because of parental pressure, but because she dreams of building a better life. It is to erase the father who works long hours not out of cruelty, but out of love for his family’s future. When success is seen only as compulsion, the heart is erased. And when the heart is erased, the story of a people becomes a lie.

Yet we must not only lament. Let us take this as a lesson: that success without understanding is shallow, and perception without compassion is dangerous. We must learn to look beyond test scores, trophies, and accolades, to see the living souls behind them. Each act of achievement is not robotic, but born of sacrifice, of late nights, of whispered hopes, of unspoken fears. To honor this truth is to restore humanity to those who have been reduced to caricature.

Therefore, let all who hear these words be watchful: never reduce a people to their achievements, nor assume discipline is cruelty, nor mistake diligence for emptiness. Instead, seek to understand the story beneath the success. Ask: what fears drove it? What dreams sustained it? What love birthed it? And in doing so, we restore honor to those who endure, and we remind ourselves that true greatness is not in perfection, but in perseverance carried with soul.

Thus Jenny Zhang’s words, though framed in sorrow, are also a call to awakening. They teach us that success, when divorced from humanity, becomes a horror—but when understood in its fullness, it is a song of resilience. And if we listen with compassion, we will no longer see machines, but human beings, whose excellence is not monstrous but magnificent.