Grrrrrrreat Parenting--That Growls

Wow; that’s all I can say. I’m riddled with anger after reading “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior” an excerpt from Amy Chua’s recently published book The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.  Chua argues that so called “Chinese” mothers are more effective parents because they understand that “nothing is fun until you’re good at it.” So, they drill their children hour after hour, without stopping, forcing their child to keep working until their performance is flawless. Chua forbid her children to “attend a sleepover, have a playdate, be in a school play,” and the list goes on. It’s “crucial to override [the child’s] preferences” because a child never wants to work at a task that’s difficult for them.

A “Western” mother won’t brow beat her child because she worries about the emotional sanctity of the child. Chua says, “They worry about how their children will feel if they fail at something, and they constantly try to reassure their children about how good they are notwithstanding a mediocre performance on a test or at a recital.” The constant encouragement in the face of a humdrum grade or a commonplace performance is driving children to expend less energy into any task; they don’t have the drive to do better because they’ll be praised whatever effort they give. Whereas, “Chinese” mothers “assume strength, not fragility,” so they treat their children differently, impose standards, demand the best, and get it. If by some mistake, a Chinese child received lower than an A, “the devastated Chinese mother would then get dozens, maybe hundreds of practice tests and work through them with her child for as long as it takes to get the grade up to an A.” Consequently, a “Western” mother blames anyone available as a scapegoat. That Mrs. Hudson isn’t a good geometry teacher anyway! Valerie missed school for tennis—it’s not her fault she missed some of the instruction—she should be able to retake the test. Sports and extracurricular activities dominate the spectrum for “Western” mothers. It’s important for Suzie to be the head cheerleader and Bobby must be the quarter back or something is wrong.

But these Nazi-parents, the “Chinese parents demand perfect grades because they believe that their child can get them.” It’s not a matter of pushing their child too hard to be mean; it’s about encouraging their child to live up to their potential. Chua’s onto something with this, but should parents really completely disregard their child’s wants? She says later in the article that, “Chinese parents believe that they know what is best for their children and therefore override all of their children's own desires and preferences.” Is that really fair? I understand the value in forcing your daughter to learn to play an instrument—piano or violin, sure—but never letting her pursue anything else? Never letting her try out for a school play? Never letting her take advantage of discovering what she likes best? It seems to me like there has to be a boundary.

Maybe There Should be a License Required...

The longer I live the more assured I am that parenting should require a license or at the very least some sort of examination before procreation occurs. Parenting shouldn’t be a right, but a privilege, earned and attained through extensive testing and analyzing of character traits. It seems like parents are either ridiculous with rules and regulations, caging their children like rabid animals that could break into a frenzy at any moment, or they don’t care at all! I argue for the reformation of parenting ideals. I want new standards and I want them now. Actually, I want them 10 years ago for goodness’ sake.

           The Glass Castle  is Jeanette Wall’s account of her life as a series of terrible parenting practices. She maintains that her parents’ neglect of her siblings and herself resulted in a heightened awareness of the trials of life, but how does eating scraps out of the trash can count as parenting? Neglect teaches, sure, but it’s still neglect.

Being Under the Influence

Scott Russell Sanders’ gripping essay, Under the Influence, is a testimony to the wrong kind of parenting, detached, disembodied, and disastrous. Sanders gives account of his father’s drinking, a medley of stashed bottles and cans, promises to quit for good, but a liver failure in the end.

Sanders doesn’t just recall the drinking but with it the feeling of embarrassment and betrayal by his father for never caring enough for him to stay sober. He also felt responsible, heavy with the burden of never being good enough that his father wanted to remember him. Later in the essay, Sanders admits the drinking wasn’t his fault. His father was unhappy with who he was so  he was driven to the drink, but the alcoholism still greatly affected their family, who hid their father like one might hide a failing report card.

At the end of the essay Sanders admits he never drinks but that he falls victim to a different sort of drug: work. He knows the depression he feels affects his family, and he strives to assure them that he is to blame—not them.

We're creating a "Nation of Wimps"

In her frighteningly true article A Nation of Wimps, Hara Estrof Marano argues hover-craft parents retarded their child's growth. Parents of my generation closely guarded their children like precious jewels or family heirlooms, resulting in an extended youth. Students my age were babied so ridiculously that they cannot make decisions, navigate through problems, and can barely wipe their own butts. Marano emphasizes how stick-tight parents give their children false feelings of accomplishment because mom will explain Billy's bad grade away and dad will drop some twenties to make sure Susie doesn't have detention. Parents are setting their children up for failure because they control every aspect of their child's life.
Marano also depicts how parental suffocation is leading to depression in teenagers and young adults. Eighteen year olds entering college go completely hog wild because it's literally the first time they were able to make their own decision. Cell phones also play a role in how young adults are overly dependent. There's no need to think ahead, to plan, to problem solve because at the push of a button Jared can call his mom to talk to financial aid, can call his bff to meet him for lunch, and he didn't even have to think.  Parents are protecting their children so much that they cannot bear scrutiny if they get a bad grade or have a tough coach, as a result the child feels no self accomplishment, feels no kind of triumph in who they are.
Over protective parents are creating a generation of 20-somethings so sheltered and ignorant that they aren't prepared for life and won't be for another ten years. Marano depicts how playground monitoring keeps children from learning how to negotiate social relationships, which fail as a result because Timmy doesn't know how to share and never had to learn. Timmy can't share so Alex doesn't want to be his friend, and Timmy cries himself to sleep at night wondering why--but that's at five. At 20 Tim--the child formally known as Timmy--still can't maintain relationships because he never had to; Mom set up all the playdates, made all the friends.

I Know, Right?

No one likes a know it all. And usually people stop respecting them quickly after being torn down by their intelligence much like a mansion is demolished by a tsunami. After you make someone feel stupid it’s all they can think about and somehow it makes the evening news. But what should we do with these cheeky bastards—keep them underground for breeding purposes? That would break some laws. Why is it they’re smarter than us? Is it a lack of father? Maybe better breakfast cereals? They know it all and all we know is them, who keep nagging and nagging until we’re super pissed.

What to do with Nothing

Eventually I will stop making mistakes but by then I will be too dead to notice. In the mean time I plan to live it up. Somebody once said, “There’s no day like today,” I’m just not sure who—maybe it was those punks from High School Musical or the crackheads from Rent. Nevertheless, when life gives you nothing thereby forcing you into the muck of existence keep trucking onward or die. It’s whichever. I stopped trying long ago and I thought this would give me a sense of completion because I then lived up to my own standards but I keep blundering my way; I’m never attaining perfection. You say I’m being too harsh? What do you know? I’m sure you’ve microwaved aluminum foil before or left the curling iron on resulting in a small fire—everybody does it. Better to do and die than to be a loser. Nothing will always get you nowhere.

Because it's all in a Name

There are two truths I hold self-evident: I am not a writer and this is not an essay, oh, and whatever pollen-emiter you’re growing will smell the same no matter what you call it. Someone important said that a lot better than me—what was his name? Wait, does it really matter? The words hold truth no matter who wrote them. And I’m just trying to make a name for myself. But what does that even mean? My mom totally already named me. But I bet people would think I’m cuter if my name was Molly or smarter if my name was Vivian. Either way people judge you and you judge things based on their names. It’s all programmed into a person’s hardwire: you will judge unjustly. All cows are the same and died for the same price so why do handbag prices fluctuate? Oh yeah, because you pay for the brand, the logo, the prestige—it’s all in a name. Guess Shakspere, Francis Bacon, or that other dead guy missed the boat a bit.