Battle Hymn still humming in my ears

When I first read the WSJ article on Amy Chua’s book “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” I did not know it was a cut-and-paste collection of provocative passages for maximum emotional effect and not a real excerpt. I fell into that outrage trap as many others did. The sound and the fury, mixed with little pride and much prejudice, erupted everywhere generating tons of online blogs/articles/cartoons, and readers chattered. Some Asian friends expressed distress that they did not know this was the model for parenting and maybe they had failed their children; others said thank goodness “I am not like her”. Some said their children questioned “why did you not push me like that so I could be successful?” My cousin and I emailed back and forth about how he wished his parents had pushed him, and how glad I am that mine never pushed me because it would not have worked. Then he listed reasons why Chinese parenting indeed is superior, so is Chinese food. And to that I countered with my points. Then he said I was getting to be too “white” and too “PC”. I had a great disadvantage. My own Chinese mother never demanded excellence of any kind. She was busy and tired working full time as a Special Ed teacher while raising four children—one mostly A student and three C students. She doted on us equally never favoring anyone. Around her we could just be ourselves and own our own problems. We had the best time playing Mahjon or just being goofy together. As a result, I had a hard time with Amy Chua’s assertion that Chinese Mothers, the term used loosely as she claimed, are superior pushy tiger moms who raise successful children. Even though I perceive warpping unfairness by the author, I as a reader need to read the book to be fair. If nothing else, I hope for closure. I meant to read it in a book store so as not to boost the sales, but since there was not a chunk of time to hang out at the store, I bought a paper version that I could loan to people so as not to boost the sales. It was slow reading initially with many distractions by the dichotomy of Chinese vs Western, full of clichés and stereotypes. And I had to pause and digest the scene of Amy Chua pushing three year old Lulu out in the freezing cold because she would not “obey”, and her “racing against time” urgency to get as much music practice in as fast as possible because others are becoming prodigies by age 8 or 10. The teeth mark left on the piano by her lonely but prodigious daughter Sophie gnawing in frustration sent chills up my spine. Her threats to burn the girls’ stuffed animals and to haul away their beloved dollhouse were just painful to read. I mused on the generational decline theory, and her question to her husband: what dreams do you have for our girls? I ask myself, what dreams did I have for my children? Well, aside from wishing them being happy, self-reliant, and becoming contributing members of society I came up empty in the dreams department. Sorry M and E, you’ll just have to dream your own dreams. And I think about my own parenting. As our friend Sumie pointed out, many of us engaged in a lazier version of the so called “Chinese parenting”. In my case there was proof in my son’s 5th grade autobiography. In the mother chapter he wrote about a witch who did not have a good temper and made him do extra math and practice piano (clarifications: 30 minutes some days for piano, Kumon math sheets some days, dinner first always). In the father chapter he wrote about a fun guy who liked to "play with me". No doubt this lazy version would not be approved by Amy Chua, but what would the kids say? Too much? Too little? It was in the chapter of “Popo” (an endearing Chinese word for grandma) that it dawned on me that Chua used the word “Chinese” also with pride and honor. And as I read on I have to say her dedication to her girls’ musical practice schedules, though ferociously strict and detailed bordering on mental disorders (many of which did not exist in China according to Chua), was simply not physically or mentally achievable by most parents, Chinese or Western. But that is what my cousin was talking about, the dedication and self sacrifice from parents to help their children achieve excellence and realize their potentials. Chua’s brutal honesty and sheer fortitude was impressive, and her dogged sense of satire was growing on me. I was deeply moved by Sophie’s essay on performing in Carniegie Hall. But then, a nagging thought popped up: if the mother was in every note in the music practice, was she in every word in the essay writing? And still, why not just give Lulu some dinner after a grueling day of auditioning before demanding more practice? Following one daughter’s addictive highs of success was the other daughter’s unacceptable failure. “Chinese parenting does not address failure very well”, Chua dryly admitted. If Chua demonized herself in the first two parts of the book, her violin daughter Lulu’s escalating rebellion possibly humanized her in the third part. Or did it? After the blow out confrontation between mother and daughter on the Red Square in Moscow ( of all places, Lulu broke loose on the very spot symbolizing oppression ), Chua allowed Lulu to make “choices”, which meant Chua finally gave up on molding a virtuoso violinist out of Lulu. And she started writing this memoir the day after they returned from Moscow. The day after!! Does this mean when she realized the violin dream had failed, she moved on the very next day to make the book about this failure a success? Was Lulu right all along? “It is always all about you mommy”. “You are a show off”. None of that really matters. What really matters is the relationship between mother and daughters, and Amy Chua realizes as much. She generalized in the beginning that Chinese families are always tight together, only to reveal in the end her father’s bitter estrangement from his own family. I, like all readers, hope the hurt is not too deep to heal in her family. And loving those dogs who could not learn tricks maybe the true rehabilitation for her addiction to super achievements.

Brahma
by Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803--1882

If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near,
Shadow and sunlight are the same,
The vanished gods to me appear,
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.



study note:
"Brahma" was published in the Atlantic in 1857, but Emerson had been experimenting with it for many years. Miller calls it "New England's old Puritanism decked out in Oriental imagery." Here we see many ideas from Emerson's reading of Hindu verse and philosophy as he considers the doctrine of the "absolute unity." In Hindu religious thought, Brahma is "underlying, unchanging reality." It is best understood in contrast to Maya, "the changing, illusory world of appearance." According to Arthur Christy, Brahma is infinite, serene, invisible, imperishable, beyond cognition, indissoluble, immutable, formless, one and eternal. Maya, on the other hand, is finite, fleeting, visible, perishable, changeable, manifold. One of the sources for this poem is from the Bhagavad Gita: "He who believes that this spirit can kill, and he who thinks it can be killed, both of these are wrong in judgment. It neither kills nor is killed. It is not born nor dies at any time. It has no origin, nor will it ever have an origin. Unborn, changeless, eternal, both as to future and past time, it is not slain when the body is killed."

Desiderata (excerpt)
by Prof Lakshman Madurasinghe on 10/30/2010

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;and listen to others,even to the dull and ignorant;they too have their story. Take kindly the counsel of the years,gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,be gentle with yourself.You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars;you have a right to be here.And whether or not it is clear to you,no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,whatever you conceive him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations,in the noisy confusion of life,keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,it is still a beautiful world.Be cheerful.Strive to be happy.

Gone From My Sight
by Henry Van Dyke

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,
spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts
for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck
of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone"

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,
hull and spar as she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone,"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout,
"Here she comes!"

Your I-Will-Never List
By Nels P. Highberg

Today is the third anniversary of my mother's death. Her birthday was two days ago, so it's no surprise that this is always a difficult time of year for me. We were very close, and there are still moments when I can't believe she is no longer a living, breathing part of my life. I will never be able to call her on Saturdays like I used to do, and I will never see her when I fly to my hometown in Texas for the holidays.

It might seem detrimental to focus on things that will never happen, and that would be true if it were all I focused on. There is value, though, in taking a moment to think of what we can never do. I'm not sure where I first heard of the "I Will Never" list. It was probably from someone's blog or Twitter feed, but I can't remember whose. I do remember reading about it quickly last summer and then not thinking much about it until one afternoon this past March when I was sitting at the Astor Place Starbucks in New York City with my paper journal and a few hours to sit, think, and write.Before I get into that afternoon of journaling, let me say what the list is all about. Many of us take the occasional moment now and then to wallow in self-pity, whining about the things that we can't or won't do, especially as we get older. Those fantasies we had in high school of traveling the world or becoming a famous movie star or living in a penthouse in Paris every summer turn out to be only fantasies. In our weakest moments, some of us let that reality get us down. I'm sure we all know people who seem to do nothing but complain about what they haven't done or can't do. Hidden underneath these things we probably will never do are a whole raft of other things that we could do if we just took a moment to recognize them. That's the point of the list. You write down the five, six, or ten things you will never do. Then, you follow them with a list of related things you can do. Instead of approaching life through an all-or-nothing mentality that tells us the inability to reach our dreams means we should abandon any related activity, this list is supposed to expose us to the things that are possible. Instead of centering our lives on what we can't do, we start to center them on what we can do.There are several things I noted in my journal that afternoon in New York City. I will never complete an Ironman Triathlon. But I could make the effort to complete a local triathlon. Or half-marathon. Or 5K. Or just make consistent visits to the gym. I will never have a solo show of my photography at any of my favorite Chelsea art galleries. But I could make the effort to submit my work to various group shows around the country. Or to different magazines or literary journals. Or just post a daily photo to my Flickr account. I will never fly around the world in one summer. But I could travel internationally every few years. Or visit every state in the United States throughout my life. Or just stop and pay more attention to local spots I normally ignore in my daily drives to and from campus.

I will never hug my mother again. Or my grandmother. Or my first partner. Or my best friend from college. But I will remember them. And write about them. And be grateful for the time I had with them. And I will continue living my life as the person they loved and taught me to be.What will you never do? And what can you still do about it?

My Beautiful Mother

My Beautiful Mother 11/2/1927--9/11/2009 Beloved wife-mother-grandmother, WWII and Chinese Civil War survivor, special ed teacher, artist, hard hard worker, wonderful cook, gardener, Majon partner, smiley face, silly goose, sunrise watcher, listener, good friend, peace maker, sampler of simple pleasures. Full of love and affection for all. Happy from within. Always amazed by and thankful for her good fortunes in life. Mom we love you forever.

This picture was snapped at the Taipei airport on that July day in 2009 when we left for home after visiting Taipei for 5 days. Mom was not going to the airport but at the last minute she decided to go and see us off. She felt better that day. I said: hey guys take a picture with Weipou ( grandma in Mandarin) . And they bent and put their faces next to their grandma's. Mom smiled. It was the last time I saw her awake.

Woman In the Painting

Woman In the Painting
Wednesday, December 16, 2009 at 11:36pm

82 years ago--1927, the year of the rabbit---my mom was born on November 2 on the lunar calendar, which falls on December 17 on the solar calendar this year.

I stood gazing at this painting mom had done in early 90s after her retirement. There is a beautiful young woman sitting leisurely under the banana tree, a fan in one hand, waiting or resting? What's on her mind? And what went through mom's mind when she drew this? Mom never talked about her work. She enjoyed her art as quietly as she endured hardship.

There was nothing leisurely about mom's life before her retirement. Like millions back in those days she grew up in war torn China, suffered deathly losses ( her mother and brother), and had to flee the Communists from Mainland to the island of Taiwan in 1949. There she settled down to life with dad a military man, raising four children in the military village. She worked full time as a teacher; walked most days to open air markets to get groceries for the family of six. She fanned the little coal stove to cook and hand washed all laundry. I still remember the excitement over our first ice box cooled by huge chunks of ice delivered to our door, and the first black and white TV. Mom sewed most of our clothes and raised chickens in the small yard for eggs and meat.

Mom has been gone three months now, or maybe I should say her life was "completed" three months ago. I say this because she was very happy and satisfied with her life. I wonder if the woman in the painting feels the same way.