Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother - Amy Chua [14]
Second, I don’t believe that all parental comparisons are invidious. Jed is constantly criticizing me for comparing Sophia and Lulu. And it’s true that I’ve said things to Lulu like, “When I tell Sophia to do something, she responds instantly. That’s why she improves so fast.” But Westerners misunderstand. When I say such things I’m not favoring Sophia; just the opposite, I’m expressing confidence in Lulu. I believe that she can do anything Sophia can do and that she’s strong enough to handle the truth. I also know that Lulu compares herself to Sophia anyway. That’s why I’m sometimes so harsh with her. I won’t let her indulge her own inner doubts.
That’s also why, on the morning of Lulu’s first violin lesson, before she’d even met her new teacher, I said, “Remember, Lulu, you’re only six. Sophia won her first Performance Prize when she was nine. I think you can win it earlier.”
Lulu responded badly to this, saying that she hated competitions and that she didn’t even want to play the violin. She refused to go to the lesson. I threatened her with a spanking and no dinner—which, back then, still worked—and finally got her to the Neighborhood Music School, where we were saved by Mr. Carl Shugart, the Suzuki violin teacher to whom Lulu had been assigned.
Mr. Shugart, about fifty with preppy good looks and thinning blond hair, was one of those people who relate better to children than to adults. With parents, he was aloof and awkward; he could barely look us in the eye. But he was a genius with children: relaxed, witty, inspirational, and fun. He was like the Pied Piper of the Neighborhood Music School, and the thirty or so kids who studied with him—Lulu among them—would have followed him anywhere.
Mr. Shugart’s secret was that he translated everything technical about the violin into stories or images children could understand. Instead of legato, staccato, or accelerando, he spoke of caressing the fur of a purring cat, armies of marching ants, and mice on unicycles rolling down a hill. I remember marveling at the way he taught Lulu Dvořák’s famous Humoresque no. 7. After the catchy opening theme, which people all over the world hum without even knowing it, there’s an almost overly sentimental second theme that’s supposed to be played with tragicomic exaggerated pathos—now how do you explain that to a six-year-old?
Mr. Shugart told Lulu that the second theme was sad, but not sad as in someone dying. Instead he asked her to imagine that her mother promised her a big ice cream cone with two toppings if she made her bed every day for a week—and that Lulu trustingly did so. But when the week was over, her mother refused to give her the ice cream cone. Not only that, she bought a cone for Lulu’s sister, who had done absolutely nothing. This clearly struck a chord with Lulu, because after that she played Humoresque so poignantly it was as if the piece had been written for her. To this day, when I hear Humoresque—you can watch Itzhak Perlman and Yo-Yo Ma playing it on YouTube—I hear the lyrics that Mr. Shugart added: “I wa-a-nt my ice cream, oh give me my ice cream; where is the ice cream you promised m-e-e?”
Amazingly, even though I had chosen the violin for Lulu, it was immediately apparent that she had a natural affinity for it. Even early on, people were constantly struck by how naturally she moved when she played and how much she really seemed to feel the music. At Mr. Shugart’s recitals she always shone, and other parents would ask if music ran in our family and whether Lulu was hoping to be a professional violinist. They had no idea about the bloodbath practice sessions back home, where Lulu and I fought like jungle beasts—Tiger versus Boar—and the more she resisted, the more I went on the offensive.
Saturdays were the highlight of my week. We spent the whole morning at the Neighborhood Music School, which was always bursting