Diana Holquist writer. mother. cat lover. (not necessarily in that order)

CHAPTER ONE

A Tiger in the House


My friend lent me a book called Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. It was the memoir of self-described “Chinese mother,” Amy Chua. Chua touted her brand of extreme parenting in the name of cultural supremacy: no play dates, no sleepovers, no grade below an A, must be two years ahead of peers in math, must play either the piano or violin, and so on.

“Don’t buy the book,” my friend told me. “I don’t want this insane nightmare of a mother to make any more money.”

I couldn’t wait to read this. I love people who get other people riled up, and Tiger Mother was a doozy.

The book described episodes of screaming, ranting, and otherwise belittling her young children. Tiger Mother called her daughters fat and lazy. She forced them to practice their chosen instruments (chosen from either the violin or the piano) for hours every day, even on family vacations. “The first hour is the easy one,” she wrote.

That’s how it is in our house, too, only with marathon sessions on the couch, watching The Office.

I was simultaneously horrified and intrigued. Were my kids lazy? Fat? Doomed? Hana is fourteen; Isaiah is twelve. I let them play video games. I let them watch television. I let them eat sugary snacks. Heck, I let them eat sugary breakfasts. They have Facebook profiles and spend hours on-line “chatting” with their friends and texting on their cell phones. I let them have sleepovers and play dates. I let them be in school plays. I let them spend summers lolling around the house, doing God-knows-what while I shut myself in my study upstairs to work on my novels.

I, more or less, let them be.

Was my lax attitude contributing to the decline of America? Of the entire Western world?

Don’t laugh; I took these questions seriously. I felt a responsibility to society at large. What could my video-playing, reality-show-crazed, sugar-hyped children contribute to our family, our country, our culture? Did Tiger Mother have it right? Was she seeing the bigger picture that I was too complacent and lazy to notice?

Stop.

Wait.

Hold the heck on.

We were laid back, but we weren’t exactly slackers.

My husband is a tenured professor at an Ivy League university.

I graduated from an Ivy League school (Columbia, class of 1989), was a copywriter in some of New York City’s best ad agencies, and am now a successful novelist.

But it’s my kids who are truly awesome.

Isaiah is a straight-A student. Naturally, he’s in advanced math. He’s also a star athlete, training with a select group of twelve year olds in the Philadelphia Union developmental program. Yes, that Union—Philadelphia’s professional Major League soccer team. In his spare time, as if there is such a thing when you train six days a week at the highest level and go to school full time, he plays cello and maintains an active social life.

Hana is also a straight-A student. Her passions are knitting, sewing, crafting, embroidering, beading, painting, and drawing. She spends her Saturdays at a prestigious art college in downtown Philadelphia taking classes that she pays for with scholarships from her art teachers. She also plays the viola. Last year she was asked to join the chamber orchestra, an honor she turned down as she was too busy with other all-consuming interests (at the moment, costume design and boxing).

Did I mention that Hana has her own business, Hanacorn, which makes custom hoodies and other hand-crafted fashion accessories?

Yes, yes she does.

So what exactly was going on here? How had we achieved upper-middle-class, high-achieving nirvana without the stress, anxiety, shouting, or emotional violence that tiger parenting endorses?

Or—Oh my God!—maybe we hadn’t achieved anything. Maybe our easy-going, above-average complacency masked a tragic flaw: we weren’t successful enough.

Enough for what? What exactly was Tiger Mother after? Status? Riches? Fame? Or should I take her at her word that all she wanted was to raise tough, resilient children who weren’t spoiled and coddled like my Western children? Because Lord knows, my kids worked like dogs in a frightening and unjust world; I loved to coddle.

I started to read sections of Tiger Mother out loud to my kids. We tackled the final uncomfortable chapters over breakfast one weekend morning wherein the younger “rebel” tiger cub quits all-consuming violin to take up ubercompetitive tennis that her mother micromanages secretly via text messages to the coach.

“So,” I asked my kids. “Do you wish I was tougher with you guys?”

“Yes!” They both cried.

It took a while to untangle that they each thought I wasn’t tough enough on their sibling. Hana thought I babied Isaiah. Isaiah thought Hana got away with murder. (See, coddling, above.)

“But what about you? Do you wish I was tougher on you?”

“You can’t be a tiger mother,” Hana said.

“Why not?”

“Because in this house,” she said, “I’m the tiger.”

“What’s that make me?” I asked.

“Prey.” She said it with a devious smile.

“Off-key Ditty of the Sloth Mother,” Isaiah suggested.

My children were not displaying the Eastern ideal of respect for their elders. For this, I was delighted. I loved their rebellion, their fearless, spontaneous wordplay, and their open opposition. This was the stuff of Western creativity and ingenuity. Our great country was built on rebellion, not slavish kowtowing to an unjust, unyielding emperor.

Go USA!

“Battle Hymn of the Bald Eagle Mother,” I suggested.

“That sounds awful,” Hana pointed out. “No one wants advice from endangered birds.”

While they got into an argument over whether the bald eagle was still endangered, I contemplated the heart of the issue: what was my battle hymn? Did I even have one? You can say a lot of things about tiger mothers, but at least they know where they stand.

Did I? Or was I just bumbling through and had gotten lucky with two awesome kids?

Hell, no. I knew exactly why my kids were outstanding. I’d just never thought much about it. It seemed so obvious, it didn’t warrant discussion. But after reading tiger mother’s self-satisfied ranting, I realized that two purely Western values set my children—and all children raised the “Western” way—on the path to true success. That is, the path to personal achievement, material comfort, and mental health.

First, Western culture recognizes and celebrates the importance of an inner life. Feelings matter; individual desires matter. Therefore, controlling, exploitative, intolerant, and violent behavior toward the powerless is frowned upon. This is why what tiger mothers call discipline, Western mothers recognize as potentially harmful neurosis. China is one of the most mentally ill countries in the world, with one in five adults suffering from a mental illness. Suicide is the leading cause of death among young people. If this is the culture at the root of tiger parenting, no thanks.

The second reason my kids are awesome is that I don’t give a crap about achievement. That dull list of exploits I rattled off a few pages back—who cares? Those accomplishments are the least interesting aspects about any of us. Judging children (or adults) by their “elite” awards and honors strikes introspective, deep-thinking Westerners as pathetic insecurity. Pathetic insecurity is the territory of a culture that values what other people think above all else, a culture in which fitting in is paramount. That isn’t my culture.

I live in a society that praises the rebel, the dreamer, and the outcast. Only with this attitude firmly in hand can children break the mold, believe in themselves, and achieve truly great things.

But I hadn’t always been quite so clear thinking. I understood the appeal of tiger mothers and the multi-million dollar industry that catered to them because I’d been there and done that.

“You know,” I told my kids. “It might surprise you guys, but I used to a tiger mother.”

“No way.” They looked shocked, as if I’d just announced that I used to be a pole dancer.

“It’s a long story. But I’m reformed. I totally accept the errors of my ways.”

“You should write a book,” Hana said. “Put out another point of view. I know kids who have tiger mothers, and some of them really need help.”

“Exactly. That’s why it’s a story you guys should tell, not me,” I said.

They didn’t look game.

“We should write it together. Alternating chapters,” I tried.

Isaiah caught the gleam in my eye and ducked out the back door, cell phone in hand, texting wildly. He and I were already writing a book together about the insanity of super-elite youth soccer. He knew how time consuming and annoying I could be when I was on a joint writing project.

Hana watched her brother jump on his bike and disappear down the driveway. He shot her an ironic salute through the window.

“Uh oh,” she said.

“I’ll do the typing,” I assured her. “I’ll interview you. It’ll be fun.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, but I could tell she was intrigued. That tiger mother book had really gotten her goat.

“Battle Hymn of the Tiger Daughter,” she said.

From the mouth of babes.

I pushed aside the breakfast mess and opened my MacBook. “Tell me about those kids you know.”

She smiled.

And I did what Tiger Mother never even considered: I shut up and let my daughter have the floor.