Yesterday after exercise class several of us chatted over coffee at a local watering hole. Its ambiance is homey, charming. Mis-matched furnishings fill a small space…tables, chairs, benches and sofas. The same could be said of the clientele…singles hunched over their lap-tops…couples huddled in corners…friends, like us, conversing and laughing…and then there’s the playgroups. They can range from a pair of moms with their toddlers, or like yesterday…a full-blown preschool’s worth of young ‘uns.
Within close proximity to the toddlers roundup, our group of middle-aged women got a little prickly at times with the noise and commotion surrounding us. We couldn’t hear ourselves talk, or think for that matter, above the shrieks and crashing of chairs on the floor. It didn’t help that the moms were too busy chatting with one another to intercept.
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Upon exiting the coffee house I mentioned to Kristina, friend and exercise instructor, what some of us had thought the owner might do to accommodate the needs of his customers. If he rented the vacant shop next door, he could have the adults fraternize in relative serenity in the old space, while moms and their children could happily spread out in the newer digs.
Without pause Kristina replied “We don’t really want to separate ourselves from other age groups. We need to comingle with them to keep ourselves from becoming old and crotchety.” She mayn’t have said those exact words, but I quickly got the drift…and wholeheartedly agreed. In fact I think she said it’s best not to cart ourselves off to retirement communities when we grow old.
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It’s not the first time I’ve heard say living in mixed neighborhoods is preferrable to homogenous ones, where everyone is of similar age and lifestyle. The young energize the old; the old share their wisdom born out of many more years of life experiences.
…the fountain of youth lies within…with a little help from without…
An interesting viewpoint as articulated by author Amy Chua in her soon-to-be published book “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother,” is that Chinese parenting succeeds at raising “math whizzes and musical prodigies” because it assumes their children are blessed with strong psyches, that they owe their parents everything, and that Chinese parents know what is best for their children and therefore override all of their children’s own desires and preferences.” In an excerpt that ran in the Wall Street Journal yesterday entitled “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior,” Chua proclaims
…Chinese daughters can’t have boyfriends in high school and…Chinese kids can’t go to sleep away camp. It’s also why no Chinese kid would ever dare say to their mother, “I got a part in the school play! I’m Villager Number Six. I’ll have to stay after school for rehearsal every day from 3:00 to 7:00, and I’ll also need a ride on weekends.” God help any Chinese kid who tried that one.
To her benefit, Chua does go on to say “Don’t get me wrong: It’s not that Chinese parents don’t care about their children. Just the opposite. They would give up anything for their children. It’s just an entirely different parenting model.” I wonder then “Where does one person begin, and the other end? If parent and child are so intricately intertwined, are their lives forever one?” Personally I don’t think I’d want a lifetime “make it or break it” responsibility. If my daughter doesn’t become a prima ballerina, then will I have failed as a parent? I’m just fine bringing her along with what physical and financial support my husband and I can muster, until she can literally, and figuratively, “stand on her own two feet.” Her flight forward is of her own making, not ours. Her successes, and failures, are hers to own, not ours. Without the pressure of having us “on her back,” the highs and lows of life are not doubled, or tripled. Our daughter can “soar” as high as her own body takes her, or hover as “close to the ground” as she needs when times are tough. No thanks! I don’t need to wallow in her glory, or despair in her sorrows. Truthfully, I’m still trying to carry the weight of my own personal baggage until the day I die. I couldn’t possibly carry someonelse’s as well, although believe me, moms never, ever, cut the umbilical cord.
Chua seems to denigrate the fact that Western parents dwell with anxiety upon the self-esteem of their children. “They worry about how their children will feel if they fail at something, and they constantly try to reassure their children about how good they are notwithstanding a mediocre performance on a test or at a recital.” As an example, Chua offers the comparison between the reaction of both Chinese and Westerners to a child’s less than excellent grade, an A, on a test. Her claim is that Westerners would be thrilled with an “A-,” and while some would be fine with a “B,” others would analyze the situation “express disapproval, but…not make their child feel inadequate or insecure, and they will not call their child ‘stupid,’ or ‘worthless’ or a ‘disgrace.’ ” Chua then suggests, perhaps correctly, that Westerners would try to find fault elsewhere than with their child, that he or she “does not test well or have aptitude in the subject or that there is something wrong with the curriculum and possibly the whole school.” Western parents, she claims, might even meet with the principal, challenge the school’s teaching method and perhaps, even the teacher’s credentials. No way would this scenario play out in a Chinese home. Instead, Chua says, the following is more likely to happen.
If a Chinese child gets a B–which would never happen–there would first be a screaming, hair-tearing explosion. The devastated Chinese mother would then get dozens, maybe hundreds of practice tests and work through them with her child for as long as it takes to get the grade up to an A.
Chinese parents demand perfect grades because they believe that their child can get them. If their child doesn’t get them, the Chinese parent assumes it’s because the child didn’t work hard enough. That’s why the solution to sub-standard performance is always to excoriate, punish and shame the child. The Chinese parent believes that their child will be strong enough to take the shaming and to improve from it. (And when Chinese kids do excel, there is plenty of ego-inflating parental praise lavished in the privacy of the home.)
The Chinese mother as a tough-as-nails “master sergeant,” does seem deserving of total ownership of her child’s life. According to Chua, “… Chinese mothers get in the trenches, putting in long grueling hours personally tutoring, training, interrogating and spying on their kids.” If the two are striving side-by-side for perfection, doesn’t it follow that mother and child should share equally in the reward?I’m being facetious, of course. But the author is very serious when she says that “Chinese children must spend their lives repaying their parents by obeying them and making them proud.”
Jed Chua, Amy’s spouse, has obviously come over to the “dark side.” She feels Western parents get the “short end of the stick,” if they subscribe to her husband’s way of thinking.
Children don’t choose their parents…They don’t even choose to be born. It’s parents who foist life on their kids, so it’s the parents’ responsibility to provide for them. Kids don’t owe their parents anything. Their duty will be to their own kids.
Perhaps without the author’s realizing it, or admitting it, her husband is providing balance in their family. It’s not far-fetched to think that their teenage daughters might seek comfort and solace from their Western dad, when their Chinese mother is too much of a bear. But I’m not sure she would ever let us in on that family secret if it did occur. Although one can read between the following lines uttered by a frustrated Amy. “I’m happy to be the one hated. And you can be the one they adore because you make them pancakes and take them to Yankee games.”
Ten paragraphs of Chua’s Journal article relate a personal “story in favor of coercion.” When her daughter Lulu was 7, she was learning a piano piece which required that “the two hands …keep schizophrenically different rhythms.” An “incredibly difficult” accomplishment for young players, in Chua’s own estimation. Nonetheless she browbeat her daughter into mastering the piece by using “every weapon and tactic I could think of. We worked right through dinner into the night, and I wouldn’t let Lulu get up, not for water, not even to go to the bathroom. The house became a war zone, and I lost my voice yelling, …” But this wasn’t the worst of it. The battle between mother and daughter actually began earlier in the day, when Lulu stomped off exclaiming that she was done practicing. After returning to the piano upon orders from her mom,
Lulu made me pay. She punched, thrashed and kicked. She grabbed the music score and tore it to shreds. I taped the score back together and encased it in a plastic shield so that it could never be destroyed again. Then I hauled Lulu’s dollhouse to the car and told her I’d donate it to the Salvation Army piece by piece if she didn’t have “The Little White Donkey” perfect by the next day. When Lulu said, “I thought you were going to the Salvation Army, why are you still here?” I threatened her with no lunch, no dinner, no Christmas or Hannukkah presents, no birthday parties for two, three, four years. When she still kept playing it wrong, I told her she was purposely working herself into a frenzy because she was secretly afraid she could’t do it. I told her to stop being lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic.
Jed took me aside. He told me to stop insulting Lulu–which I wasn’t even doing, I was just motivating her–and that he didn’t think threatening Lulu was helpful. Also, he said, maybe Lulu really just couldn’t do the technique–perhaps she didn’t have the coordination yet–had I considered that possibility? “You just don’t believe in her,” I accused. “That’s ridiculous,” Jed said scornfully. “Of course I do.” “Sophia could play the piece when she was this age.” “But Lulu and Sophia are different people,” Jed pointed out.
“Oh no, not this,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Everyone is special in their own special way,” I mimicked sarcastically. “Even losers are special in their own special way. Well don’t you worry, you don’t have to lift a finger. I’m willing to put in as long as it takes,…”
Guess what? Lulu mastered the piece, and at the end of the night she laughed and cuddled with mom in her bed. Go figure.
While I don’t agree with Amy Chua’s parenting practices, I do agree that there are different parenting styles. I also agree that what parents invest in the development of their children’s lives, significantly affects the people they become. I wouldn’t have had the stomach or the stamina to berate and threaten my daughter, to get her to return to her school lessons or violin practice. I’m a talker. I lectured a lot, still do, but not as much. The only time I thought my husband might leave me was when I insisted our 2-year-old daughter remain in her crib, despite her wails and pleading with outstretched arms to be brought into our bed one night. We never had a problem with her sleeping alone after that. But that wasn’t a trick passed along by my Chinese dad, it was something I’d read in a Western book for first-time parents.
I think Chua is right in feeling that we Westerners bring our own personal angst to bear when parenting. “Western parents have to struggle with their own conflicted feelings about achievement, and try to persuade themselves that they’re not disappointed about how their kids turned out.” Evidently Chinese parents have no qualms whatsoever about strong arming their children. Chua gives several reasons for this attitude. Practice makes perfect, and so it is crucial to override the resistance of their children. Once excellence is obtained, the activity will become fun. Furthermore, Chua suggests that “as a parent, one of the worst things you can do for your child’s self-esteem is to let them give up. On the flip side, there’s nothing better for building confidence than learning you can do something you thought you couldn’t.” And finally while both Western and Chinese parents want the best for their children, Chua writes that “many Chinese secretly believe that they care more about their children and are willing to sacrifice much more for them than Westerners, who seem perfectly content to let their children turn out badly.” She goes on to say
Western parents try to respect their children’s individuality, encouraging them to pursue their true passions, supporting their choices, and providing positive reinforcement and a nurturing environment. By contrast, the Chinese believe that the best way to protect their children is by preparing them for the future, letting them see what they’re capable of, and arming them with skills, work habits and inner confidence that no one can ever take away.
It’s a well-known fact that HONOR of family and country is a significant characteristic in an Asian person’s life. While highly commendable in sustaining a race and a culture, it can come at a very high price to an individual not inclined to live a robotic life. I’m reminded of the protesting Chinese students who gathered in Tianamen Square, some having lost their lives as a result.
What becomes of children who do not measure up? Are they ostracized, or sold into slavery? Why are millions of Chinese working in “sweat shops” producing goods for the global market? Are there no suicides among Chinese children?
Amy Chua is a professor at Yale Law School and author of several books. She’s a shining example of Chinese parenting at its best.
My daughter didn’t attend college, choosing instead to follow her passion to become a professional dancer. My husband would’ve liked her to obtain a college degree so that she’d have a safety net. It’s conceivable that our daughter will one day pursue higher education. Many dancers do. When she does, it’s likely her experiences thus far will make her a more focused student. As of right now however, our daughter has achieved a goal she set for herself. With unrelenting self-discipline, she pursued her career. And so it’s with great pride that she takes her place in the community as an upstanding citizen, already making a substantive contribution with her art.
Chua and I have taken divergent paths in parenting. She preferred to “throw everything, including the kitchen sink”, at her daughters. I preferred to restrain myself, since I was the product of regular beatings. We both seem content with our mothering, and I know my daughter is 100% in favor of how she was raised. She told me so, when I asked, and I believe her. I can only wonder what Amy’s children would respond, if asked the same question.
We should all ask ourselves, “Is how we were raised, the way we want our children to raise their children?” Because 9 times out of 10, that’s exactly what will happen. Only a conscious effort to break the mold, like I did, will make for a different outcome. Children are “clean slates” upon which we are the first to pen the course of their lives. That is our legacy as parents. I’m fine with mine; are you with yours?
For those interested, Amy Chua will answer readers’ questions Thursday on Review’s new blog, Ideas Market.
Previous post was probably not clear. “Why blog” is a new “page,” along with the other “pages” listed directly under the title HUGMAMMA’S ATTENTION TO DETAIL, i.e. “Home,” “About,” “Bucket List,” and “Top Honors.” Noticed no visitors had viewed “Why blog”, so thought I’d clarify. Hopefully this will draw your attention to the top of the blog.
Something to think about, and plan ahead. If Halloween’s your “trick-or-treat,” then these might intrigue your guests, and keep the conversation howling.
Devilish Drink – pour grenadine syrup (as much or as little, to your taste) into a large glass pitcher. Slowly add chillded mango lemonade or your favorite bright orange juice or drink on top. Let stand—layers will separate. Beautifully delicious!
Spider Cookie Sandwiches – makes 12 cookie sandwiches: 1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, 1 tube (16 oz) refrigerated cookie dough (softened), 1 brick (8 oz) cream cheese, 1 jar (7 or 7 1/2 oz) marshmallow cream (such as Marshmallow Fluff), Orange gel food color
Knead cocoa into cookie dough in large bowl. Shape into an 8-in.-long log; wrap in plastic wrap. Refrigerate 4 hours or overnight until firm.
Heat oven to 350 degrees. Unwrap dough; cut into 1/4-in.-thick slices (you should have 24). Place 2 in. apart on ungreased baking sheets. Bake 8 to 10 minutes until set. Let cool slightly on baking sheet; remove to wire rack to cool completely.
Beat cream cheese with electric mixer until smooth. Add marshmallow cream; beat until fluffy. Remove 1/3 cup, tint orange, and spoon into quart-size ziptop bag; reserve. Spread a slightly rounded Tbsp frosting on half the cookies. Top with remaining cookies, pressing gently to sandwich together.
Snip a tiny corner off bag with orange frosting; pipe web design on top and down sides of cookies. Refrigerate until serving.
When my daughter called asking if I’d visit with her, I didn’t hesitate. My husband quickly arranged for Southwest nonstop tickets to the east coast. I’ve been here a couple of weeks, enjoying a very relaxing time doing what I do best, mothering. Gone all day to rehearsals, my daughter arrives home to a hot meal, lovingly prepared. Cooking for her, someone who not only appreciates a delicious meal, but also the labor involved, motivates me to be the gourmet chef I know I can be. It’s not always in evidence, for I am prone to bouts of laziness, preferring to order take-out. But seeing my daughter walk through the front door, sniffing the air, “oohing and aahing” over the smells emanating from the kitchen, I relish being “Mother of the Year” to my 24-year-old, independent, career ballerina.
Scarfing down a delicious meal, clearing away the dishes and food, we settle down to playing bananagrams. A nightly ritual, we go several rounds. Where I may have won most games when I first arrived; we are now evenly matched. My daughter wins some; and I win some. We both like the odds so much better than when my husband joins us.
Having been a voracious reader for decades, my husband almost always wins at word games, including crosswords and Scrabble. I’d given up playing these and other games, like cards, with him because he was merciless in his desire to win. He still is. My only recourse then (and now) was to threaten to throw over the game, board, pieces, cards, whatever. Threats and pleas fell on deaf ears. The man was (and remains) a gladiator in his own home, battling until he’s defeated his opponent, left whimpering and pouting, swearing never to enter into another match again…ever! Game playing is the rare occasion when being the youngest sibling in my family and his being the eldest in his, has the hairs on my neck standing straight up in defiance. Unlike the old days of my childhood, I refuse to give in and give up. In other words, I’m no longer inclined to “lay down and die.” Perhaps not engaging in game playing for decades has contributed to our happy marriage of 40 years. Hey, whatever it takes!
Time to get dinner started. Showtime is in an hour or so. Don’t want to disappoint my audience of one. She always appreciates my mothering, whether long distance or in person. It’s wonderful that my 24-year-old still needs me at 61. Parenting has always been my favorite job!