The paperback version of Amy Chua's Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother
was released at the start of 2012. To review a book like this after all
the hype and controversy has died down was a challenging but intriguing
exercise. What had sparked the initial excitement over Chua's memoir
last year, thus guaranteeing that it would be a bestseller and receive
excessive media coverage and attention online, was a carefully packaged
excerpt, "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior," published in the Wall
Street Journal just days before the book release.
As a sampler, Chua's excerpt would lead you to believe that her memoir functions as a parenting handbook on raising stereotypically successful Asian children, a how-to guide on rearing your own Math whizzes and musical prodigies the "Chinese way", but at a heavy cost—the cost of a child's love and happiness, and even a parent's humanity.
It's hard not to read Chua's memoir in this way considering the hype centred around these three aspects: one, the strict authoritarian "Chinese" approach to parenting that demands and expects excellence is superior to the relaxed and liberal blind encouragement model exercised in most "Western" households; two, Chua's extreme "Chinese" commandments barring her daughters from sleepovers, play time, less-than-A grades, and any hobbies (for example TV, computer games, and crafts) and extracurricular activities (such as drama) that would not eventually result in winning a prestigious award; and three, the heartless, Chua disciplining her children and pushing them until their piano and violin pieces are perfected and performed brilliantly.
It's too easy to hate on Chua for her extreme parenting manifesto or for her repeated overgeneralizations about "Western" and "Chinese" families. Chua's memoir is written to provoke; it practically goads you into judging her. In a heavy-handed way, it sets her up as an evil mother figure who will receive her come-uppance, a mother who'll be redeemed by the lessons on work-life balance that she finally learns from her sister's near death experience with leukemia and from her rebellious teenage daughter's violent public outburst. In the end, these moments humble Chua; they balance out the parodied caricature of herself that she has painted to entertain her audience. But is this all that her book amounts to--an entertaining story of a Chinese mother-tyrant who finally softens after a simple epiphany?
Sure. But then there's her class and genealogical anxieties. Chua's worst nightmare is producing soft, entitled children, a third generation "pampered and decadent like the Romans when their empire fell." The third generation, according to Chua, are at risk of losing their grandparents' poor immigrant work ethic and drive to improve their social status. With this exaggerated fear in mind, Chua's memoir is still a worthwhile read: not as an extreme "Chinese" parenting guide-gone-wrong, but as a vexed memoir of a second-generation mother's unapologetic attempts to assimilate and elevate the social status of her family line in America.
As a sampler, Chua's excerpt would lead you to believe that her memoir functions as a parenting handbook on raising stereotypically successful Asian children, a how-to guide on rearing your own Math whizzes and musical prodigies the "Chinese way", but at a heavy cost—the cost of a child's love and happiness, and even a parent's humanity.
It's hard not to read Chua's memoir in this way considering the hype centred around these three aspects: one, the strict authoritarian "Chinese" approach to parenting that demands and expects excellence is superior to the relaxed and liberal blind encouragement model exercised in most "Western" households; two, Chua's extreme "Chinese" commandments barring her daughters from sleepovers, play time, less-than-A grades, and any hobbies (for example TV, computer games, and crafts) and extracurricular activities (such as drama) that would not eventually result in winning a prestigious award; and three, the heartless, Chua disciplining her children and pushing them until their piano and violin pieces are perfected and performed brilliantly.
It's too easy to hate on Chua for her extreme parenting manifesto or for her repeated overgeneralizations about "Western" and "Chinese" families. Chua's memoir is written to provoke; it practically goads you into judging her. In a heavy-handed way, it sets her up as an evil mother figure who will receive her come-uppance, a mother who'll be redeemed by the lessons on work-life balance that she finally learns from her sister's near death experience with leukemia and from her rebellious teenage daughter's violent public outburst. In the end, these moments humble Chua; they balance out the parodied caricature of herself that she has painted to entertain her audience. But is this all that her book amounts to--an entertaining story of a Chinese mother-tyrant who finally softens after a simple epiphany?
Sure. But then there's her class and genealogical anxieties. Chua's worst nightmare is producing soft, entitled children, a third generation "pampered and decadent like the Romans when their empire fell." The third generation, according to Chua, are at risk of losing their grandparents' poor immigrant work ethic and drive to improve their social status. With this exaggerated fear in mind, Chua's memoir is still a worthwhile read: not as an extreme "Chinese" parenting guide-gone-wrong, but as a vexed memoir of a second-generation mother's unapologetic attempts to assimilate and elevate the social status of her family line in America.
