Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

by Amy Chua

  “When you’re eighteen,” I would shout as she stalked away from me up the stairs, “I’ll let you make all the mistakes you want. But until then, I will not give up on you.”

  “I want you to give up on me!” Lulu yelled back more than once.

  When it came to stamina, Lulu and I were evenly matched. But I had an advantage. I was the parent. I had the car keys, the bank account, the right not to sign permission slips. And that was all under U.S. law.

  “I need a haircut,” Lulu said one day.

  I replied, “After you spoke to me so rudely and refused to play the Mendelssohn musically, you expect me to get in the car now and drive you where you want?”

  “Why do I have to bargain for everything?” Lulu asked bitterly.

  That night, we had another big argument, and Lulu locked herself in her room. She refused to come out and wouldn’t answer when I tried to talk to her through the door. Much later, from my study, I heard the click of her door unlocking. I went to see her and found her sitting calmly on her bed.

  “I think I’m going to go to sleep now,” she said in a normal voice. “I’ve finished all my homework.”

  But I wasn’t listening. I was staring at her.

  Lulu had taken a pair of scissors and cut her own hair. On one side, it hung unevenly to about her chin. On the other, it was chopped off above the ear in an ugly, jagged line.

  My heart skipped a beat. I almost exploded at her, but something—I think it was fear—made me hold my tongue.

  A moment passed.

  “Lulu—” I began.

  “I like short hair,” she interrupted.

  I glanced away. I couldn’t stand to look at her. Lulu had always had hair that everyone envied: wavy, brown-black—a Chinese-Jewish special. Part of me wanted to scream hysterically at Lulu and throw something at her. Another part of me wanted to wrap my arms around her and cry uncontrollably.

  Instead, I said calmly, “I’ll make an appointment with a hair salon first thing in the morning. We’ll find someone to fix it.”

  “Okay.” Lulu shrugged.

  Later, Jed said to me, “Something has to change, Amy. We have a serious problem.”

  For the second time that night, I felt like crying uncontrollably. But instead, I rolled my eyes. “It’s not a big deal, Jed,” I said. “Don’t create a problem where there isn’t one. I can handle this.”

  25

  Darkness

  My little sister Katrin and me in the early eighties

  When I was growing up, one of my favorite things was to play with my third sister, Katrin. Maybe because she was seven years younger than me, there was no rivalry or conflict. She was also preposterously cute. With her shiny black eyes, her shiny bowl haircut, and her rosebud lips, she was constantly attracting the attention of strangers, and once won a JCPenney photo contest that she hadn’t even entered. Because my mother was often busy with my youngest sister, Cindy, my second sister, Michelle, and I took turns taking care of Katrin.

  I have great memories from those days. I was bossy and confident, and Katrin idolized her big sister, so it was a perfect fit. I made up games and stories, and taught her how to play jacks and Chinese hopscotch and how to jump rope double Dutch. We played restaurant; I was the chef and the waiter, and she was the customer. We played school; I was the teacher, and she, along with five stuffed animals, was my student (Katrin excelled at my courses). I held McDonald’s carnivals to raise money for muscular dystrophy; she manned the booths and collected money.

  Thirty-five years later, Katrin and I were still close. The two of us were the most alike of the four sisters, at least on the surface. She and I both had two Harvard degrees (actually, she had three, because of her M.D./Ph.D.), we both married Jewish men, we both went into academics like our father, and we both had two children.

  A few months before Lulu chopped off her hair, I got a call from Katrin, who taught and ran a lab out at Stanford. It was the worst call I have ever received in my life.

  She was sobbing. She told me that she had been diagnosed with a rare, almost certainly fatal leukemia.

  Impossible, I thought confusedly. Leukemia striking my family—my lucky family—for a second time?

  But it was true. Katrin had been feeling exhausted, nauseated, and short of breath for several months. When she finally saw a doctor, the results of the blood tests were unmistakable. In a cruel coincidence, the leukemia she had was caused by the very kind of cell mutation she was studying in her lab.

  “I’m probably not going to live very long,” she said, crying. “What’s going to happen to Jake? And Ella won’t even know me.” Katrin’s son was ten, her daughter barely one. “You have to make sure she knows who I was.You have to promise me, Amy. I better get some pictures—” And she broke off.

  I was in shock. I just couldn’t believe it. An image of Katrin at ten flashed into my head, and it was impossible to put that together with the word leukemia. How could this be happening to Katrin—Katrin? And my parents! How could they take this—it would kill them.

  “Exactly what did the doctors say, Katrin?” I heard myself asking in a strangely confident voice. I had snapped into my big-sister, can-do, invulnerable mode.

  But Katrin didn’t answer. She said she had to get off the phone and would call me again.

  Ten minutes later, I got an e-mail from her. It said: “Amy, it’s really really bad. Sorry! I’ll need chemotherapy then bone marrow transplant if possible, then more chemo, and low chance of survival.”

  Being a scientist, she of course was right.

  26

  Rebellion, Part 2

  I took Lulu to a salon the day after she cut her hair. We didn’t speak much in the car. I was tense and had a lot on my mind.

  “What happened?” the hairdresser asked.

  “She cut it,” I explained. I had nothing to hide. “Is there anything you can do to make it look better while it grows out?”

  “Wow—you did a real job on yourself, honey,” the woman said to Lulu, eyeing her curiously. “What made you do this?”

  “Oh, it was an act of adolescent self-destruction aimed primarily at my mother,” I thought Lulu might say. She certainly had the vocabulary and the psychological self-awareness to do so.

  But instead, Lulu said in a pleasant voice, “I was trying to layer it. But I really messed up.”

  Later, back home, I said, “Lulu, you know that Mommy loves you, and everything I do, I do for you, for your future.”

  My own voice sounded artificial to me, and Lulu must have thought so too, because her response was, “That’s great,” in a flat, apathetic tone.

  Jed’s fiftieth birthday came up. I organized a huge surprise party, inviting old friends from his childhood and every part of his life. I asked everyone to bring a funny story about Jed. Weeks in advance, I asked Sophia and Lulu each to write her own toast.

  “It can’t just be tossed off,” I ordered. “It has to be meaningful. And it can’t be clichéd.”

  Sophia got right on it. As usual, she didn’t consult me or ask my advice on a single word. By contrast, Lulu said, “I don’t want to give a toast.”

  “You have to give a toast,” I replied.

  “No one my age gives toasts,” Lulu said.

  “That’s because they’re from bad families,” I retorted.

  “Do you know how crazy you sound?” Lulu asked. “They’re not from ‘bad’ families. What’s a ‘bad’ family?”

  “Lulu, you are so ungrateful. When I was your age, I worked nonstop. I built a treehouse for my sisters because my father asked me to. I obeyed everything he said, and that’s why I know how to use a chainsaw. I also built a hummingbird house. I was a newspaper carrier for the El Cerrito Journal and had to wear a huge fifty-pound pouch over my head stuffed with papers and walk five miles. And look at you—you’ve been given every opportunity, every privilege. You’ve never had to wear imitation Adidas with four stripes instead of three. And you can’t even do this one
tiny thing for Daddy. It’s disgusting.”

  “I don’t want to give a toast,” was Lulu’s response.

  I pulled out the big guns. I threatened everything I could think of. I bribed her. I tried to inspire her. I tried to shame her. I offered to help her write it. I jacked up the stakes and gave her an ultimatum, knowing it was a pivotal battle.

  When the party came, Sophia delivered a minimasterpiece. At sixteen, standing 5’ 8” in her heels, she had become a stunning girl with a sly wit. In her toast, she captured her father perfectly, gently poking fun but ultimately lionizing him. Afterward, my friend Alexis came up to me. “Sophia is just unbelievable.”

  I nodded. “She gave a great toast.”

  “Absolutely . . . but that’s not what I meant,” said Alexis. “I don’t know if people really get Sophia. She’s totally her own person. Yet she always manages to do your family proud. And that Lulu is just adorable.”

  I hadn’t found Lulu adorable at all. During Sophia’s toast, Lulu stood next to her sister, smiling affably. But she had written nothing, and she refused to say a single word.

  I had lost. It was the first time. Through all the turbulence and warfare in our household, I’d never lost before, at least not on something important.

  This act of defiance and disrespect infuriated me. My anger simmered for a while, then I unleashed my full wrath. “You’ve dishonored this family—and yourself,” I said to Lulu. “You’re going to have to live with your mistake for the rest of your life.”

  Lulu snapped back, “You’re a show-off. It’s all about you. You already have one daughter who does everything you want. Why do you need me?”

  There was now a wall between us. In the old days, we’d fight ferociously but always make up. We’d end up snuggling in her bed or mine, hugging each other, giggling as we imitated ourselves arguing. I’d say things totally inappropriate for a parent, like “I’m going to be dead soon” or “I can’t believe you love me so much it hurts.” And Lulu would say, “Mommy! You are so weird!” but smile despite herself. Now Lulu stopped coming to my room at night. She directed her anger at not just me but also Jed and Sophia, and spent more and more time holed up in her room.

  Don’t think I didn’t try to win Lulu back. When I wasn’t furious or fighting with her, I’d do everything I could. Once I said, “Hey Lulu! Let’s change our lives and do something totally different and fun—let’s have a garage sale.” And we did (net earnings $241.35), and it was fun, but it didn’t change our lives. Another time, I suggested she try a lesson on the electric violin. She did, and liked it, but when I tried to book a second lesson, she told me it was stupid and to stop. Before long we’d be at it again, locked in hostility.

  On the other hand, for two people who were constantly at each other’s throats, Lulu and I spent a lot of time together, although I wouldn’t exactly call it quality time. This was our usual weekend drill:

  Saturday: 1 hour drive (at 8:00 A.M.) to Norwalk, CT 3 hour orchestra practice

  1 hour drive back to New Haven

  Homework

  1-2 hours violin practice

  1 hour fun family activity (optional)

  Sunday: 1-2 hours violin practice 2 hour drive to New York City

  1 hour lesson with Miss Tanaka

  2 hour drive back to New Haven

  Homework

  In retrospect, it was pretty miserable. But there was a flip side that made it all worthwhile. The thing is, Lulu hated the violin—except when she loved it. Lulu once said to me, “When I play Bach, I feel like I’m time traveling; I could be in the eighteenth century.” She told me that she loved how music transcended history. At one of Miss Tanaka’s biannual recitals, I remember Lulu mesmerizing the audience with Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto. Afterward, Miss Tanaka said to me, “Lulu’s different from the others. She really feels the music and understands it.You can tell she loves the violin.”

  Part of me felt as if we had pulled the wool over Miss Tanaka’s eyes. But another part of me was filled with inspiration and new resolve.

  Lulu’s Bat Mitzvah approached. Even though I’m not Jewish and the Bat Mitzvah was Jed’s terrain, Lulu and I went to battle here too. I wanted her to play the violin at her Bat Mitzvah. I had in mind Joseph Achron’s “Hebrew Melody,” a beautiful, prayerful piece that Lulu’s old friend Lexie had told us about. Jed approved; Lulu didn’t.

  “Play violin? At my Bat Mitzvah? That’s ridiculous! I refuse,” Lulu said, incredulous. “It’s completely inappropriate. Do you even know what Bat Mitzvah means? It’s not a recital.” Then she added, “I just want to have a big party, and get lots of presents.”

  This was said to provoke and enrage me. Lulu had heard me railing for years against spoiled rich kids whose parents spend millions of dollars on their Bat Mitzvah parties, cotillions, or sweet sixteens. The truth is that Lulu has a strong Jewish identity. Unlike Sophia (or for that matter, Jed), Lulu had always insisted on observing Passover rules and fasting on Yom Kippur. For her, even more than for Sophia, the Bat Mitzvah was an important event in her life, and she threw herself with a passion into learning her Hebrew Torah and haftarah portions.

  I wouldn’t take the bait. “If you don’t play the violin,” I said calmly, “then Daddy and I won’t throw you a party. We can just have a small ceremony—it’s the ritual that’s important, after all.”

  “You have no right!” Lulu said furiously. “That’s so unfair. You didn’t make Sophia play the piano at her Bat Mitzvah.”

  “It’s good for you to do something that Sophia didn’t,” I said.

  “You’re not even Jewish,” Lulu retorted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. This has nothing to do with you.”

  Six weeks before the date, I sent out Lulu’s invitations. But I warned her, “If you don’t play the ‘Hebrew Melody,’ I’ll cancel the party.”

  “You can’t do that,” Lulu said scornfully.

  “Why don’t you try me, Lulu?” I dared her. “See if I’ll do it or not.”

  I honestly didn’t know who’d win this one. It was a high-risk maneuver too, because I didn’t have an exit strategy if I lost.

  27

  Katrin

  The news about Katrin’s cancer was unbearable for my parents. Two of the strongest people I know, they simply crumpled in grief. My mother cried all the time and wouldn’t leave her house or respond to calls from friends. She wouldn’t even talk to Sophia and Lulu on the phone. My father kept calling me, his voice anguished, asking me—over and over—if there was any hope.

  For treatment, Katrin chose the Dana-Farber/Harvard Cancer Center in Boston. We’d learned that it was one of the best bone marrow transplant facilities in the country. Harvard was also where Katrin and her husband, Or, had studied and trained, and she still knew people there.

  Everything happened so fast. Just three days after getting her diagnosis, Katrin and Or locked up their house at Stanford and moved their entire household to Boston (Katrin refused even to consider leaving her children behind in California with their grandparents). With the help of our friends Jordan and Alexis, we found them a house to rent in Boston, a school for Jake, and day care for Ella.

  Katrin’s leukemia was so aggressive that the doctors at Dana-Farber told her she had to go straight to a bone marrow transplant. No other route offered any chance of survival. But for the transplant to be possible, Katrin had to overcome two huge hurdles. First, she had to undergo intensive chemotherapy and pray that her leukemia would go into remission. Second, if it did, she had to get lucky and find a donor match. For each of these hurdles, the chances of success weren’t great. For both to succeed, the odds were terrifying. And even if all that worked out, the chances of surviving the bone marrow transplant were even worse.

  Katrin had two days in Boston before she checked into the hospital. I was there when she said good-bye to her children. She’d insisted on doing the laundry—two loads—and she’d laid out Jake’s clothes for the next day. I watched
in paralyzed incredulity as she carefully folded her son’s shirts and smoothed her daughter’s bibs and onesies. “I love doing laundry,” she said to me. Before she left the house, she gave me all her jewelry for safekeeping. “In case I don’t make it back,” she said.

  Or and I drove Katrin to the hospital. While we were waiting to fill out forms, she kept joking around—“Get me a good wig, Amy. I’ve always wanted nice hair”—and apologizing for taking up so much of my time. When we finally got to her hospital room—on the other side of a curtain was a deathly-looking elderly woman who’d obviously been through some chemotherapy—the first thing Katrin did was put up pictures of her family. There was a close-up of Ella, one of Jake at age three, and one of the four of them beaming on a tennis court. Although she looked distracted now and then, Katrin seemed completely calm and deliberate.

  By contrast, when two medical interns—one was Asian, the other Nigerian—came to introduce themselves to Katrin, I was overwhelmed with indignation and rage. It was as if they were playing doctor. They had no answers to any of our questions, they twice referred to the wrong kind of leukemia, and Katrin ended up having to explain to them the protocol they needed to follow that night. All I could think was, Students? My sister’s life is in the hands of medical students?

  But Katrin’s reaction was totally different. “I can’t believe that the last time I was in this building, I was one of them,” she said thoughtfully after the interns left, just a hint of sadness in her voice. “Or and I had just met.”

  The initial few weeks of chemo went smoothly. As we’d seen with Florence, the effects of chemo are cumulative, and in the first several days Katrin said she felt terrific—in fact, more energetic than she’d felt in months because they were giving her regular blood transfusions to counter her anemia. She spent her time writing scientific papers (one of which was published by Cell while she was in the hospital), supervising her lab at Stanford long-distance, and buying books, toys, and winter clothes for Jake and Ella over the Internet.