Read Online Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua - Free Book Online Page A

never remotely occurred to me that we’d have a dog in our household. I just didn’t see the point.
    Meanwhile, my violin practice sessions with Lulu were getting more and more harrowing. “Stop hovering over me,” she’d say. “You remind me of Lord Voldemort. I can’t play when you’re standing so close to me.”
    Unlike Western parents, reminding my child of Lord Voldemort didn’t bother me. I just tried to stay focused. “Do one small thing for me, Lulu,” I’d say reasonably. “One small thing: Play the line again, but this time keep your vibrato perfectly even. And make sure you shift smoothly from first position to third. And remember to use your whole bow, because it’s fortissimo, with a little more bow speed at the end. Also, don’t forget to keep your right thumb bent and your left pinkie curved. Go ahead—play.”
    Lulu would respond by doing none of the things I asked her to do. When I got exasperated, she’d say, “I’m sorry? What did you want me to do again?”
    Other times when I was giving instructions, Lulu would pluck loudly at her strings as if she were playing a banjo. Or even worse, she’d start to swing her violin around like a lasso until I shouted in horror. When I told her to straighten her posture and raise her violin, she’d sometimes crumple to the floor and pretend she was dead with her tongue stuck out. And always the constant refrain: “Are we done yet?”
    Yet other times, Lulu would seem to love the violin. After practicing with me, she’d sometimes want to play more by herself, and she’d fill the house with her beautiful tones, forgetting all about the time. She’d ask to bring her violin to school and come home flushed and pleased after playing for her class. Or she’d come running up to me when I was at my computer and say, “Mommy, guess what my favorite part in the Bach is!” I’d try to guess—I actually got it right about 70% of the time—and she’d either say “How did you know ?” or “No, it’s this part—isn’t it pretty?”
    If it weren’t for those moments, I probably would have given up. Or maybe not. In any case, as with Sophia and the piano, I had the highest hopes for Lulu and the violin. I wanted her to win the Greater New Haven Concerto Competition so that she could play as a soloist at Battell Chapel too. I wanted her to become concertmaster of the best youth orchestra. I wanted her to be the best violinist in the state—and that was for starters. I knew that was the only way Lulu could be happy. So the more time Lulu wasted—quibbling with me, drilling halfheartedly, clowning around—the longer I made her play. “We’re going to get this piece right,” I’d say to her, “however long it takes. It’s up to you. We can stay here until midnight if we need to.” And sometimes we did.
    “My friend Daniela was amazed at how much I practice,” Lulu said one afternoon. “She couldn’t believe it. I told her six hours a day, and she went—” And here Lulu imitated Daniela with her mouth open.
    “You shouldn’t have said six hours, Lulu—she’s going to get the wrong idea. It’s only six hours when you waste five of them.”
    Lulu ignored this. “Daniela felt so sorry for me. She asked when I had time to do anything else. I told her that I don’t really have time for anything fun, because I’m Chinese.”
    I bit my tongue and said nothing. Lulu was always collecting allies, marshaling her troops. But I didn’t care. In America, everyone was always going to take her side. I wasn’t going to let peer pressure get to me. The few times I did, I regretted it.
    Once, for example, I allowed Sophia to attend a sleepover party. This was an exception. When I was little, my mother used to say, “Why do you need to sleep at someone else’s house? What’s wrong with your own family?” As a parent, I took the same position, but on this occasion Sophia begged and begged me, and in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness, I