A couple of weeks ago while listening to the radio on a long commute, I heard a review of Amy Chua's book, Battle Hymn of The Tiger Mother, and ever since I've been hooked. The review was provocative, as has been every article, blog post and facebook status update I've read in response to this Type A, upper middle class Yale law professor who raised her daughters to be the best at everything they tried. The first review I read said that the controversial book (a memoir, although that is mentioned less than it should be) was sure to be the subject of online "mom" discussions for weeks to come. They were right. I was set up.
Chua is Chinese, the daughter of immigrants married to a fellow professor who is Jewish. When they agreed to have kids, he insisted they be raised Jewish, she insisted they be raised "The Chinese Way." They were two affluent over-achievers with intensely different backgrounds who made agreements about how they would raise their children, as if life were simply a matter of contracts and marital handshakes. Or so the shtick goes. In at least one interview with Chua (I'm reading them all), she admits that her husband asked her to take him out of the story because he felt she didn't represent him correctly.
For years I've been fascinated by extremists - those people who are so strong in their beliefs that nothing else gets in. When my step-sister and her husband lived in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles, I sat on the porch on Saturday morning enthralled with the Hasidim walking to and from shul. If I could have gone down the stairs, crossed the street and followed them throughout their day of worship and rest, I would have. What did it take to be so devout? What did it mean to stand out so distinctly? Was it hot under all that black and wigs? When was the last time the husband touched the wife intimately? Which lights were left on back at home? Was anyone unhappy?
Similarly, when I flew back from Madrid on the day after the volcano erupted in Iceland on what would be one of the last flights out, I sat next to an oil and gas engineer (ironic, considering I work in renewable energy) who was also LDS. I learned the short-hand for Latter Day Saints from the television show Big Love. This made me feel both smart and subversive. As we were talking, I easily figured out my neighbor as he told me about his large family while turning down caffeinated beverages offered to him by the flight attendants and mentioning, in code, being on mission when he was younger.
I was sitting in the window seat, he in the aisle, on a long, cramped flight stale with the air of too many people who had all barely made it out of Europe. What better opportunity than to grill him for hours about the Mormon version of heaven (on earth as far as I could surmise), whether any of his 8 kids were gay (none that he knew of) and his stance on gay parents (not supportive, but not unkind). While trying to convince him that Big Love actually made me appreciate his people, I learned about the angel Moroni, Jesus' stay in Central America and I almost walked off the plane with The Book of Mormon. I might have actually taken were it written like a novel, but I admitted to him I can only handle so many "begets" and “begots” before I fall into a stupor.
As a teenager, I remember getting very upset with my mother and her boyfriend when they wouldn't agree to send me to the Scientology boarding school outside of town. Never mind that it was for rich kids or the fact that we weren't Scientologists. I was in love with vocal jazz and two students, the daughter and son of jazz pianist Chick Corea, had a Manhattan Transfer cover band called Time Out that I loved so much I snuck into bars with my mom to hear them play. I sang along to every song, tears in my eyes, imagining what it would be like to go to school with them, in a place with strict rules and beliefs, one that would shape me and turn me into something or someone, maybe even a famous (and beautiful) singer.
With the same fascination and enthusiasm, I picked up Chua's book, eager to read her reflections on her extreme parenting methods. Not because I wanted to emulate them, but because I am simply riveted by those whose lives are both outside my own experience and somewhat austere. Here was a book presenting the antitheses of "Western Parenting" which, according to Chua, lacks focus, discipline or inherent respect of the children for their parents. The first few chapters were so funny they made me laugh out loud. I couldn’t believe the reviewers missed the obvious self-depreciation and hilarity. But they were also disturbing. This was the story of a women hell bent on turning out brilliant students and classical musicians.
For years I've been fascinated by extremists - those people who are so strong in their beliefs that nothing else gets in. When my step-sister and her husband lived in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles, I sat on the porch on Saturday morning enthralled with the Hasidim walking to and from shul. If I could have gone down the stairs, crossed the street and followed them throughout their day of worship and rest, I would have. What did it take to be so devout? What did it mean to stand out so distinctly? Was it hot under all that black and wigs? When was the last time the husband touched the wife intimately? Which lights were left on back at home? Was anyone unhappy?
Similarly, when I flew back from Madrid on the day after the volcano erupted in Iceland on what would be one of the last flights out, I sat next to an oil and gas engineer (ironic, considering I work in renewable energy) who was also LDS. I learned the short-hand for Latter Day Saints from the television show Big Love. This made me feel both smart and subversive. As we were talking, I easily figured out my neighbor as he told me about his large family while turning down caffeinated beverages offered to him by the flight attendants and mentioning, in code, being on mission when he was younger.
I was sitting in the window seat, he in the aisle, on a long, cramped flight stale with the air of too many people who had all barely made it out of Europe. What better opportunity than to grill him for hours about the Mormon version of heaven (on earth as far as I could surmise), whether any of his 8 kids were gay (none that he knew of) and his stance on gay parents (not supportive, but not unkind). While trying to convince him that Big Love actually made me appreciate his people, I learned about the angel Moroni, Jesus' stay in Central America and I almost walked off the plane with The Book of Mormon. I might have actually taken were it written like a novel, but I admitted to him I can only handle so many "begets" and “begots” before I fall into a stupor.
As a teenager, I remember getting very upset with my mother and her boyfriend when they wouldn't agree to send me to the Scientology boarding school outside of town. Never mind that it was for rich kids or the fact that we weren't Scientologists. I was in love with vocal jazz and two students, the daughter and son of jazz pianist Chick Corea, had a Manhattan Transfer cover band called Time Out that I loved so much I snuck into bars with my mom to hear them play. I sang along to every song, tears in my eyes, imagining what it would be like to go to school with them, in a place with strict rules and beliefs, one that would shape me and turn me into something or someone, maybe even a famous (and beautiful) singer.
With the same fascination and enthusiasm, I picked up Chua's book, eager to read her reflections on her extreme parenting methods. Not because I wanted to emulate them, but because I am simply riveted by those whose lives are both outside my own experience and somewhat austere. Here was a book presenting the antitheses of "Western Parenting" which, according to Chua, lacks focus, discipline or inherent respect of the children for their parents. The first few chapters were so funny they made me laugh out loud. I couldn’t believe the reviewers missed the obvious self-depreciation and hilarity. But they were also disturbing. This was the story of a women hell bent on turning out brilliant students and classical musicians.
Also, I'll admit, if every white liberal woman around me was reacting with horror (as they were, as I did the first time I heard about it), I felt compelled to check it out and discover if that response was one of cultural misunderstanding. I really appreciated reading a Chinese woman's perspective on parenting. I crave cultural specificity. I don't like the way the "norm" erases people and experiences and tells us we are all the same (whatever that norm happens to be at the moment, it's always in flux based on the latest research or product or PR campaign).
I admire Chua for putting it out there. I don't think she's written a unique tale (what’s unique is that she wrote it). I do believe there are kids all over the world that are pushed to practice to perfection in order to achieve what is labeled as "greatness." Images of the opening ceremonies from the Olympics held in China keep popping in my mind. I remember stories circulating about the unbelievable hours required of the performers, the grueling rehearsals, the lack of bathroom breaks, the requirement of perfection. I have an outsider's fascination with these experiences, and yet as a daughter and a mother, I feel close to the story being told.
Each time I pick up the book and read a chapter, I'm momentarily a little more strict in response to my children as I secretly eye the piano and think about starting the kids on lessons. This response is always short-lived and often followed by a sudden urge play with them in their rooms or give them treats. After all, I'm 3rd or 4th generation white semi-Jew, a wishy-washy magical thinker with positive parenting tendencies and, if you ask certain daycare providers of the past, a lack of follow-through.
I appreciate reading about a life so different from my own, even as I question whether there are universal truths about "right" and "wrong" ways to raise children and about childhood itself, a relatively new concept in the history of humanity as far as I know. I'm also guessing that if you took all the ways my friends and I were raised, and wrote them down as a parenting philosophy, there would be equally aghast responses.
My takeaways:
1. I'm a sucker for a great PR campaign. Amy Chua’s publicists have got to be pretty happy with themselves right now.
3. I either do or do not have control of how my kids turn out. I'm guessing Chua might say the same.
