Amy Chua’s book excerpt “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior” has raised quite a stir since it was published a few weeks ago in the WSJ. In case you missed this article that ran with this obnoxious title, here’s a quick synopsis: Immigrant parents raise academically and musically superior children because they forbid their kids from attending sleepovers, dating, playing any instruments other than piano or violin, practicing less than three hours a day or getting anything less than an A (A- doesn't count). Sounds like an awesome childhood, no?
The article inspired over 7,000 comments. Not surprisingly, many of the comments are from Asian Americans, a group not usually known for being vociferous in public debates. Some praised her for her tough-love approach, but most condemned her for her harshness. I was vexed as well, to say the least, and I had planned on pouring out my own sob story about my strict childhood. But as I sat down to write this, I realized a truth that had eluded me for years-- upon reflection, to my great surprise, it did not seem like my parents were nearly as harsh as I had remembered them to be. Sure, they had their own peculiar rules, but compared to Chua's parenting approach, they almost seemed kind of….lax. Damn it - all these years I've spent in the therapy office have been for nothing.
Regardless, I’m still too familiar with what it was like to be a part of environment where nothing short of excellence is expected. I grew up in a part of New Jersey with 18% Asian population, and most Chinese families knew one another, through get-togethers, science fairs and the gossip chain. Their kids’ achievements were breathtaking, far overshadowing those of my own. In the words of my guidance counselor: “You’re bright, Twirly, but these kids…(his eyes almost teary)... they are BRILLIANT.” Geez. Thanks, Mr. Guidance Counselor; way to build up my self esteem.
At PTA meetings, all you had to do stroll along the gossiping Asian parents and you’d overhear them talking about Ha-Fu (Harvard), Pu-Lince-Ton (Princeton), S-Tan-Fu (Stamford), or MIT (no translation needed here). And Chua was not kidding when she described Asian parents’ obsession over perfect scores. My cousin once took her LSAT, and got a few points shy of perfect score. She excitedly reported her score to her dad, only to be told: “A few points less...not perfect after all.”
In comparison, my parents did not blink when I brought home some Bs and an occasional C, but as I mentioned before, they were fixated on setting other absurd rules. My blog would go on for pages if I had to list them all, so here are a couple of the top ones.
Rule #1 –Thou shall not have too much fun. While I was allowed to attend the occasional sleepovers and parties, I was forbidden to go out more than once or twice a month. Why, you ask? Because they did not believe that a kid my age should have too much fun. While it was hard to see it at the time, there was definitely a silver lining to this crazy rule of theirs. As a result of this commandment, I naturally gravitated towards friends who had just-as-strict parents and ended up spending my high school years engaging in good clean fun: Running on the track team, having some giggles at sleepovers and attending the occasional high school dance. I was completely oblivious to the level of partying, drugs and alcohol at our high school. So much so that a while ago, as I was hanging out with an old high school acquaintance, I started reminiscing about the “innocence” of our high school. He looked at my wide-eyed and asked, “What the hell are you talking about?” “There were no parties with drugs or alcohol,” I earnestly explained. He snickered:, “There were plenty of parties with drug and alcohol., it's just that YOU weren’t invited!”
Rule #2 - No dating. I was not allowed to date, although it was not like I had a long line of admirers at my door, so I guess I couldn’t really complain much. In any case, my parents dropped the rule during my junior year, and to their chagrin, I began dating Gino (not his real name, but close), a guy I met while working at Caldor, "the everyday discount store." Gino was an older boy from a rival high school, and let’s just say that he was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. But what really got under Mom and Dad’s skin was that he had a black ponytail, a cheesy little mustache (it was a sad little 'stache; it made his upper lip look dirty), drove a car that lit up on the bottom and wore a white tux for our senior prom. The guy looked like he had just stepped out of The Sopranos. Dad couldn’t stand the sight of him and left the room promptly whenever he came over. Mom thought the whole thing amusing and made fun of him every time he came over (not to his face, of course). Even today, Dad’s eyes still twitch every time Mom brings him up: “remember his ponytail?” she’d mock.
All of this aside, it’s interesting that it took Chua's provocative article to make me realize that I didn’t have it so tough growing up. Maybe it’s also because I’m now a parent to a headstrong child, and I’m thinking it may not be such a bad idea to impose their rules on EB every now and then. After all, I think I turned out pretty darned OK, despite the fact that I was a bright-but-not-brilliant kid that was not Ha-Fu, Pu-lince-ton, S-Tan-Fu or MIT-bound.
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