Amy Chua is one hell of a mother-seriously. Author of the non-fiction Penguin Press release Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, Chua details the relentless, sensitivity-free parenting style she employed for the rearing of her two daughters. No doubt her tactics are yielding good, or rather successful results, the eldest having played piano at Carnegie Hall by 14 years old and the younger skilled at violin.
In an excerpt from Battle, Chua explains:
"...even when Western parents think they're being strict, they usually don't come close to being Chinese mothers. For example, my Western friends who consider themselves strict make their children practice their instruments thirty minutes every day. An hour at most. For a Chinese mother, the first hour is the easy part. It's hours two and three that get tough."
I'd dare contend with Chua that there is a cluster of mothers, black mothers, in the South who can hang with the best of the practitioners of the Chinese methodology. No wuss nurturers are allowed below the Mason Dixon line; Southern black women have been hardcore disciplinarians for generations. Results have been varied, considering the fluctuating and contrasting differences in the education, prison and popular statistics. However, there seems to be a 'get it done' through line in black parenting that echoes Malcolm's 'by any means necessary'.
I recall from my own childhood how "Tony Tone's" mother in middle school whipped his behind in front of the whole advanced math class, even in front of the math teacher. My white classmates cried and wept for him as he screamed at each lashing of the belt. He had been acting out in class and performing under par academically; I thought it was inevitable, gravely embarrassing, but inevitable. Another mother had her children practicing weekly in Tae Kwon Do, dance, and sports, and she needn't mention the expectation of academic excellence. Chua pushed for this academic and active achievement in addition to enforcing these rules: "(6) the only activities your children should be permitted to do are those in which they can eventually win a medal; and (7) that medal must be gold." My mother ain't half bad then; considering my siblings and I were those kids academically achieving to the death and practicing sports and the arts. We got the National championship medals to prove it too. My medal is old-school gangsta rapper gold.
My husband and I share the same memory of never being allowed to leave the dinner table until all of our food had been eaten. His meal prison was inflicted on him by his grandmother, mine by my mother dearest. I'd sit at the table for more than two hours, ingesting what I'd just regurgitated moments before. I'd swish it around my plate, but dare not get up until done. And even when I cried my eyes out over my disinterest and utter fear of pointe/ballet class and its sadistic inflictions on my toes, or any number of other activities I didn't want to participate in, somehow her motherly scowl and threatening tone would find my behind back in that class, whatever it was she chose for me. And no less than an A included. Take that Amy. And I thank her for it.
(I'll be reading Chua's work soon to add new flavors for the rearing of my son. Details below.)
Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother
By Amy Chua
Hardcover, 256 pages
The Penguin Press
List price: $25.95
Comments