I Was Raised by a Tiger Mom -- Confessions of a Former Whiz Kid

With all the publicity surrounding Amy Chua's book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom" last year, it got me reflecting about my own up-bringing. I, too, was raised by a "tiger mom." I was pushed to perform in academics and piano. I was taught that only A's are acceptable. I could be anything I wanted to be -- as long as it was a doctor, lawyer, or engineer.

Unlike Tiger Mom, my mother lavished more praise on us. In fact, we were always THE BEST at everything. We were THE SMARTEST, MOST TALENTED, GIFTED kids on the block. We were all whiz kids. She even wrote a book "Raising Whiz Kids," so of course, it must be true.

Our living room wall was covered ceiling to floor in framed photos, newspaper clippings, and award certificates. Our piano could not contain all the trophies we kids had accumulated in science competitions, piano recitals, and essay contests.

Implicit in all this was the message was the idea that our self-worth was based on these extrinsic accomplishments. We were "good" children because we had accomplished so much. She loved to show us off. She loved to brag to anyone who would listen. She was that mom in "Joy Luck Club" who walked down the street holding up the newspaper article about her award-winning chess-playing daughter. The a-ha moment for me was when the little 8-year-old girl looks up at her mom and demands, "Why do you have to use me to show off? If you want to show off, then why don't you learn to play chess?"

It didn't go so well for the kid in the movie. It didn't go over so well for me either when we raised the same issue. She stormed off into the crowds of the Tucson mall, leaving us "ungrateful" kids behind in the food court.

Where is the line between being proud of your kids and using your kids to define your self-worth? What message do we send to our kids when we only expect perfection and excellence? Do we need to push our kids that hard in order for them to be SUCCESSFUL later in life?

10 years later...

Today, I went with A's girl scout troop to visit a house for expectant moms. This place, Maggie's Place, provides women with housing while they are pregnant until their baby is 6 months old. It's run by a Catholic agency.

I have to hand it to the Catholics -- they really meet the physical needs of women who unexpectedly are expecting. It's one thing to say, "Don't get an abortion." It's another thing to help the pregnant woman with housing, medical care, and support, so she doesn't have to get an abortion.

I could have easily benefitted from a place like this when I found out I was pregnant. I'm glad there are places like these for pregnant women.

"When I Look At Her"

When I look at A, I don't think of all the things I couldn't do because I had her. I think of all the things that I can do, as long as she is with me.

As long as she is with me, I will be okay.

The Promise

When I made the decision to have a baby on my own, I knew that it would probably mean moving back to my hometown of Phoenix. I had assumed, correctly, that having a baby would seriously limit my funds.

I left the golden state of CA for the deserts of Phoenix on a scorching hot day in July 2001, with my best friend in the passenger seat and my 2 month old baby girl in the back. I cried when I crossed the stateline.

I came back to a place where nothing had changed except the friendships I had forged during my teen years. My youth group friends, who I had spent so much time with in high school, were strangers to me. They didn't know how to react to me, an old friend with a new baby. I remember feeling completely alone.

My high school friends, however, did welcome me back. And because several others of them had also had young kids, we were able to bond over that. But they had never left Phoenix. I don't think they understood my perspective of someone who had left and was forced to return.

That first year of my baby's life was one of the hardest in the sense that I didn't feel like I knew what I was doing and I felt completely alone in my experience.

Your hometown is supposed to be the place you can always come back to, but what if you've changed completely while you were gone?

As I made new friends in Phoenix, many of them new parents and one of them also a single mother, I gradually found a community for me, peppered with a few high school friends from the past. I had my first taste of the career I would later have for 8 years. I slowly collected a variety of regular hang-out spots that my baby and I could frequent.

Then in the Spring of 2002, I decided to apply for a teaching internship in the SF Bay Area. At the time, I really wanted to be back with my college friends in the culturally, ethnically rich city I had left.

I made a plea bargain with God. If He would let me return to the Bay Area, for just this one year, I would return to settle back to Phoenix. Just one year. Being able for my toddler to grow up with her aunties nearby.

Well, I got to live that one year back in the Bay Area. And, it turned out that I even got to go to New York for two years after that. Still, after New York, I found my way back to the Bay Area to San Francisco proper.

San Francisco, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. A city I had taken for granted because I lived so near it in college. Five years of living in San Francisco has spoiled me with its food, weather, and artsy opportunities. And now, when it seems like my life is on the cusp of change again, I'm reminded of my promise in 2002:

"If you let me live back in the Bay Area for just one year, I will come back to Phoenix after that."

2010. Eight years after my promise. I had been living on borrowed time... and I had forgotten my promise.

So, if life does bring me back to my hometown, I feel like I should be ready to accept this fact. And welcome the opportunity to raise my daughter in the grounded place that formed me.

I will always have the experiences from outside the state border. And my eyes have been opened to different perspectives that Phoenicians may not have even considered.

But I can bring those perspectives back home. And continue to improve the place where I belong.

Blogging from the SF Asian American Film Festival!

2010 SF Asian American Film Festival

This is my third year volunteering for the festival; fourth year attending. Right now, I am staffing the Hospitality Lounge for guests and filmmakers at the festival. Here's where you can check in to get your pass, swag bag, comp tix (three per day!), and refreshments.

Last night, I helped with the pre-reception for the opening film Today's Special. There were samples of new products: chocolate-covered mango, pistachio biscotti, and chai nut brittle.

I love being part of the festival because it makes me feel part of something bigger.

new directions

2010 will be bringing some pretty big changes.

What's most scary about change is the uncertainty. Status quo can be pretty comforting, albeit boring. Just the other month I was thinking about how my life had NOT changed in three years and how I felt stuck in a rut.

Someone upstairs must have been listening.

What's especially scary is having someone else dependent on me. For example, if I suddenly had to move, I'd be ok crashing on friends' couches. But it's different when you have a kid. We can't even fit on one couch together anymore.

I hope the changes are good. I hope this next chapter is even better.

p.s. yes, my blog entry title is a total Glee allusion...

my roots

I ventured into Chinatown today. I thought it might be a good idea to get "sio bao" or "bao zi" (BBQ pork buns) before I picked up A from an overnight. I knew if I drove down Stockton I would find a bakery.

Wing Sing (not to be confused with Yank Sing) had beautiful baked and steamed buns for 80 cents! They're like giant, pillowy, Chinese Hot Pockets. I tried desperately to use my Mandarin in the heavily Cantonese environment.

"Liou ge bao zi," I ordered, holding up my hand in the universal six sign. It looks like the "Hang loose!" gesture with less shaking.

As one woman wrapped by food, another asked me something in Chinese. I repeated what I had said, thinking that lady #2 was the one running the cash register. Nope -- they use gloves to pick up the buns AND collect the dollar bills. So lady #2 was very annoyed with me and started complaining to her coworkers in Chinese.

I left the shop, clutching my neatly bundled Pepto-Bismol-pink box, with my head hung down in shame.