Mommy Dearest

Unless you’ve been “media dark” for the last two weeks you’ve no doubt heard or read about “Tiger Mothers,” the not so complimentary term associated with first and second generation Chinese-Americans. Their drill sergeant dictates for child-rearing, brought to public attention and notoriety by Amy Chua in her book, “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother,” have fueled many a dinner party conversation (as well as the blogosphere, assorted publications and talk shows).

For those not familiar with the debate, Chua’s best-selling memoir described how she raised two now-teenage daughters. She demanded perfection in everything, from school grades to music lessons, even to home-made birthday cards. They could not go on sleepovers, have a play date, be in a school play, watch TV or play computer games. Nor could they complain about it. In other words, they were raised far differently than their peers in traditional American households.

The flare-up over Tiger Mom methods began with a January 8th book excerpt in The Wall Street Journal, so here’s a link: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html. (You can explore other articles on your own, but here are two links, one from The Jewish Week: http://www.thejewishweek.com/news/new_york/roaring_back_tiger_mom, the other from David Brooks of The NY Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/18/opinion/18brooks.html?_r=1&src=me&ref=homepage).

Technically, my mother was not a first-generation Jewish mom. As she came to America from Lodz, Poland, in 1921 when she was almost four, I think that pretty much qualifies her for first-generation status. Like many a Jewish mother, Sylvia Forseter cultivated a rich vein of loving guilt that she shoveled on her children. When any of us would bring home a 95 on a test, she’d always ask what happened to the other 5 points.

Her modus operandi was not to hover over us to monitor attention and progress. Rather, she instilled in her three children responsibility to perform independently and be held accountable for our actions.

We had house chores and school work. It was easy for her to note when the dishes weren’t done. But as long as report card results met her high standards, she didn’t interfere with our means. I must have done some homework, though to be honest I can’t really recall hitting the books too hard. I maintained an A average through high school. It must have been from natural intelligence, because I hit the wall in college. Good thing Brooklyn College’s tuition back in the late 1960s was just $50 a semester (fyi, Brooklyn was considered one of the better liberal arts colleges in the country at the time) or my parents would have been more upset than they were when I brought home D’s in chemistry, biology and math. Well, so much for any thoughts of a career in science, medicine or dentistry.

Which brings me back to Amy Chua. Tiger Moms want their kids to be math whizzes and music (violin and piano) prodigies. When I was growing up it was almost universally understood and accepted that every Jewish household would produce at least one lawyer, doctor or scientist (my brother’s the lawyer of the brood). Our parents pointed to heroes like Jonas Salk, Albert Einstein, Louis Nizer, Arthur Goldberg, Albert Sabin, J. Robert Oppenheimer. If you couldn’t attain prominence in those fields, perhaps you’d excel at the violin or the piano, like Isaac Stern or Arthur Rubinstein.

But Jewish creativity was not limited to the high-brow arts. How else to explain the diversity of Jewish talent in popular culture in the 1950s and 1960s, from Milton Berle to William Shatner, from Bob Dylan to Leon Uris, from Neil Sedaka (my friend Richie’s cousin) to Victor Borge. Rather than restrict development, Jewish parents encouraged exploration. They didn’t always understand a performance, but they exulted in the dynamic, in the energy their children generated. They didn’t, however, give up guilt-transmission, no matter how successful their offspring became.

I usually don’t include a joke with my blog, but this one strikes a chord, given its topic and the name of the principal character, Sylvia:

And it came to pass that an openly Jewish man was elected to be President of the United States of America. So he calls his mother in Queens and invites her to come down to Washington, DC, to share the Passover holiday. She says, “I'd like to, but it's so much trouble...I mean, I have to get a cab to the airport, and I hate waiting on Queens Blvd...”

He replies, “Mom! I'm the President! You won't need a cab; I'll send a limo for you!” To which his mother replies, “I know, but then I'll have to get my ticket at the airport, and try to get a seat on the plane, and I hate to sit in the middle...it's just too much trouble.”

He replies, “Mom! I'm the President of the United States! I'll send Air Force One or another of my private jets for you.” To which she replies, “Oh, well, but then when we land, I'll have to carry my luggage through the airport, and try to get a cab...it's really too much trouble.”

He replies, “Mom!! I'm the President! I'll send a helicopter for you! You won't have to lift a finger.” She answers, “Yes, that's nice...but, you know, I still need a hotel room, and the rooms are so expensive, and I really don't like the rooms...”

He answers, “Mom! I'm the President! You'll stay at the White House!” She responds, “Well...all right... I guess I'll come.”

The next day, she's on the phone with her friend Betty.

Betty: “Hello, Sylvia . . . so what's new?”

Sylvia: “I'm visiting my son for Passover!”

Betty: “The doctor?”

Sylvia: “No . . . the other one.”