Amy Chua - Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

“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.

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, revising constantly to address the girls’ objections. I ended up leaving out big chunks about Jed, because that’s a whole other book, and it’s really his story to tell. Some parts I had to rewrite two dozen times before I could satisfy both Sophia and Lulu. On several occasions, one of them would be reading a draft chapter, then suddenly burst into tears and storm off. Or I’d get a curt, “This is great, Ma, very funny. I just don’t know who you’re writing about, that’s all. It’s definitely not our family.”

“Oh no!” Lulu cried out once. “Am I supposed to be Pushkin, the dumb one? And Sophia is Coco, who’s smart and learns everything?” I pointed out that Coco wasn’t smart and couldn’t learn anything either. I assured the girls that the dogs weren’t supposed to be metaphors for them.

“So what purpose are they serving?” Sophia asked, ever logical. “Why are they in the book?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “But I know they’re important. There’s something inherently unstable about a Chinese mother raising dogs.”

Another time, Lulu complained, “I think you’re exaggerating the difference between Sophia and me to try to make the book interesting. You make me sound like a typical rebellious American teenager, when I’m not even close.” Sophia, meanwhile, had just said, “I think you tone down Lulu too much. You make her sound like an angel.”

Naturally, both girls felt the book shortchanged them. “You should definitely dedicate this book to Lulu,” Sophia once said magnanimously. “She’s obviously the heroine. I’m the boring one readers will cheer against. She’s the one with verve and panache .” And from Lulu: “Maybe you should call your book The Perfect Child and the Flesh-Eating Devil . Or Why Oldest Children Are Better . That’s what it’s about, right?”

As the summer went on, the girls never stopped nagging me, “So how’s the book going to end, Mommy? Is it going to be a happy ending?”

I’d always say something like, “It depends on you guys. But I’m guessing it’ll be a tragedy.”

Months passed, but I just couldn’t figure out how to end the book. Once, I came running up to the girls. “I’ve got it! I’m about to finish the book.”

The girls were excited. “So how will it end?” Sophia asked. “What’s your point going to be?”

“I’ve decided to favor a hybrid approach,” I said. “The best of both worlds. The Chinese way until the child is eighteen, to develop confidence and the value of excellence, then the Western way after that. Every individual has to find their own path,” I added gallantly.

“Wait — until eighteen?” asked Sophia. “That’s not a hybrid approach. That’s just Chinese parenting all through childhood.”

“I think you’re being too technical, Sophia.”

Nevertheless, I went back to the drawing board. I spun more wheels, cranked out some more duds. Finally, one day — actually yesterday — I asked the girls how they thought the book should end.

“Well,” said Sophia, “are you trying to tell the truth in this book or just a good story?”

“The truth,” I replied.

“That’s going to be hard, because the truth keeps changing,” said Sophia.

“No it doesn’t,” I said. “I have a perfect memory.”

“Then why do you keep revising the ending all the time?” asked Sophia.

“Because she doesn’t know what she wants to say,” Lulu offered.

“It’s not possible for you to tell the complete truth,” said Sophia. “You’ve left out so many facts. But that means no one can really understand. For example, everyone’s going to think that I was subjected to Chinese parenting, but I wasn’t. I went along with it, by my own choice.”