This blog post is overdue but my blog was one of the many things that fell to the wayside during my last semester of graduate school. Was my latest achievement a result of my parents’ harsh disciplinary method of childrearing? No, I applied to graduate school, got accepted, and went through all of it on my own volition. My parents’ constant criticism throughout my entire life have actually had an adverse effect on me. As my fellow Baruch alumna, Betty Ming Liu, famously declared, “Parents like Amy Chua are the reason why Asian-Americans like me are in therapy.” Perhaps if I had received more encouragement and praise from my parents, I might have figured out my life calling much earlier on. Instead, my parents’ style were authoritarian–I was told who and what I should be at a very young age.
I wanted to sing, but my mom told me I could not carry a tune so I stopped singing. I wanted to be a writer, but my mom told me I would never be successful enough to make a living as a writer–unless Hollywood turned my novel into a movie. I wanted to be a dancer but my father told me it took up too much of his time having to drop me off at dance classes. He said I was too fat and short to be a beautiful dancer. Instead, he put me in piano lessons and my mom dictated my practice schedule (every day for 3 hours but not after 8pm so I don’t disturb the neighbors). After a year and a half and one recital later, I told my parents I didn’t want to continue the piano lessons because I wanted to choose a new instrument to learn. I tried out the clarinet and flute, but ultimately I was drawn to the violin. I picked up the instrument when I was in the 5th grade and kept up with it until after high school. I practiced when I wanted; I learned to block out my parents’ complaints that I didn’t practice enough to become more advanced.
After discussing this with some of my fellow Asian-Americans, it seems my mom’s negative attitude is a common trait among old-school Chinese parents. I have observed this in my aunts–and I have nine aunts on my mom’s side, which I feel is an adequate sample. Many of them are quick to to judge and criticize, even during celebratory occasions like weddings and birthday parties. On the other hand, compliments are far and few. In addition to my father’s fat comments, two or three of aunts used to routinely point out my thunder thighs and big butt. My favorite one was, “Amy has a butt like a black woman’s.” (My evil aunt is clearly racist.) As a child and then a teen, I used to feel hurt by those comments. But as an adult, I have grown to love my curves. I have also learned to talk back to my elders–a huge no-no in my culture. Speaking up for myself hasn’t changed my aunts’ personalities, but at least they know better than to make rude comments–not to my face at least.
My mom still criticizes and judges every living thing and every inanimate object on earth, but that doesn’t mean I have to be like that. This is another one of those things I have taken from my parents and promised myself to do the exact opposite in order to be a better parent. Chua has said repeatedly that her book is not a parenting guide, and I hope readers take that to heart. Or take it as a parenting guide of what NOT to do.
In hindsight, my attended every one of my orchestra concerts in high school (and those took place twice a year). She might not show support in the obvious, more normal, healthier ways via compliments, praise, and words of encouragement, but she shows them in other ways. I just have to stop and look… and tell myself I can do better.
