Recently my six-year-old son learned how to ride a bike. Now, when he comes home from school, he sidles up to me and states in a matter-of-fact way that “this is probably a good day to ride bikes.” A good day even if we have to wear heavy coats and the cold wind leaves my uncovered ears aching and frozen.
This is an about face of his position not even a few weeks ago.
The day I took his training wheels off and told him we were going to the park so that he could learn to ride his bike unaided, he pleaded with me not to make him do it.
At the park, he initially refused to even get on the bike. He whined. He yelled. He cried. I refused to take no for an answer. Immune to his tears, I was a stone-faced drill sergeant ordering him back on the bicycle.
He eventually got back on and we practiced; him shakily steering, me holding him and the bike up by the seat. It was less than a sublime picture. Me barking orders at my son while he cried drew a few concerned stares from other park goers.
The day was challenging but, with a few more sessions, he improved. And the first time I let him go and watched him pedal that black and yellow bike on his own, my heart was as big as Georgia. The moment ranks up there with getting married and watching the birth of my children.
A couple of days ago I read a rather controversial article that speaks on this dynamic of parental coercion and the child’s subsequent success.
Amy Chua, a Yale Law School professor and author, writes in her new book about her experiences as an iron-fisted mother of two girls, citing her parenting style as evidence of “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior.”
Her tale of threatening, insulting and shaming her children caused quite an outcry across blogs and in other media. Me: I wasn’t so ruffled coming from a home in which I received “whuppings” administered with slim, green tree branches, electrical cords and even the occasional belt buckle.
My mother, and to a lesser extent, my father, would beat me until angry red welts would appear on my legs and back. When, at the age of ten, I once threatened to call child services on my mother after a particularly thorough thrashing, she quickly picked up the phone and offered to dial the number for me. I never made any other such threat.
So discipline for breaking rules—that I am familiar with. Insults and public shame, not so much. I had no doubt my parents loved me. Their constant attention, sacrifice and support, both emotional and material, proved that. None of my family ever called me “garbage” or implied that I was worthless. And I would never do this to my children.
But there is plenty to learn from the self-proclaimed “Tiger Mother.” I’ll start with this:
What Chinese parents understand is that nothing is fun until you’re good at it. To get good at anything you have to work, and children on their own never want to work, which is why it is crucial to override their preferences. This often requires fortitude on the part of the parents because the child will resist; things are always hardest at the beginning, which is where Western parents tend to give up. But if done properly, the Chinese strategy produces a virtuous circle. Tenacious practice, practice, practice is crucial for excellence; rote repetition is underrated in America. Once a child starts to excel at something—whether it’s math, piano, pitching or ballet—he or she gets praise, admiration and satisfaction. This builds confidence and makes the once not-fun activity fun. This in turn makes it easier for the parent to get the child to work even more.
Here Ms. Chua deftly articulates an idea that I had only acknowledged in a general sense before. I could recount several situations involving my young son in which he showed real resistance and even fear at first. It was only later, after much practice, that he grew to want to do and enjoy them. Swimming, tee-ball, reading.
I think too many people are focusing on what might be wrong with Ms. Chua’s approach, rather than what is right. When I joked with a friend of mine about trying to be a Chinese mother and sent her a link to the article, she noted that she was familiar with the piece. “That bitch is crazy,” she texted me back. A board-certified psychiatrist, my friend might be qualified to make such a judgment. “There is nothing wrong with expectations but calling your kids names. We would not do that to other adults – lest we get punched in the face.”
Good point. But let’s not skip over the expectations piece. Now right here would be a good place for me to cite some statistics but I’ll leave the data and broad social implications to others better equipped in such areas. I will say that my own experience has shown that the more I expect of my children, the more they show themselves to be capable of. So that begs the question: Am I really expecting enough of them? How much do I believe in them?
I realized that maybe I was comfortable demanding more when it came to things that I myself enjoyed, physical activities, sports and yes, even reading. But other subjects that I considered more mundane, like math and science, I wasn’t so adamant about and not quite as quick to give my time. If the teacher didn’t send home assignments, my son was off the hook.
One of the things my wife said, when I emailed her a copy of the article, was that not all mothers have the same deep wellsprings of time available to drill their children. And for many, that may be truly valid. Thankfully, in this household, it isn’t just mom. It isn’t just my wife. I’m here, too, and I might often be short on other resources but I’ve got plenty of time.
Around here we’ll be shutting off the t.v. and breaking out more books, flashcards and worksheets. It might just be time for “Black Tiger Dad.”
