Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother - Amy Chua [69]
To me, the violin symbolized respect for hierarchy, standards, and expertise. For those who know better and can teach. For those who play better and can inspire. And for parents.
It also symbolized history. The Chinese never achieved the heights of Western classical music—there is no Chinese equivalent of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony—but high traditional music is deeply entwined with Chinese civilization. The seven-stringed qin, often associated with Confucius, has been around for at least twenty-five hundred years. It was immortalized by the great Tang poets, revered as the instrument of the sages.
Most of all, the violin symbolized control. Over generational decline. Over birth order. Over one’s destiny. Over one’s children. Why should the grandchildren of immigrants only be able to play the guitar or drums? Why should second children so predictably be less rule-abiding, less successful at school, and “more social” than eldest siblings? In short, the violin symbolized the success of the Chinese parenting model.
For Lulu, it embodied oppression.
And as I walked slowly back across Red Square, I realized that the violin had begun to symbolize oppression for me too. Just picturing Lulu’s violin case sitting at home by the front door—at the last minute we’d decided to leave it behind, the first time ever—made me think of the hours and hours and years and years of labor, fighting, aggravation, and misery that we’d endured. For what? I also realized that I was dreading with all my heart what lay ahead.
It occurred to me that this must be how Western parents think and why they so often let their kids give up difficult musical instruments. Why torture yourself and your child? What’s the point? If your child doesn’t like something—hates it—what good is it forcing her to do it? I knew as a Chinese mother I could never give in to that way of thinking.
I rejoined my family at the GUM café. The waiters and other guests averted their eyes.
“Lulu,” I said. “You win. It’s over. We’re giving up the violin.”
33
Going West
My Dad, early 1970s
I wasn’t bluffing. I’d always engaged in brinkmanship with Lulu, but this time I was serious. I’m still not exactly sure why. Maybe I finally allowed myself to admire Lulu’s immovable strength for what it was, even if I bitterly disagreed with her choices. Or maybe it was Katrin. Watching her struggle and seeing what became important to her in those desperate months shook things up for all of us.
It could also have been my mother. To me, she’ll always be the quintessential Chinese mother. Growing up, nothing was ever good enough for her. (“You say you got first place, but actually you only tied for first, right?”) She used to practice piano with Cindy three hours a day until the teacher gently told her that they’d hit a limit. Even after I became a professor and invited her to some of my public lectures, she always offered painfully accurate criticisms while everyone else was telling me what a good job I’d done. (“You get too excited and talk too fast. Try to stay cool, and you’ll be better.”) Yet my own Chinese mother had been warning me for a long time that something wasn’t working with Lulu. “Every child is different,” she said. “You have to adjust, Amy. Look what happened to your father,” she added ominously.
So—about my father. I guess it’s time to come clean with something. I’d always told Jed, myself, and everyone else that the ultimate proof of the superiority of Chinese parenting is how the children end up feeling about their parents. Despite their parents’ brutal demands, verbal abuse, and disregard for their children’s desires, Chinese kids end up adoring and respecting their parents and wanting to care for them in their old age. From the beginning, Jed had always asked, “What about your dad,