Amy Chua - Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1 — The Chinese Mother

Chapter 2 — Sophia

Chapter 3 — Louisa

Chapter 4 — The Chuas

Chapter 5 — On Generational Decline

Chapter 6 — The Virtuous Circle

Chapter 7 — Tiger Luck

Chapter 8 — Lulu’s Instrument

Chapter 9 — The Violin

Chapter 10 — Teeth Marks and Bubbles

Chapter 11 — “The Little White Donkey”

Chapter 12 — The Cadenza

Part Two

Chapter 13 — Coco

Chapter 14 — London, Athens, Barcelona, Bombay

Chapter 15 — Popo

Chapter 16 — The Birthday Card

Chapter 17 — Caravan to Chautauqua

Chapter 18 — The Swimming Hole

Chapter 19 — How You Get to Carnegie Hall

Chapter 20 — How You Get to Carnegie Hall, Part 2

Chapter 21 — The Debut and the Audition

Chapter 22 — Blowout in Budapest

Part Three

Chapter 23 — Pushkin

Chapter 24 — Rebellion

Chapter 25 — Darkness

Chapter 26 — Rebellion, Part 2

Chapter 27 — Katrin

Chapter 28 — The Sack of Rice

Chapter 29 — Despair

Chapter 30 — “Hebrew Melody”

Chapter 31 — Red Square

Chapter 32 — The Symbol

Chapter 33 — Going West

Chapter 34 — The Ending

Coda

Acknowledgements

Notes

About the Author

Day of Empire: How Hyperpowers Rise to Global Dominance — and Why They Fall

World on Fire: How Exporting Free Market Democracy

Breeds Ethnic Hatred and Global Instability

A lot of people wonder how Chinese parents raise such stereo-typically successful kids. They wonder what these parents do to produce so many math whizzes and music prodigies, what it’s like inside the family, and whether they could do it too. Well, I can tell them, because I’ve done it. Here are some things my daughters, Sophia and Louisa, were never allowed to do:

• attend a sleepover

• have a playdate

• be in a school play

• complain about not being in a school play

• watch TV or play computer games

• choose their own extracurricular activities

• get any grade less than an A

• not be the #1 student in every subject except gym and drama

• play any instrument other than the piano or violin

• not play the piano or violin.

I’m using the term “Chinese mother” loosely. I recently met a supersuccessful white guy from South Dakota (you’ve seen him on television), and after comparing notes we decided that his working-class father had definitely been a Chinese mother. I know some Korean, Indian, Jamaican, Irish, and Ghanaian parents who qualify too. Conversely, I know some mothers of Chinese heritage, almost always born in the West, who are not Chinese mothers, by choice or otherwise.

I’m also using the term “Western parents” loosely. Western parents come in all varieties. In fact, I’ll go out on a limb and say that Westerners are far more diverse in their parenting styles than the Chinese. Some Western parents are strict; others are lax. There are same-sex parents, Orthodox Jewish parents, single parents, ex-hippie parents, investment banker parents, and military parents. None of these “Western” parents necessarily see eye to eye, so when I use the term “Western parents,” of course I’m not referring to all Western parents — just as “Chinese mother” doesn’t refer to all Chinese mothers.

All the same, even when Western parents think they’re being strict, they usually don’t come close to being Chinese mothers. For example, my Western friends who consider themselves strict make their children practice their instruments thirty minutes every day. An hour at most. For a Chinese mother, the first hour is the easy part. It’s hours two and three that get tough.

Despite our squeamishness about cultural stereotypes, there are tons of studies out there showing marked and quantifiable differences between Chinese and Westerners when it comes to parenting. In one study of 50 Western American mothers and 48 Chinese immigrant mothers, almost 70 % of the Western mothers said either that “stressing academic success is not good for children” or that “parents need to foster the idea that learning is fun.” By contrast, roughly 0 % of the Chinese mothers felt the same way. Instead, the vast majority of the Chinese mothers said that they believe their children can be “the best” students, that “academic achievement reflects successful parenting,” and that if children did not excel at school then there was “a problem” and parents “were not doing their job.” Other studies indicate that compared to Western parents, Chinese parents spend approximately ten times as long every day drilling academic activities with their children. By contrast, Western kids are more likely to participate in sports teams.

This brings me to my final point. Some might think that the American sports parent is an analog to the Chinese mother. This is so wrong. Unlike your typical Western overscheduling soccer mom, the Chinese mother believes that (1) schoolwork always comes first; (2) an A-minus is a bad grade; (3) your children must be two years ahead of their classmates in math; (4) you must never compliment your children in public; (5) if your child ever disagrees with a teacher or coach, you must always take the side of the teacher or coach; (6) the only activities your children should be permitted to do are those in which they can eventually win a medal; and (7) that medal must be gold.

Sophia is my firstborn daughter. My husband, Jed, is Jewish, and I’m Chinese, which makes our children Chinese-Jewish-American, an ethnic group that may sound exotic but actually forms a majority in certain circles, especially in university towns.

Sophia’s name in English means “wisdom,” as does Si Hui, the Chinese name my mother gave her. From the moment Sophia was born, she displayed a rational temperament and exceptional powers of concentration. She got those qualities from her father. As an infant Sophia quickly slept through the night, and cried only if it achieved a purpose. I was struggling to write a law article at the time — I was on leave from my Wall Street law firm and desperate to get a teaching job so I wouldn’t have to go back — and at two months Sophia understood this. Calm and contemplative, she basically slept, ate, and watched me have writer’s block until she was a year old.

Sophia was intellectually precocious, and at eighteen months she knew the alphabet. Our pediatrician denied that this was neurologically possible, insisting that she was only mimicking sounds. To prove his point, he pulled out a big tricky chart, with the alphabet disguised as snakes and unicorns. The doctor looked at the chart, then at Sophia, and back at the chart. Cunningly, he pointed to a toad wearing a nightgown and a beret.