I couldn’t help but gravitate toward the recent controversy of Amy Chua and her “tiger mothering” methods. After all, like my other Chinese (or Asian, really) first/second generation counterparts, we’ve all been through similar childhoods, and we’ve all had a good self-deprecating chortle at all the “fobby” things our parents did and made us do. Ms Chua, however, is an entity unto herself. Extremely neurotic, obsessive, controlling—she is all those things, and then some. She herself admits in her book that she wouldn’t wish herself on any child. This book is by no means a how-to guide for parenting—it is a surprisingly entertaining (sometimes on a perverse level) memoir, fusing a celebration of parental success with a cautionary tale of the dangers of caring too much.

Initially when I first read Chua’s article online I was bemused and unsurprised by the anger she generated, but then as I read on I grew appalled by Chua’s way of thinking in terms of Western and Chinese cultures. I thought to myself, here is yet another one of those entitled Asian mothers who brags about how awesome her children are—what music, science and academic prodigies they are! We’ve all encountered the kind at one point or another. But after reading Chua’s memoir in full (the article is only a selected excerpt), I was surprised by how (relatively) reasonable she sounds. Her writing is eloquent and engaging and I found myself breezing through her story quickly. It made me wonder that most of the people who are in a furore over Chua are simply misinformed. That is not to say I approve of Chua’s methods—they are severe and mind-boggling, but conversely I can appreciate the intense dedication and effort Chua committed to her two daughters’ upbringing, so I feel like I understand Chua’s motivations a little better, and even admire her sheer audacity. Now that’s a freaking tiger.

Chua first introduces her story with a kind of disclaimer:

This is a story about a mother, two daughters, and two dogs. It’s also about Mozart and Mendelssohn, the piano and the violin, and how we made it to Carnegie Hall.

This was supposed to be a story of how Chinese parents are better at raising kids than Western ones.

But instead, it’s about a bitter clash of cultures, a fleeting taste of glory, and how I was humbled by a thirteen year old.

This does sum up the the memoir nicely.

Chua labels herself as “the Chinese mother” who raises stereotypically successful kids—the maths geniuses and musical prodigies. Chua’s husband, Jed, curiously, is Jewish, and it was agreed that their children be raised Jewish but speak Chinese Mandarin (and by default, taught in the Chinese way). You can imagine the powerhouse of a dynamic this family must be. Strangely, we don’t hear much of Jed in the book, and it may seem odd and negligent of him to not intervene in conflicts between his wife and his daughter/s. It must come down to the “Tiger Mother’s FEARSOME POWER!” which conservative Chinese mothers tend to have. I know this first hand.

I want to make it clear: there is strictly no such thing as “Chinese parenting”—the parenting Chua describes relates more with Chinese philosophy and societal values over centuries, as she loosely explains. Even so, I grant you, if you consulted most parents in contemporary China about Chua’s parenting they would be horrified too. And there are just as many negligent Chinese parents in mainland China as there are negligent Western parents. I discussed at length with my own father, who is essentially my tiger mother (as my mum has the sharp criticising tongue of a tiger but the parenting ethic of a negligent pet owner, seriously), about Chua, and he said to me bluntly, “she’s crazy!” but conceded that there is some merit in what she imposes on her children.

It’s funny that he said that, because as a child, I often thought my dad was so strict with me (but that’s what kids are practically programmed to think). Despite my being the only child and that I wanted for nothing, I was also subjected to an early academic regimen. I was a model student with straight As (which began to fluctuate by the end of high school). I knew complex maths by age 7 (Chua’s daughters had to be at least 2 years ahead of their class); I dared not tell my father of  a mark I received below 90%, which was already bad enough as that was 10% off a perfect 100%. If I found a word I did not understand I had to look it up in the dictionary, and write it down in a book. Dad introduced me to Charles Dickens at age 8 (one of the best things he did for me, in retrospect!) and always forced me to independent and think for myself. He would put me down so that I would then better myself—being cruel to be kind. I hated to disappoint my father, and was terrified of his disapproval, but I still managed to do so with stunning ease. It’s better now that I’ve finished university, but the limbo between high school and university is some of my darkest days, but I digress!

While there is no 101 for Chinese parenting, there is a distinct culture and thinking inherent in the Chinese that you can’t really deny. I too was constantly berated to not be complacent, to be humble and always improve myself. I’ve had countless retellings of my dad’s experience in the Cultural Revolution—the relentless studying and intense physical labour on the farms while leading a less than humble life, yet these are his fondest memories. This is something I can’t possibly appreciate; I can’t even feel humbled by it because it’s just way out of my grasp and understanding. I will never experience this. The Chinese have many idioms highlighting that you can’t taste sweetness without knowing bitterness, and my generation has been blessed to know only sweetness. There is much in Chua’s ideas regarding work ethics and expectations that mirrors my father’s, and I’m sure, countless other Asian children’s parents. But this is the extent to which Chua and my dad are similar.

Chua largely talks about how she trained her daughters to be stellar classical music performers. Most of the musical jargon flies over my head. She frequently uses examples to highlight the dichotomies of Western and Chinese cultures but loses ground towards her conclusion, which is telling of the self-doubts and unprecedented incidents she herself encountered as a strictly “Chinese” mother. Chua amazingly conceals prejudiced beliefs with moderate, reasonable ideas. For example, Chua argues that she wants her children “to be well rounded and to have hobbies and activities” and “to benefit from the best aspects of American society and not end up like one of those weird Asian automatons who feel so much pressure from their parents that they kill themselves after coming second on the national civil service exam”. But they can’t just apply themselves to any activity. “Crafts” are out of the question as they “lead to nowhere” and “drums” are even worse because apparently they lead to drugs. Chua’s two daughters, Lulu and Sophie play the violin and piano respectively. This becomes their “hobby” because of the instruments’ meaning and difficulty, with the potential for depth and virtuosity. (I would’ve been Chua’s worst nightmare then—my virtuosity was er… playing on the computer and drawing and writing fiction.) Chua later derides herself for becoming a “Western parent” for letting Lulu make her “decision” to ease up on the violin practising, and equates this to becoming a failure.

These are just some of her provocative ideas. She asserts that “all decent parents want to do what’s best for their children. The Chinese just have a totally different idea of how to do that. 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.” Lulu actually rebels against her mother; although it pains Chua to feel Lulu slip out of her tutelage, as it were, the work ethic and values she so aggressively impressed upon her daughters was not for naught, as Lulu takes up a new activity with the same determination and drive as she committed to her violin. Chua admits her trials with Lulu have been “traumatic”, so even the tiger mother does not exit this battle unscathed.

Though my upbringing was nowhere near as severe as Chua’s daughters, I appreciate what little (by comparison) my father taught me when I was young. I am fortunate to have gotten a well-rounded Asian and Western upbringing package without the extra abuse and trauma. I don’t have glittering academic achievements but I have two degrees from a prestigious Australian university. The hours and abuse are long, but I am in a job I genuinely enjoy and find rewarding, and I did it largely without my parents’ help—financial aide and some emotional support notwithstanding. (Yet Chua also has a comeback for this platitude: “Just because you love seomething doesn’t mean you’ll be great. Not if you don’t work. Most people stink at the things they love.”) Both my parents were strict with me in terms of academia and manners, though I could never be quite comfortable confiding in them about more emotional aspects (hmm, The Talk? Never got it—thanks popular culture for teaching me though), but I would be an ungrateful brat to ask for more. I imagine with the kind of incessant mothering Chua did for her children, I could well have been a maths or literary genius, but ultimately we come back to the Nature versus Nurture debate and the right of choice. If the drive to be the best is within you, and you are willing to make the sacrifices and work harder than those beside you, you can and will be successful. Of course, it would help very much to have the supportive and nurturing love and guidance of one’s parents while in pursuit of personal dreams.

While Chua comes off as self-congratulatory and autocratic, and constantly thinks in only black and white terms (respectable/disrespectful, Chinese/Western, success/failure, et al), I can’t bring myself up to hating her either. I thought I did before, but that’s probably because I hadn’t read her book. I abhor her methods, as they are dangerous and detrimental to well-being and mental/physical health but she honestly believes that she has done good by her children, and luckily for her, she succeeded with her children because they could take it. I would have crumbled aeons ago under her diabolical regimen. The dynamics of her parenting changed when Lulu chose to pursue a different hobby other than violin, and Chua struggles to conclude her memoir, even consulting her husband and daughters for ideas. Does this mean then, that Western and Asian philosophies are not as mutually exclusive as she made them to be?

Psychologists say there are three kinds of parents: a) the democratic parent who knows how to compromise with the child, b) the abusive parent who eventually stirs up hate/resentment in the child, and c) the inactive parent who lets the child do whatever s/he pleases.

Parents aren’t perfect. Their parents weren’t perfect. Years from now it’ll be interesting to see how Chua’s daughters feel over how their mother raised them, whether they regret the “choices” they made, or not at all. I’m still pondering about this myself. Perhaps I won’t know for sure until I have children of my own (!). If I were ever to have children—and frankly the very thought frightens me to no end—I would hope to be a reasonable parent. But then, I don’t think I’d wish myself upon any future child either!

Rating:
In a word: provocative