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.”

Life, Plus and Minus 30 Years

Herb Horn was eulogized today. Herb passed away Tuesday, three months after celebrating his 90th birthday. He was a friend.

Three weeks ago, Finley’s maternal great grandmother, Phebe Perry Mixter, age 90, was eulogized.

Both funerals, one Jewish, the other Episcopalian, were celebrations of remarkable lives.

But what struck me as I sat through both services was the near 30-year gap in our ages (I’m three months shy of 62). Should I live to their age, how will society and culture change? Consider what has transpired in the last 30 years:

* The scourge of HIV/AIDS became widely known at the start of the 1980s

* Lipitor, the preeminent cholesterol-fighting drug that has affected countless lives (I’m a beneficiary), was developed in 1988. Two years before, doctors implanted the first human coronary heart stent

* Lasik eye surgery is commonplace

* Cable and satellite TV (now being challenged by Internet TV) became standard household conveniences

* Speaking of the Internet, the World Wide Web didn’t really take off until the early 1990s

* Land line telephone service is giving way to cell phone and Internet hook-ups

* GPS systems, once a military monopoly, entered civilian life

* Facebook and Twitter et al have changed the way we communicate, socially and politically

* Personal computers became ubiquitous, as have DVRs, digital cameras and TVs, satellite radio, mind-boggling video games, debit cards, and hybrid cars

Think about it—30 years ago was before Seinfeld, before the Simpsons, before Oprah, before rap, Lady Gaga, Madonna (though not before Cher, Dylan or Springsteen). Thirty years ago was before Derek Jeter started playing, before Fantasy Football.

Before Al-Qaeda.

In 30 years, my oldest, and for now only grandchild, Finley, will be 31. How will his/their lives be different? Will we have conquered cancer? Will cars drive themselves (as Google has already experimented with)? Will we have enough water to sustain the world’s population without threat of war or famine? Will we implant chips into our bodies to help us better think and perform? Will religions be sources of inspiration, comfort, healing and compassion or tools of discord and divisiveness? Will the U.S. surrender its mantle of exceptionalism to China? India? To a united Europe?

Thirty years is a long time. I was fortunate to have known Herb Horn for nearly 30 years. Sadly, I knew Phebe Perry Mixter for just four short years.