Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother - Amy Chua [73]
Lulu overheard me one day. “What are you doing?” she demanded. When I explained that I was just doing a little research, she suddenly got furious. “No, Mommy—no!” she said fiercely. “Don’t wreck tennis for me like you wrecked violin.”
That really hurt. I backed off.
The next day I tried again. “Lulu, there’s a place in Massachusetts—”
“No, Mommy—please stop,” Lulu said. “I can do this on my own. I don’t need you to be involved.”
“Lulu, what we need to do is to channel your strength—”
“Mommy, I get it. I’ve watched you and listened to your lectures a million times. But I don’t want you controlling my life.”
I focused my eyes on Lulu, taking her in. Everyone had always said she looked just like me, something that I loved to hear but that she vehemently denied. An image of her at age three standing outside, defiant in the cold, came to my mind. She’s indomitable, I thought to myself, and always has been. Wherever she ends up, she’s going to be amazing.
“Okay, Lulu, I can accept that,” I said. “See how undefensive and flexible I am? To succeed in this world, you always have to be willing to adapt. That’s something I’m especially good at that you should learn from me.”
But I didn’t really give up. I’m still in the fight, albeit with some significant modifications to my strategy. I’ve become newly accepting and open-minded. The other day Lulu told me she would have even less time for violin because she wanted to pursue other interests, like writing and “improv.” Instead of choking, I was supportive and proactive. I’m taking the long view. Lulu can do side-splitting imitations, and while improv does seems un-Chinese and the opposite of classical music, it is definitely a skill. I also harbor hopes that Lulu won’t be able to escape her love of music and that someday—maybe soon—she’ll return to the violin of her own accord.
Meanwhile, every weekend, I drive Lulu to tennis tournaments and watch her play. She recently made the high school varsity team, the only middle school kid to do so. Because Lulu has insisted that she wants no advice or criticism from me, I’ve resorted to espionage and guerrilla warfare. I secretly plant ideas in her tennis coach’s head, texting her with questions and practice strategies, then deleting the text messages so Lulu won’t see them. Sometimes, when Lulu’s least expecting it—at breakfast or when I’m saying good night—I’ll suddenly yell out, “More rotation on the swing volley!” or “Don’t move your right foot on your kick serve!” And Lulu will plug her ears, and we’ll fight, but I’ll have gotten my message out, and I know she knows I’m right.
Coda
Our family, 2010
Tigers are passionate and rash, blinding themselves to danger. But they draw on experience, gaining new energies and great strength.
I started writing this book on June 29, 2009, the day after we got back from Russia. I didn’t know why I was doing it or how the book was going to end, but even though I usually have writer’s block, this time the words streamed out of me. The first two-thirds of the book took me just eight weeks to write. (The last third was agonizing.) I showed every page to Jed and the girls. “We’re writing this together,” I said to Sophia and Lulu.
“No, we’re not,” they both said. “It’s your book, Mommy, not ours.”
“I’m sure it’s all about you anyway,” added Lulu.
But as time went on, the more the girls read, the more they contributed.The truth is, it’s been therapeutic—a Western concept, the girls remind me.
I’d forgotten a lot of things over the years, good and bad, which the girls and Jed helped me remember. To try to piece things together, I dug up old e-mails, computer files, music programs, and photo albums. Often, Jed and I were overcome with nostalgia. Sophia was just a baby yesterday, it seemed, and now she was a year away from applying to college. Sophia and Lulu were mainly overcome with how cute they used to be.
Don’t get me wrong: Writing this book hasn’t been easy. Nothing in our family ever is. I had to produce multiple drafts,