“I like your boobies, Mommy,” she said, patting them. And at that moment, that was all the cultural reassurance I needed.
17
Tiger Mom’s Heart Grew Two Sizes That Day
“I had never seen anything like it,” my husband said. “You were in the recovery room and your mom and I looked through the glass partition and saw the baby swaddled there in the tray. Your mom looked at Lucy with tears streaming down her face. She was crying. It kind of freaked me out.”
Who knew that a blob of joy with thighs like biscuit dough could move my mom to tears? While Rolf counted Lucy’s fingers and toes out loud, my mom’s face was reportedly, yes, leaking spontaneous tears of happiness.
Of all the family photos in my parents’ house, there is only one of my mother as a child. She is standing knock-kneed on an army base in Hong Kong, the expression on her face confused at best. She is about three years old and is grimacing in distress, even as she is held in place by her mother. My grandfather stands confidently alongside them in his U.S. military uniform.
My mother arrived in this country speaking only Chinese and was placed in a lower grade for her age because of her lack of English. Her parents struggled to find housing and work, as she and her older sister navigated their new school and all the different faces and customs they encountered. Money was tight, the foods were unfamiliar, and I can only imagine that my mother did not have a happy-go-lucky childhood.
From the moment my baby was born, my mother expressed such delight in her that at first I was taken aback. For my whole life, my mother never acted giddy, or even a little bit goofy, and there she was, making faces, playing peekaboo, singing, and gently tickling Baby Lucy. Through my daughter’s infancy and toddlerhood, my mom held and comforted her, chased and played with her. My mom became both the kid she never got to be and a young mother once again. It seemed that all the things she didn’t have time to do with me were made right in this second chance with her granddaughter. My mom could be silly! Who knew?
And I guess this is as good a time as any to say that during those first years of Baby Lucy’s life, my mom totally saved my ass. My mother was my rock. Other than my spouse, I trusted no one else to feed, bathe, and take care of my daughter. Up to that point, I had viewed my mother to be pragmatic to a fault, but all her practical know-how in cleaning, measuring, diaper changing, clothes washing, and snot wiping came to my rescue when I was a sleep-deprived know-nothing.
I was adept at many things in life, like how to organize an office of fifty people, how not to get pickpocketed on the bus, how to walk into popular restaurants and get seated quickly even without a reservation, and other urban survival skills. But for some reason I had never had any experience with babies. I didn’t have younger siblings or infants around in my household so I had never even changed one diaper before I had Lucy.
People might think a new mother just magically “knows what to do.” And all I’ve got to say to that is, ha ha ha ha. In various jobs I’ve held for pay, I attended seminars to familiarize myself with computer programs and trained with my superiors to learn the ins and outs of becoming a team leader. However, never in my life had anyone ever clued me in about cradle cap, pinkeye, ear gunk, or cleaning milk out from under a baby’s neck. So thankfully, here was my mom, having not been around an infant in several decades, but nonetheless, she was, in fact, the Blob Whisperer. As if she had cared for us babies only yesterday, she miraculously could read the subtle nuances in infant gurgles, hiccups, and squeaks.
I cannot overestimate how comforting it was to have someone around whom I could trust to keep my baby alive. I was in that hysterical, new-mom headspace where I would wake up in the night and hold a small mirror up to the baby’s mouth to make sure she was still breathing. The only thing that quelled my all-consuming anxiety was knowing that I could take Lucy to my mother for a few hours in the morning, and she would be safe while I tried to catch some sleep.
My mom accompanied me to the baby’s doctor appointments and played bad cop to my good cop when it was time to get shots. She didn’t lose her mind like I did when Lucy wailed in fear. Someone had to not be the basket case, and that was my mom. I had never fully understood that being the person who gets things done is a crucial yet unsung position in life. Her pragmatism allowed me to be a mess. Her strength allowed me to flail around like a depressed, weepy, stressed-out mammal in milk-stained clothes. Until I could gather my marbles and come to grips with the fact that my college education and urban life skills meant practically nothing in this new endeavor, my mom was there keeping the baby clean, fed, washed, and happy.
I had always considered my mother to be short-tempered and difficult, and I thought of myself as someone who was affable and accommodating. Weirdly, though, now our roles were reversing. My mom transformed into a more pleasant person as she reveled in Lucy’s innocence and sweetness. Meanwhile, I was the one becoming a cranky pants as I dealt with my changing body, new responsibilities, and the realization that old freedoms that I had taken for granted were now suddenly ripped away, never to be seen again.
During my daughter’s earliest years, my mother and I spent more time together than we had in two decades. In that time, she became younger and I became older. She reconnected with the playfulness of youth, and I began to understand that becoming an adult meant putting someone else’s needs before my own for every meal, shower, snack, clothing change, and need to pee. It was a major learning curve to always think to wash someone else’s hands before my own, fix a twisted sock, roll up a sleeve, cut a piece of meat, find a sequin lost in the carpet, or handle any such earthshaking minutiae before even taking a sip of water for myself.
I did not magically “know what to do.” As an adult, growing up continues to be a learning process as I help someone else to grow up. I am grateful that in my early years of motherhood, I had someone in my corner helping to do all the unsung, mundane, immediately crucial work of keeping my daughter fed, comfortable, and thriving.
My mom and I are not exactly chummy best friends. But she was my rock when I needed one. And like I said, she certainly saved my ass. And I will never forget that.
18
Mompetitors, Start Your Engines!
I hadn’t fully understood the importance of having a group of friends until I had a baby and started to spend time with other moms. Up until then, I’d had solid friendships with individuals, having forged bonds through school or a mutual love of art and writing. However, when the baby bomb detonated, it created total chaos in my body, brain, and living room.
I am not sure if motherhood levels the playing field or obliterates it as would an underground nuclear explosion. Dirt, weeds, small animals, uprooted trees, and all manner of flying detritus rain down on your head, or at least that’s what it feels like. The needs of your deflated body, demanding family, and cuddly, perhaps colicky baby are a whole new minefield that you must navigate. And where once you could walk a straight line to get somewhere, you might suddenly find that the ground has now somehow turned to Jell-O. As a new parent you search for solid footing, only to encounter sinkholes filled with Marshmallow Fluff.
I didn’t find immediate camaraderie on playgrounds or in moms’ groups. In fact, my first foray into fellow-parent bonding didn’t work out so well at all. When Lucy was three years old, I enrolled her in the same tiny tots program I had attended as a child. I hoped that we, as mother and child, would have two tons of fun. I assumed I’d feel at least a little bit like I belonged since, after all, I had attended the place myself, back in the 1970s. Of course, I wouldn’t have expected any of the old teachers to still be there, but I at least thought the other parents would be nice. But dang if the social hierarchy wasn’t bursting with mompetitors with poopie personalities. My childhood playground had now become a gathering spot for Mean Girls with Strollers.
There was a preexisting superclique of redheaded gals, and as they all chatted in a tight circle, I did occasionally rescue some of their boys who were
upside down in the sandbox and couldn’t right themselves. Or sometimes the boys got stranded on the rickety play bridge, dangling helplessly by their ankles while their moms remained oblivious. I tried to be helpful. I wanted to be liked so much that I even tried to interject into conversation that my husband was a redhead, as if they’d accept me into their group by hair color proxy. But they weren’t interested. Not even when I offered to share my organic fake Oreos.
Nor was it a love connection between our offspring. Lucy observed the other children from a safe distance, and when I asked if she wanted to join the other kids, she observed the Lord of the Flies melee by the play structure and uttered one scathing word, “Cooties.”
There were also two Asian moms at this tiny tots, but they kept to themselves and didn’t talk to anyone, not even to each other. Not that they should have immediately been friends because of their ethnicity, but in my petty, competitive mind I hoped and schemed about forming a Super Asian Mom clique that might topple the dynasty of excluding redheads. That was my revenge fantasy, anyway. But when I smiled at them from across the circle as we all sang “The Wheels on the Bus,” neither Asian gal smiled back. They both did the little hand movements with looks of complete boredom on their faces. Meanwhile, I tried to at least feign enthusiasm for the sake of my kid.
I unsuccessfully attempted to suspend judgment as I watched the Asian woman with the cropped hair constantly check her phone and the one with the glasses as she frantically texted. They should have been doing the swish-swish-swish motion with their hands, and the swirly wheel thing with their fingers. I wanted to say, “Come on, ladies! This time, with feeling!”
But what I hadn’t counted on was that these Asian moms apparently couldn’t stand to be doing nothing. And by nothing I mean being mentally present as toddlers all around us drooled and spaced out. They both seemed horrified at the pointlessness of singing songs when the time could have been more effectively used to check in at their respective offices via phone. I watched from a short distance as they each directed focused intensity on their devices and their kids sat like well-dressed lumps on the mats. I wondered, why bother coming to a tiny tots playgroup at all if you’re not going to even pretend to spend time with your kid?
With these Asian moms whom I failed to connect with, I definitely got the impression that associating with others here in our modest parks and rec building might risk throwing off their schedules. They each stayed only for exactly twenty-five minutes, then efficiently packed up their strollers and offspring and went off to their kids’ next activities. Having once asked each separately where they were off to, I received the curt replies, “Karate and Kid Yoga,” and “Level Two Gymnastics and Ballet with Miss Tilly.”
I particularly noted the one woman’s need to denote “Level Two,” lest I mistakenly assume that her kid, who was shorter than the length of my arm, was only a lowly tumbler. In addition, Level Two mom then caught a glimpse of Lucy playing with a leaf and rolled her eyes at me. She grabbed her kid’s wrist and pulled her away from us just in case her own daughter might get any bright ideas about remedial leaf exploring, as if that would forever doom her to an entry-level job in the food industry. I just shrugged it off. I’m not one of those moms who thinks getting into Harvard depends on early enrollment in preschool Pilates.
Over time, I did slowly find other mothers with sensibilities similar to my own. The conversations came easily, and we talked about the mundane things that were now a part of our daily lives: making noodles, washing underwear, mopping floors, fighting about boogers, and dirty hair. We laughed about how our brains were turning to mush, but we bolstered one another’s morale with adult cynicism while we discussed various toddler TV shows:
“Which guy do you like better on Blue’s Clues, Steve or Joe?”
“I can’t decide between the pinhead or the one who just looks like a mouth-breathing masturbator.”
“Bert or Ernie?”
“They’re both gay, of course. Hiding together under the Q for Quilt, reading a book, with a big Q for Queen. Ernie, stop spraying me with that hose! ‘Doing the Pigeon’ sounds like a song Bert learned in San Quentin.”
“The Care Bear stare is like spray-on Ritalin—wish I had some of that.”
“When Big Bird sings about adoring the number four, does he say ‘crashing bores,’ or ‘trashy whores’?”
I can’t imagine that Tiger Moms allow themselves the closeness that results from sharing, because to do so, they’d have to let their hair down. Friendship with other moms comes from admitting mistakes, revealing messy truths, and laughing so hard that you kind of pee your pants a little.
And how can a woman do that if she’s still striking that impossible pose of perfection? One-upmanship, comparing your kids’ accomplishments, and securing your bragging rights or moral high ground do not bring people closer to you. Those hallmarks of Tiger Moms only serve to keep everyone at arm’s length. Ultimately, it’s a recipe for even more loneliness.
During Lucy’s baby and toddler years, I was glad to have met those few women who helped me feel less alone. Some moms were stricter than others, and we didn’t agree on everything, but we enjoyed one another’s company without having to feel competitive, which felt good.
That was several years ago now. Back then, I was just starting to find camaraderie, and more surprising, I was getting along pretty well with my very own mother. Nonetheless, in the near distance, or maybe just inside me, a storm was brewing.
19
Iris Chang It
I always suspected there were pitfalls to being a high-achieving Chinese American, but the severity of the dangers really shook me to the core when Iris Chang shot and killed herself.
Iris Chang was a Chinese American writer who was my age and also had a child around the same time my daughter was born. She lived in San Jose, which is very close to San Francisco, so when I saw the headline “Local Chinese American author, 36, found dead of self-inflicted gunshot,” for a split second I thought, Oh, hell, am I dead?
I stared at the wall, and for a good twenty seconds I pondered the possibility that I might be one of those confused ghosts haunting my own house because I didn’t realize I was dead. After poking myself in the leg with a pencil and ascertaining that I was still living in the flesh, I went on to read the devastating news about Chang, a brilliant star whose light was extinguished on an early November morning.
By all accounts, she was the ultimate go-getter, convincing the New York Times to let her be a stringer in the Champaign-Urbana area of Illinois when she was still in college. Other students envied her ambition and success, and the author Paula Kamen even described Chang’s gumption as a verb, telling her students who longed to accomplish something to just “Iris Chang it.”
Chang wrote three books, The Thread of the Silkworm, The Rape of Nanking, and The Chinese in America. They were all books that any Chinese parent would be proud of. They were scholarly works with no F-bombs, or scenes describing crapping your pants, or plotlines with an underaged Lolita watching a guy spank his monkey. Those classy bits were the cornerstones of my novels. Part of me would’ve loved to be Iris Chang, but for the most part I knew that Iris had a gift for elegance, while my specialty, apparently, was sweet, lowbrow profanity.
I’m just gonna start referring to her as Iris now, because it feels like we were friends. With each book that she produced, I felt pangs of jealousy. I would take particular notice whenever her name appeared in the news. Ah, look at her shining face, standing there with Bill Clinton. Oh, look, there’s her name on the top of the bestsellers list. Gee, look, they’re erecting a statue of her in the city of Nanking, China.
It was a friendly envy because I wholeheartedly admired her bravery and her writing, and how she reached back into history to shed a spotlight on the atrocities against the Chinese during World War II. My own grandma Lucy had fled Japanese bombs in China, and she had told her heartbreaking, horrifying stories to me as Chang’s grandparents had also done
with Iris, so The Rape of Nanking was especially meaningful to me. And now Iris was dead.
Damn! I always thought Iris and I would have met up somewhere, like at a conference or panel at the library. I had looked forward to the day when I might gush at her like a swooning fan, and we might be able to swap stories about balancing the writing life with raising a kid.
But none of that would be happening. One early morning, Iris left her bed and got in her car to drive a short distance from home to inflict a single gunshot to her own supersmart, beautiful head. All that gorgeous hair, creamy skin, and pretty face I imagined splattered in her own blood on the car seat.
Although she was a stranger to me, it felt like a stab in the heart.
Oh, what if we had been friends? Could an acknowledgment of mutual, separate loneliness have made any difference at all? Or maybe a competition between us would have made things that much worse.
I fantasize about how just one association, one person, one more ally could have changed the outcome for Iris. I know this after-the-fact speculating is unrealistic, futile, and perhaps pompous of me, but I imagine the various scenarios still.
Was it really that bad? Couldn’t she walk away from her responsibilities, or move to Tahiti? No way. No, no, no. Of course not. Apparently, that’s not how Iris Chang rolled. She was the superachieving firstborn child of two superachieving parents (they are both scientists), and when you throw in that Chinese thing . . . well.
Many reasons and speculations abound for what ended Iris Chang—depression, bipolar disorder, her deep empathy for the victims she wrote about, and other theories. The San Francisco Chronicle Magazine wrote a cover story about her, detailing her achievements and her last days and funeral. The article described her husband taking her to Fresh Choice for their wedding anniversary, how she would work nonstop for days, and how she regularly exhausted herself completely.
Tiger Babies Strike Back Page 9
