What Selfless, Loving Motherhood Isn't (And a Little of What It Is).

It's probably not the smartest thing in the world to read Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother while resting during "Quiet Time" to try to alleviate early pregnancy nausea. Don't get me wrong; this book holds many insightful, poignant thoughts about mothering that I fully support. I get sick, as does Chua, of so many cliches and generalizations about children that stem from "Western" parenting, most of which have to do with supporting self-esteem, of giving them "space" for creativity with minimal direction, of ultimately eschewing traditional discipline and education in favor of "letting them go"--which, too often it seems, is just a socially acceptable way for parents to let their kids do whatever they want so that parents can do whatever they want.

On the flip side is Chua, a self-described Tiger Mother, which, from my reading, means she is ruthlessly ambitious for her daughters, constantly pressuring, pushing, and yes, shoving them to do whatever it is she thinks they should be doing to achieve the top prize or recognition in whatever it is they're participating, be it extra credit in math class to get more points than any other student and stay two years ahead of the age group (especially the other Asian-American kids; they're the only ones who have their feet held to the same fire), practicing piano (all the way to Carnegie Hall at 14 for Sophia), practicing violin (a battle-of-the-wills with Lulu, who "wins" in the end and quits violin), or any other activity--except gym and drama--that's remotely competitive. I agreed with the expectation that children can achieve far, far more than what 99% of people, parents included, think they can achieve. I also agree with the invaluable lesson that parents should teach children how to work hard, and harder than they think they can or want to, in everything they do. There are extremely few substitutes for hard work, and I wish I had more discipline in that area. I know I'd spend less time thinking of how tired/exhausted/impossible a certain task would be and instead just do it.

But Chua's methods--screaming and yelling into the wee hours, heavily relying on derogatory, sarcastic name-calling to "motivate" her daughters and even to pressure her husband--are hardly worth emulating, and not just because they border on emotional abuse. As Christians, we hope to discipline and educate our children to learn skills and develop talents under an other-worldly umbrella; that is to say, we hope they can achieve great worldly success in academics, music, and most any area that enriches their minds and cultivates a confident yet humble spirit toward their neighbors. And that's where Chua's pedagogy breaks down. Her emphasis on excellence is admirable; but excellence for excellence's sake--that is, achievement's sake--is vacuous. Actually, it's even sinister. It can become the height of pride and narcissism without any moral direction. I couldn't help thinking as the book went on that all the people and institutions whose stamp of approval Chua sought for her daughters will all die someday, return to dust. And then what would her daughters' "successes" mean? As Solomon wrote in Ecclesiastes, "Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity. What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun? A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever" (1:1-4). And attaching all of her hopes (and fears) to her daughters' achievements, Chua establishes a metaphysical worldview, a cyclical, impossible pattern; achieve, and achieve again, and again, or you're nothing. You as a human being literally mean nothing. The criticisms about burning stuffed animals are paltry compared to this.

Not surprisingly, Chua is not deeply insightful about her motivations for being a Tiger Mother, a "typical" Chinese mother, other than to say that's how she was raised, and she's not about to embarrass her parents by producing children who aren't fantastically successful on paper. Her short comments on this are telling:

My answer [to the question, "Who are you doing all this pushing for--your daughters or yourself?"], I'm pretty sure, is that everything I do is unequivocally 100% for my daughters. My main evidence is that so much of what I do with Sophia and Lulu is miserable, exhausting, and not remotely fun for me. ... Unlike my Western friends, I can never say, 'As much as it kills me, I just have to let my kids make their choices and follow their hearts. It's the hardest thing in the world, but I'm doing my best to hold back.' Then they get to have a glass of wine and go to a yoga class, whereas I have to stay home and scream and have my kids hate me. (148)

Chua says something here that I agree with: that too many parents adopt the "I'm sacrificing for my kids" argument, all while vigorously pursuing their own personal (re: selfish) agendas. Maybe that's too harsh--maybe wine-drinking and yoga-posing is okay. But maybe it's what else Chua says that isn't okay--that "[staying] home and [screaming] and [having] my kids hate me," well, is just a teensy, weensy bit self-indulgent, too. Except it's easier to excuse than the wine-drinking because, well, it's hard. And if something is difficult, and not fun to the one doing it (no comments about the recipients), then it's not only excusable--it's completely worth emulating.

And weirdly, Chua never seems to even blink at this logic--maybe because that's how traditional Chinese mothers think, and she doesn't know how to identify fallacies in it. Being a recipient of dislike from her children places her in the ultimate martyr postion: the No One Can Argue With Me place. It's hard for her--never mind that most, if not all, of the negative attitudes in her home seem to stem from her own vitriolic temper--so no arguments: THIS is selfless, d****t. Guilt parenting at its most self-centered.

Yet Chua reevaluates some of her methods and approaches, and this stems in part from her beloved sister Katrin's agonizing battle with cancer. Chua actually begins to slightly quiet her ruthless tigress instincts in the face of suffering and untimely death. She wants to be with her sister and seems to recognize that children require emotional support, not just constant badgering. But Katrin pulls through, and Chua goes on, giving in on Lulu's violin lessons but not really changing much else. I think this is because she escaped facing the finality of death, the existential questions of why life is meaningful, because Katrin is still able to "prove" in her own career and as a mother that she is "successful". And I think Chua has probably invested too much in the misery, the exhaustion, and the illusion of self-sacrifice in tiger mothering to deeply evaluate it. There's something appealing to control freaks (of which I am one) to base all behavior and outcomes on measurable standards. If you can achieve it, then you are. Deviating from this way of thinking, of living, is not only unsettling; it's terrifying. Because the alternative is having to admit that you cannot ever prove your own worth.

The mothers that I most respect have understood that true service to their children unfolds out of real self-sacrifice--not out of self-proclaiming, self-justifying testimonies of success. It's the irony of our age: the best moms will never gain the publicity Chua has achieved because their work remains ongoing, humble, truly loving, and hidden. I was deeply saddened, and even queasy, by the end of the book--due, no doubt, in part by my pregnancy nausea and moodiness. Yes, Chua has an amazing resume, a highly successful career, and two high achieving daughters. But I doubt if her daughters have learned patience, compassion, and true selflessness from one of the most influential role models in their lives--their mother.