"Tiger Mother" Model of Parenting Falls Prey to Flawed Assumptions

A recent Wall Street Journal essay by Yale law professor Amy Chua, "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior," has created a furor in advance of her newly released book, "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother." In the essay, Chua asks a relatively straightforward question: why are children from Chinese families typically more successful than their Western counterparts?

She shouts the answer with a bullhorn. Chinese children (and other children from loosely defined "Eastern" backgrounds) achieve excellence because their non-compromising parents will accept nothing less. Most "Western" parents are simply too soft. "Even when Western parents think they're being strict," she says early on, "they usually don't come close to being Chinese mothers."

Chua, who is married with two daughters, outlines a "Tiger Mother" parenting model built on a solid foundation of high standards, heavy pressure, and zero tolerance. From a child, anything less than the best is unacceptable, whether it's measured in effort or in results, and it's a parent's responsibility to do whatever it takes to push the child to achieve excellence. This, Chua argues, is what produces the high levels of achievement and success typically associated with children from an Asian background.

On the surface, many of Chua's assertions seem reasonable enough. Children require boundaries, and need to be held accountable for their actions. Extracurricular activities should be vetted. Parents should spend as much time as possible working with their children on academic skills. Any task worth doing is worth doing right, and that means understanding the importance of maximum effort. Some parents would even nod at Chua's total ban on TV and video games for her children.

But there is a solid measure of madness in the method. In the world of the Tiger Mother, a hard shove is preferable to a skillful nudge. Harsh words are more effective than dialogue, intense pressure trumps patience, and ridicule is more valuable than encouragement. Failure is not an option.

It's an approach that seems more in line with a successful football coach than an effective parent.

It's not that "Chinese parents" don't care, Chua says, but they choose to demonstrate their love through rigid expectations and unrelenting control. It's a form of "spare the rod, spoil the child," except in this case, the rod is psychological, and it's made of rebar.

High expectations are one thing. A Tiger Mother's tactic of derisively calling a child "fattie" in hopes of motivating her to lose weight is something else entirely. Lives of countless anorexics and bulimics have been built on that style of motivation.

The essay is loaded with wrong-headed assertions. For example, Chua declares, "nothing is fun unless you're good at it." But, as a counterpoint, it's difficult to watch a pee-wee soccer team chase the ball around a field and believe that they're not having at least a little bit of joy, even though some of them would have trouble putting the ball in the net even if they were allowed to carry it in. The fun is often inherent in the activity, and not necessarily the result. It's certainly possible for a teenager to be No. 3 in the school's chess club, and still enjoy playing and matching her skills against her peers. Having Mom actively berate her for not being the best definitely doesn't add to the fun.

Turning to the subject of academics, Chua announces that for her children, anything less than being No. 1 in your class is unacceptable, and an A grade is the order of the day. "If a child comes home with an A-minus on a test, a Western parent will most likely praise the child," Chua writes. "The Chinese mother will gasp in horror and ask what went wrong." And, "if a Chinese child gets a B - which would never happen - there would first be a screaming, hair-tearing explosion."

The problem is that "best" tends to be an absolute - there can be only one. Under Chua's definition, the high school salutatorian - the teenager with the second highest academic rank - has failed. It's hard to imagine a world in which being "really good" at something doesn't count for anything other than the Tiger Mother's "hair-tearing explosion."

As a Tiger Mother, Chua has a one-size-fits-all view of parenting. If something worked on daughter Sophia, she reasons, it's bound to work the same for their other daughter, Lulu. When Chua's husband suggests that their two daughters have different personalities, and shouldn't necessarily be motivated in exactly the same manner, she mocks him. "I'm happy to be the one to be hated" for doing the right thing, she huffs, "and you can be the one they adore because you make them pancakes and take them to Yankees games."

But there only one problem with Chua's absolutist view: children often are different within a family. When presented with the demand of being No. 1 in any particular endeavor, one child might embrace the challenge, or at the very least do what is necessary in order to gain a parent's approval. Another child might withdraw or rebel, reasoning that no matter how much effort is put forth, it's unlikely to be enough.

Chua proudly recounts a story "in favor of coercion," a conflict with her youngest daughter one day over learning to play a particularly difficult piece on the piano. The daughter eventually became frustrated and threw a tantrum, refusing to continue. Chua responded with a tantrum of her own, accusing her of being "lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic." In a drawn-out war of attrition that lasted for hours, Chua used every tactic available - threats, scorn, yelling, intimidation, denying a bathroom break - to achieve the desired result. Once the piece was played correctly, Chua reports, "that night, she came to sleep in my bed, and we snuggled and hugged." In this instance, love and acceptance were served up as a reward, rather than a standard.

One has to imagine that there's some way to motivate a petulant child that doesn't involve screaming and threats. A steady combination of patience, firmness and persistence would seem to be a viable alternative to psychological bullying and coercion.

Chua saves the biggest false assertion for her conclusion. "Western parents try to respect their children's individuality, encouraging them to pursue their true passions, supporting their choices, and providing positive reinforcement and a nurturing environment," she says. "By contrast, the Chinese believe that the best way to protect their children is by preparing them for the future, letting them see what they're capable of, and arming them with skills, work habits and inner confidence that no one can ever take away."

Cultural stereotypes aside, Chua would have us believe that the two sets of goals are mutually exclusive. Following her logic, it's not possible for a parent to provide positive reinforcement and prepare a child for the future.

Parenthood is not a matter of imposing your absolute will on the child at all costs, using shouting, ridicule or other coercive techniques. Nor is it a matter of letting a child run free with no boundaries, and letting them dictate the ground rules for the parent-child relationship. It's a mixture of methods that must be developed and deployed as skillfully as possible in response to a wide array of factors and situations. One size definitely does not fit all.

For Chua, the good news is that her book now has plenty of juice. Undoubtedly, that was the ultimate intent, but you can't help but get the feeling she may have stepped on the self-promotional gas pedal just a little too hard.

Source

"Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior," Amy Chua, The Wall Street Journal (Jan. 8, 2011)