Amy Chua’s new memoir on tough “Chinese-style” parenting and stereotypical Asian success continues to irk the nation—inspiring a wave of editorial commentary on race, family and the meaning of success. Joshua Uy explores the author’s provocative message by describing his own experiences with a ferocious Asian parent—not his own Tiger Mother, but his girlfriend’s.
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There seems to be about as many critiques, commentaries and columns regarding Amy Chua’s controversial memoir Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother as there are people in China.
If you’ve been under a rock for the past few weeks, the book, published by Penguin Press, basically chronicles the Yale law professor’s draconian parenting methods, which she attributes to her own Chinese upbringing. The U.S.-born Chua, whose parents are immigrants, shares that she never allowed her two daughters to attend sleepovers, have a playdate, be in a school play, watch television or play computer games, choose their extracurricular activities or get any grade less than an A.
Needless to say, Chua’s portrayal of the “strict immigrant parenting model” has touched a national nerve. And the commentaries flooded in. (I’d refer the reader to Jeff Yang’s balanced reporting for the San Francisco Chronicle. For laughs, there’s cartoonist Gene Luen Yang’s Wall Street Journal comic strip. And for especially adroit critiques of Chua’s basic tenets, take a look at Disgrasian’s commentary, where author Jen Wang points out that high suicide rates for Asian women between the ages of 15-24 complicate Chua’s assertion that strict parenting churns out confident, well-adjusted kids.)
Yet, regardless what you read, you’ll notice the vast majority of the commentary comes from either the parent or child’s perspective. Even Chua’s 18-year-old daughter penned a piece for the New York Post: “Why I love my strict Chinese mom.”
Am I a father? No. Did I grow up with Tiger Parents? Again, no. Which is why I have a decidedly different take on the whole crazy-Asian parent thing.
If you think it sucks being the child of a hardcore Tiger Mother, try being the subpar boyfriend of the adult child of a hardcore TM. Allow me to sum up my experience: all of the humiliation, guilt, shame and torment with none of the financial support and fleeting moments of affection. Because what Chua’s memoir and its editorial interpretations fail to reveal is that Tiger Parents aren’t merely obsessed with grades and flying piano fingers. They want to control everything—especially whom their child dates.
Privately—and sometimes openly—many Asian parents espouse a hierarchical racial or ethnic preference for their child’s dating partners. (In fact, let’s be real: A lot of parents do—not just the Asian ones.)
But the preferences aren’t just limited to race and ethnicity. Many Asian parents also discriminate by profession. Doctors, lawyers, successful businessmen are acceptable. Writers, photographers, drug counselors—not so much. The fact that I was all three meant I was triply screwed from the get-go.
Grace, my overachieving ex-girlfriend, and I were madly in love for more than a year before I came face-to-face with her relentlessly strict mother, Esther. “If it makes you feel any better,” Grace reassured me, “she never likes any of my boyfriends.”
Great.
Grace proceeded to list her past beaus by race/ethnicity, profession and fatal flaw (according to her mother).
Grant: Korean. Film Editor. Fatal Flaw: “Has no ambition.”
Mitch: Korean. Student. Fatal Flaw: “Too close to his mother.”
Jim: Latino. Grant Writer. Fatal Flaw: “Too needy.”
Samuel: Korean. Doctor. Fatal Flaw: “Unattractive, but that’s OK because he’s a doctor.” (Her mother’s favorite, FYI.)
Bennett: Jamaican. Lawyer. Fatal Flaw: Jamaican.
Out of morbid curiosity, I actually wanted to hear what my girlfriend’s mother had to say about me. For some reason, I expected her to brutally say it to my face. But upon meeting her, I found her unfailingly polite, a bit reserved, certainly resolute, but always gracious, regal even. It was clear that Grace had inherited her toughness and beauty from her. Overall first impression: I liked Mama Esther. I even thought that if Grace and I stayed together for the long haul, her mother would learn to love me as a son.
I left my first meeting with Esther feeling that this could possibly work out. My potential Tiger-Mother-In-Law, I thought, was really just a kitten. Little did I know that only family members got to feel the Tiger’s claws. Once I’d left the den, I would later learn from Grace, Esther tore into me like a Siegfried and Roy tiger mauling horror show. In all fairness, she did say a few nice things. She didn’t think I’d go bald, for example. But otherwise, her assessment of me was scathing:
Joshua: Chinese/Filipino. Writer/photographer/drug counselor. Fatal Flaw: “Will never amount to anything.”
Ouch. Felt that one right in the nuts.
Things were never quite the same after that. My opinion of Esther certainly changed, but so did my relationship with Grace. We stayed together for another two years, trying to convince each other that our love would persevere, despite the strain of Tiger Mom’s constant disapproval.
When the end finally came, we amicably chalked it up to “different paths” and “growing apart.” Though I never told Grace this, a part of me worried she’d eventually transform into a Tigress and subject our future hypothetical children to the same oppressive parenting style: love packed with conditions. I also wondered if Grace had been swayed by her mother’s assessment of me. I don’t know what role, if any, Tiger Mom actually played in the break-up. And for the record, I don’t blame her. I chose to escape as much as I was pushed away. But a nagging thought continues to plague me: Maybe Grace and I just gave up too easily. Sadly, I’ll never know.
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While I love my own parents dearly, my upbringing was rather placid, and I often wished they were less permissive. My siblings and I watched a crap-load of television and my bedroom was a junk heap of unfinished projects. I play the guitar—not violin. I’m a writer who majored in anthropology. And though I ended up at a prestigious university, I can’t help but wonder where the occasional parental maul—or even scratch—could have taken me.
In my most bitter moments immediately after the break-up, I imagined Esther heard the news of our split and that a tiny droplet—if not an avalanche—of joy squeezed out of her atrophied soul, leeched into her frigid blood stream, and eventually reached her hollow, desiccated heart, filling it with something akin to happiness. (Again, these thoughts came at my most bitter moments.)
Admittedly, when I started reading Chua’s book, a lot of that old resentment flooded back, since as much as she has tried to rehabilitate her image, Chua just can’t escape coming off as a demented, elitist shrew. In one of the book’s anecdotes, Lulu—her rebellious younger daughter—lashes out, “You don’t love me… You just make me feel bad about myself every second.” That line resonated with me as Esther had the power to make me feel worthless with the mere mention of her name.
But by the end of the book, Chua, after realizing she could lose her daughter’s love forever, dials down the crazy and reveals that the inveterate Tiger Mother is able to change. It’s a point that the writer continually makes whenever she defends herself, a message that keeps getting lost amid the controversy: Parents—even the most strident—can be molded along with their kids.
Ultimately, the memoir is less a screed on Western parenting philosophy and more, as Chua describes in a blog post for the Wall Street Journal, “a kind of coming-of-age book (for the mom!).”
The person at the beginning of the book, Chua notes when describing herself, “is not exactly the same person at the end.” Like the climate, a Tiger Mom can change.
I came to realize that my enduring resentment of Esther mirrored many people’s reaction to Chua. Some immediately demonized Chua and refused to even touch the book after reading last month’s Wall Street Journal “excerpt,” an irresponsible grab bag of the most exasperating parts of the memoir slapped with the sensational title “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior.”
Similarly, after only limited contact, I chose to see my girlfriend’s Tiger Mom as an intractable brute incapable of change. Invariably, Chua’s Battle Hymn has caused many to regard all Asian parents similarly. Yet, hopefully there will be those who discount her more incendiary statements while they heed her central message of adaptability.
I finished the book actually feeling optimistic. First, I felt I had gained insights into how I might better raise a child in a structured, balanced, loving way. But, also, I felt hopeful that somewhere, Esther had become more of a Paper Tiger, that she had finally softened her grip a bit, at least enough to allow Grace—whomever she is with—the freedom to be happy.
*Names have been changed and details omitted to obscure identities, but otherwise totally and completely true.
