Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother – Book Review

A version of this story also appears on Salon.

Upon reading Amy Chua’s “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” in its entirely, I have to say that the narrative arc does turn out differently than the “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior” essay in the Wall Street Journal suggests. The now famous birthday card rejection and name-calling are in there all right, woven into a memoir that spans from a brief recollection of Chua’s own childhood to the time her daughters are nearly grown. But is it a story of redemption with an eye-opening ending? Sort of.

The book casts light on the gut-wrenching dilemmas of raising children, especially for those parents who want to reconcile their own strict, academic achievement-oriented upbringings with the “child led” philosophies currently in vogue.

Chua’s story centers, in tedious and sometimes painful minutae, around her efforts to shape her two daughters into Julliard-trained, Carnegie Hall worthy classical pianists and violinists. Hence the hours of practice (even while on vacation in foreign countries), including the already famous scene where Chua delays dinner until 9 p.m., insisting on an extra three hours of practice, and the bizarre instructional notes that horrify her Yale Law students.

Many readers of the excerpt have expressed horror at the means: the rejection of one child’s hand-made birthday card as “not good enough”, the referring to a daughter as “garbage”. Those acts in themselves are not the disturbing things to me.

Some of my Asian American peers can recount incidences similar to those, if not the exact actions, but in the spirit of immigrant tough-love, I’m telling you the straight up truth, (or forcing you to study, or practice piano) for you own good.

And to be honest, that straight-talking philosophy is something I value, and struggle with daily in raising my own young children. Do I say “Good job!” when my son hastily scrawls his third-grade animal report, or do I insist that he re-copy his sentences in the neat handwriting I know he is capable of? Do I high-five my son after a soccer match that he daydreamed through, or do I point out the fact that he needs to put more focus into the game? Do I allow my kids to drop out of Chinese school, because the lessons are boring?

My own mother would have said that people who say “just trying your best is good enough” don’t care to help you succeed to your true potential in life. Like Chua, my mother started me on classical piano before I was even in Kindergarten. Around the age of ten, I was taken to a highly prestigious piano teacher, whose living room was furnished with TWO Steinway grands won in piano competitions. Which was not that she wanted to groom me into a professional concert pianist. (That could be my hobby, in addition to being either a doctor or an engineer.) Unlike Chua’s daughters, I only lasted a few months with the exclusive instructor, and at the end of the summer, she suggested that I find more suitable teacher.

What disturbs me most is that Chua — who was raised in America, amongst the professors at Berkeley, during the Marlo Thomas “Free to Be You and Me” years — would so earnestly and unflinchingly believe in this parenting style, for nearly the entirety of her daughters’ childhoods. Even when her own immigrant parents beg her to stop.

“You can’t do what Daddy and I did,” my mother replied. “Things are different now. Lulu’s not you — and she’s not Sophia. She has a different personality, and you can’t force her.” P. 170

Throughout the entire book, Chua seems to reiterate the sentiment that “If it worked for me — and look how successful I turned out — it’s good enough for my daughters.” There is little ambivalence or introspection about her ways until very late in the story (and her daughters’ childhoods). The breaking point centers around Chua’s younger daughter Lulu, who born in the year of the Boar is “’willful’ and ‘obstinate’ and often “fly into a rage.’” (p. 11)

At age 13, Lulu throws a public fit during a family vacation to Russia, breaking full water glasses at a sidewalk café in Moscow’s Red Square.

“You don’t love me,” Lulu spat out. “You think you do, but you don’t. You just make me feel bad about myself every second. You’ve wrecked my life. I can’t stand to be around you. Is that what you want?” p. 205

In the next chapter, Chua concedes,

“Lulu,” I said. “You win. It’s over. We’re giving up the violin.”p. 209

Although the book purports to be a story about “how I was humbled by a thirteen-year old”, Chua’s realizations seem too little, too late.

“I’ve decided to favor a hybrid approach,” I said. “The best of both worlds. The Chinese way until the child is eighteen, to develop confidence and the value of excellence, then the Western way after that.” P. 225-6

But in the closing pages, Chua stands firm in her self-described Chinese parenting style.

“I refuse to buckle to politically correct Western social norms that are obviously stupid.” P. 228

The book is a quick read, and although it has been blown up into a symbol of the East-West culture clash, and although it has elements that are representative of the struggle of second-generation Asian Americans raising the third generation, it does little to further a sincere discussion of these social issues.

Just remember, the book cover reads: “This is a story about a mother, two daughter, and two dogs.”