Оглавление (стр. 14 )

We needed a vacation. Katrin had justpassed through the worst danger zone ofacute graft-versus-host disease. We’d basically gone ten months without a day’s break. Our first stop was Moscow. Jed had found usa convenient hotel right in the center of thecity. After a short rest, we headed out for ourfirst taste of Russia.

I tried to be goofy and easygoing, themood my girls most like me in, refraining asbest I could from making my usual criticalremarks about what they were wearing orhow many times they said “like.” But therewas something ill-fated about that day. Ittook us more than an hour standing in twodifferent lines to change money at a placethat called itself a bank, and after that themuseum we wanted to visit was closed.

We decided to go to Red Square, whichwas within walking distance of our hotel. Thesheer size of the square was overwhelming. Three football fields could have fit betweenthe gate we entered and the onion-domed St. Basil’s Cathedral at the other end. This is nota chic or charming square like the ones inItaly, I thought to myself. It’s a square designed to intimidate, and I envisioned firingsquads and battalions of Stalinist guards.

Lulu and Sophia kept sniping at each other, which irritated me. Actually, what reallyirritated me was that they were all grownup—teenagers my size (in Sophia’s case, three inches taller), instead of cute littlegirls. “It goes so fast,” older friends had always said wistfully. “Before you know it, yourchildren will be grown and gone, and you’llbe old even though you feel just like the sameperson you were when you were young.” Inever believed my friends when they saidthat, because it seemed to me they were squeezing out so much from every moment of every day, perhaps I imagined that Iwas buying myself more time. As a purelymathematical fact, people who sleep less livemore.

“That’s Lenin’s Tomb behind the longwhite wall,” Jed told the girls, pointing. “Hisbody is embalmed and on display. We can gosee it tomorrow.” Jed then gave the girls ashort tutorial on Russian history and coldwar politics.

After roaming around for a bit—we encountered surprisingly few Americans, andfar more Chinese, who seemed utterly indifferent to us—we sat down at an outdoor café.It was attached to the famous GUM shoppingmall, which is housed in a palatial, arcade lined nineteenth-century building that takesup almost the entire east side of Red Square, directly across from the fortress like Kremlin.

We decided to get blinis and caviar, a funway to start off our first evening in Moscow, Jed and I thought. But when the caviar arrived—thirty U. S. dollars for a tiny receptacle—Lulu said, “Eww, gross,” and wouldn’ttry it.

“Sophia, don’t take so much; leave somefor the rest of us,” I snapped, then turned tomy other daughter. “Lulu, you sound like anuncultured savage. Try the caviar. You canput a lot of sour cream on it.”

“That’s even worse,” Lulu said, and shemade a shuddering gesture. “And don’t callme a savage.”

“Don’t wreck the vacation for everyone, Lulu.”

“You’re the one wrecking it.”

I pushed the caviar toward Lulu. I orderedher to try one egg—one single egg.

“Why?” Lulu asked defiantly. “Why do youcare so much? You can’t force me to eatsomething.”

I felt my temper rising. Could I not getLulu to do even one tiny thing? “You’re behaving like a juvenile delinquent. Try oneegg now.”

“I don’t want to,” said Lulu.

“Do it now, Lulu.”

“No.”

“Amy,” Jed began diplomatically, “everyone’s tired. Why don’t we just—”

I broke in, “Do you know how sad andashamed my parents would be if they sawthis, Lulu—you publicly disobeying me? With that look on your face? You’re onlyhurting yourself. We’re in Russia, and yourefuse to try caviar! You’re like a barbarian. And in case you think you’re a big rebel, youare completely ordinary. There is nothingmore typical, more predictable, more common and low, than an American teenagerwho won’t try things. You’re boring, Lulu—boring.”

“Shut up,” said Lulu angrily.

“Don’t you dare say shut up to me. I’myour mother.” I hissed this, but still a fewguests glanced over. “Stop trying to act toughto impress Sophia.”

“I hate you! I HATE YOU.” This, fromLulu, was not in a hiss. It was an all-outshout at the top of her lungs. Now the entirecafé was staring at us.

“You don’t love me,” Lulu spat out. “Youthink you do, but you don’t. You just makeme feel bad about myself every second. You’ve wrecked my life. I can’t stand to bearound you. Is that what you want?”

A lump rose in my throat. Lulu saw it, butshe went on. “You’re a terrible mother. You’re selfish. You don’t care about anyonebut yourself. What—you can’t believe howungrateful I am? After all you’ve done forme? Everything you say you do for me is actually for yourself.”

She’s just like me, I thought, compulsivelycruel. “You are a terrible daughter,” I saidaloud.

“I know—I’m not what you want—I’m notChinese! I don’t want to be Chinese. Whycan’t you get that through your head? I hatethe violin. I HATE my life. I HATE you, and IHATE this family! I’m going to take thisglass and smash it!”

“Do it,” I dared.

Lulu grabbed a glass from the table andthrew it on the ground. Water and shardswent flying, and some guests gasped. I felt alleyes upon us, a grotesque spectacle.

I’d made a career out of spurning the kindof Western parents who can’t control theirkids. Now I had the most disrespectful, rude, violent, out-of-control kid of all.

Lulu was trembling with rage, and therewere tears in her eyes. “I’ll smash more if youdon’t leave me alone,” she cried.

I got up and ran. I ran as fast as I could, not knowing where I was going, a crazyforty-six-year-old woman sprinting in sandals and crying. I ran past Lenin’s mausoleum and past some guards with guns who Ithought might shoot me.

Then I stopped. I had come to the end ofRed Square. There was nowhere to go.

32The Symbol

Families often have symbols: a lake in thecountry, Grandpa’s medal, the Sabbath dinner. In our household, the violin had becomea symbol.

For me, it symbolized excellence, refinement, and depth—the opposite of shoppingmalls, mega sized Cokes, teenage clothes, andcrass consumerism. Unlike listening to aniPod, playing the violin is difficult and requires concentration, precision, and interpretation. Even physically, everything aboutthe violin—the burnished wood, the carvedscroll, the horsehair, the delicate bridge, thesounding point—is subtle, exquisite, andprecarious.

To me, the violin symbolized respect forhierarchy, standards, and expertise. Forthose who know better and can teach. Forthose who play better and can inspire. Andfor parents.

It also symbolized history. The Chinesenever achieved the heights of Western classical music—there is no Chinese equivalentof Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony—but hightraditional music is deeply entwined withChinese civilization. The seven-stringed qin, often associated with Confucius, has beenaround for at least twenty-five hundredyears. It was immortalized by the great Tangpoets, revered as the instrument of the sages.

Most of all, the violin symbolized control. Over generational decline. Over birth order. Over one’s destiny. Over one’s children. Whyshould the grandchildren of immigrants onlybe able to play the guitar or drums? Whyshould second children so predictably be lessrule-abiding, less successful at school, and“more social” than eldest siblings? In short, the violin symbolized the success of theChinese parenting model.

For Lulu, it embodied oppression.

And as I walked slowly back across RedSquare, I realized that the violin had begunto symbolize oppression for me too. Just picturing Lulu’s violin case sitting at home bythe front door—at the last minute we’d decided to leave it behind, the first timeever—made me think of the hours and hoursand years and years of labor, fighting, aggravation, and misery that we’d endured. Forwhat? I also realized that I was dreading withall my heart what lay ahead.

It occurred to me that this must be howWestern parents think and why they so oftenlet their kids give up difficult musical instruments. Why torture yourself and your child? What’s the point? If your child doesn’t likesomething—hates it—what good is it forcingher to do it? I knew as a Chinese mother Icould never give in to that way of thinking.

I rejoined my family at the GUM café. Thewaiters and other guests averted their eyes.

“Lulu,” I said. “You win. It’s over. We’regiving up the violin.”

33Going West

I wasn’t bluffing. I’d always engaged inbrinkmanship with Lulu, but this time I wasserious. I’m still not exactly sure why. MaybeI finally allowed myself to admire Lulu’s immovable strength for what it was, even if Ibitterly disagreed with her choices. Or maybeit was Katrin. Watching her struggle and seeing what became important to her in thosedesperate months shook things up for all ofus.

It could also have been my mother. To me, she’ll always be the quintessential Chinesemother. Growing up, nothing was ever goodenough for her. (“You say you got first place, but actually you only tied for first, right?”)She used to practice piano with Cindy threehours a day until the teacher gently told herthat they’d hit a limit. Even after I became aprofessor and invited her to some of my public lectures, she always offered painfullyaccurate criticisms while everyone else wastelling me what a good job I’d done. (“Youget too excited and talk too fast. Try to staycool, and you’ll be better.”) Yet my ownChinese mother had been warning me for along time that something wasn’t workingwith Lulu. “Every child is different,” she said.“You have to adjust, Amy. Look whathappened to your father,” she addedominously.

So—about my father. I guess it’s time tocome clean with something. I’d always toldJed, myself, and everyone else that the ultimate proof of the superiority of Chinese parenting is how the children end up feelingabout their parents. Despite their parents’brutal demands, verbal abuse, and disregardfor their children’s desires, Chinese kids endup adoring and respecting their parents andwanting to care for them in their old age. From the beginning, Jed had always asked,

“What about your dad, Amy?” I’d never hada good answer.

My father was the black sheep in his family. His mother disfavored him and treatedhim unfairly. In his household, comparisonsamong the children were common, and myfather—the fourth of six—was always on theshort end of the stick. He wasn’t interested inbusiness like the rest of his family. He lovedscience and fast cars; at age eight, he built aradio from pared to his siblings, my father was the family outlaw, risk-takingand rebellious. To put it mildly, his motherdidn’t respect his choices, value his individualism, or worry about his self-esteem—allthose Western clichés. The result was thatmy father hated his family—found it suffocating and undermining—and as soon as hehad a chance he moved as far away as hecould, never once looking back.

What my father’s story illustrates issomething I suppose I never wanted to thinkabout. When Chinese parenting succeeds, there’s nothing like it. But it doesn’t alwayssucceed. For my own father it hadn’t. Hebarely spoke to his mother and neverthought about her except in theend of her life, my father’s family was almostdead to him.

I couldn’t lose Lulu. Nothing was more important. So I did the most Western thingimaginable: I gave her the choice. I told herthat she could quit the violin if she wantedand do what she liked instead, which at thetime was to play tennis.

At first, Lulu assumed it was a trap. Overthe years, the two of us had played so manygames of chicken and engaged in such elaborate forms of psychological warfare that shewas naturally suspicious. But when Lulurealized I was sincere, she surprised me.

“I don’t want to quit,” she said. “I love theviolin. I would never give it up.”

“Oh please,” I said, shaking my head.“Let’s not go in circles again.”

“I don’t want to quit violin,” Lulu repeated.“I just don’t want to be so intense about it. It’s not the main thing I want to do with mylife. Youpicked it, not me.”

It turns out that not being intense hadsome radical, and for me heartbreaking, implications. First, Lulu decided to quit orchestra, giving up her concertmaster position inorder to free up Saturday mornings for tennis. Not a second goes by that this doesn’tcause me pain. When she played her lastpiece as concertmaster at a recital at Tanglewood and then shook the conductor’s hand, Ialmost wept. Second, Lulu decided that shedidn’t want to go to New York every Sundayfor violin lessons anymore, so we gave up ourspot in Miss Tanaka’s studio—our preciousspot with a famous Juilliard teacher that hadbeen so hard to get!

Instead, I found Lulu a local teacher inNew Haven. After a long talk, we also agreedthat Lulu would practice by herself, withoutme or regular coaches, and for just thirtyminutes a day—not nearly enough, I knew, tomaintain her high level of playing.

For the first few weeks after Lulu’s decision, I wandered around the house like aperson who’d lost their mission, their reasonfor living.

At a recent lunch, I met Elizabeth Alexander, the Yale professor who read her originalpoem at President Obama’s inauguration. Itold her how much I admired her work, andwe exchanged a few words.

Then she said, “Wait a minute—I think Iknow you. Do you have two daughters whostudied at the Neighborhood Music School? Aren’t you the mother of those two incredibly talented musicians?”

It turns out that Elizabeth had two kids, younger than mine, who studied at theNeighborhood Music School also, and they’dheard Sophia and Lulu perform on severaloccasions. “Your daughters are amazing,”she said.

In the old days, I would have said modestly, “Oh they’re really not that good,” hoping desperately that she’d ask me more so Icould tell her about Sophia’s and Lulu’slatest music accomplishments. Now I justshook my head.

“Do they still play?” Elizabeth continued.“I don’t see them at the school anymore.”

“My older daughter still plays piano,” Ireplied. “My younger daughter—the violinist—she doesn’t really play so much anymore.” This was like a knife to my heart.“She prefers to play tennis instead.” Even ifshe is ranked #10,000 in New England, Ithought to myself. Out of 10,000.

“Oh no!” Elizabeth said. “That’s too bad. Iremember she was so gifted. She inspired mytwo little ones.”

“It was her decision,” I heard myself saying. “It was too much of a time commitment. You know how thirteen-year-olds are.” Whata Western parent I’ve become, I thought tomyself. What a failure.

But I kept my word. I let Lulu play tennisas she pleased, at her own pace, making herown decisions. I remember the first time shesigned herself up for a Novice USTA tournament. She came back in a good mood, visiblycharged with adrenaline.

“How did you do?” I asked.

“Oh, I lost—but it was my first tournament, and my strategy was all wrong.”

“What was the score?”

“Love-six, love-six,” Lulu said. “But the girlI played was really good.”

If she’s so good, why is she playing in aNovice tournament? I thought darkly to myself, but aloud I said, “Bill Clinton recentlytold some Yale students that you can only bereally great at something if you love it. So it’sgood that you love tennis.”

But just because you love something, I added to myself, doesn’t mean you’ll ever begreat. Not if you don’t work. Most peoplestink at the things they love.

34The Ending

We recently hosted a formal dinner at ourhome for judges from all over the world. Oneof the most humbling things about being aYale law professor is that you get to meetsome awe-inspiring figures—some of thegreatest jurists of the day. For ten years now, Yale’s global constitutionalism seminar hasbrought in supreme court justices fromdozens of countries, including the UnitedStates.

For entertainment, we invited Sophia’s piano professor, Wei-Yi Yang, to perform partof the program he was preparing for Yale’sfamous Horowitz Piano Series. Wei-Yi generously suggested that his young pupil Sophiaperform as well. For fun, teacher and studentcould also play a duet together: “En Bateau”from Debussy’s Petite Suite.

I was incredibly excited and nervous aboutthe idea and nurturingly said to Sophia,“Don’t blow this. Everything turns on yourperformance. The justices aren’t coming toNew Haven to hear a high school talentshow. If you’re not over-the-top perfect we’llhave insulted them. Now go to the piano anddon’t leave it.” I guess there’s still a bit of theChinese mother in me.

The next few weeks were like a replay ofthe run-up to Carnegie Hall, except that nowSophia did almost all her practicing herself. As in the past, I immersed myself in herpieces—Saint-Saëns’s Allegro Appassionatoand a polonaise and Fantaisie Impromptuby Chopin—but the truth was that Sophiabarely needed me anymore. She knew exactlywhat she had to do, and only occasionallywould I yell out a critique from the kitchenor upstairs. Meanwhile, Jed and I had all ourliving room furniture moved out except thepiano. I scrubbed the floor myself, and werented chairs for fifty people.

The evening of the performance Sophiawore a red dress, and as she walked in totake her opening bow, panic seized me. I waspractically frozen during the polonaise. Icouldn’t enjoy the Saint-Saëns either, eventhough Sophia played it brilliantly. Thatpiece is meant to be sheer virtuosic entertainment, and I was too tense to be entertained. Could Sophia keep her runs sparklingand clean? Had she over practiced, andwould her hands give out? I had to force myself not to rock and back forth and hum robotically, which is what I usually do whenthe girls perform a difficult piece.

But when Sophia played her last piece, Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu, everythingchanged. For some reason, the tension in medissipated, the lockjaw released, and all Icould think was, She owns this piece. Whenshe got up to take her bow, a radiant smileon her face, I thought, That’s my girl—she’shappy; the music is making her happy. Rightthen I knew that it had all been worth it.

Sophia received three ovations, and afterward the justices—including many I’ve idolized for years—were effusive in their praise. One said Sophia’s playing was sublime andthat he could have listened to her all night. Another insisted that she had to pursue thepiano professionally because it would be acrime to waste her talent. And a surprisingnumber of the justices, being parents themselves, asked me personal questions like,“What is your secret? Do you think it’ssomething about the Asian family culturethat tends to produce so many exceptionalmusicians?” Or: “Tell me: Does Sophia practice on her own because she loves music ordo you have to force her? I could never makemy own children practice more than fifteenminutes.” And: “How about your otherdaughter? I hear she’s a fabulous violinist. Will we hear her next time?”

I told them that I was struggling to finish abook on just those questions and that Iwould send them a copy when it was done. Around the same time as Sophia’s performance for the justices, I picked Lulu up fromsome godforsaken tennis place in Connecticut about an hour away.

“Guess what, Mommy—I won!”

“Won what?” I asked.

“The tournament,” Lulu said.

“What does that mean?”

“I won three matches, and I beat the topseed in the finals. She was ranked #60 inNew England. I can’t believe I beat her!”

This took me aback. I’d played tennis as ateenager myself, but always just for fun withmy family or school friends. As an adult, Itried a few tournaments but quickly foundthat I couldn’t stand the pressure of competition. Mainly so we could have a familyactivity, Jed and I had made both Sophia andLulu take tennis lessons, but we’d never hadany hopes.

“Are you still playing at the Novice level?”I asked Lulu. “The lowest level?”

“Yes,” she answered amiably. Ever sinceI’d given her the choice, we’d gotten alongmuch better. My pain seemed to be her gain, and she was more patient and good-humored. “But I’m going to try the next levelsoon. I’m sure I’ll lose, but I want to try it forfun.”

And then, out of the blue: “I miss orchestra so much,” Lulu said.

Over the next six weeks, Lulu won threemore tournaments. At the last two, I went towatch her play. I was struck by what a fireball she was on the court: how fiercely shehit, how concentrated she looked, and howshe never gave up.

As Lulu notched herself up, the competition got much tougher. At one tournament, she lost to a girl twice her size. When Lulucame off the court, she was smiling and gracious, but the second she got in the car shesaid to me, “I’m going to beat her next time. I’m not good enough yet—but soon.” Thenshe asked me if I could sign her up for extratennis lessons.

At the next lesson, I watched Lulu drill herbackhand with a focus and tenacity I’d neverseen in her. Afterward, she asked me if Iwould feed her more balls so that she couldkeep practicing, and we went for anotherhour. On the way home, when I told her howmuch better her backhand looked, she said,“No, it’s not right yet. It’s still terrible. Canwe get a court tomorrow?”

She’s so driven, I thought to myself. So. . .intense.

I talked to Lulu’s tennis instructor.“There’s no way Lulu can ever be really good, right? I mean, she’s thirteen—that’s got to beten years too late.” I’d heard about theexplosion of high-powered tennis academiesand four-year-olds with personal trainers.“Also, she’s so short, like me.”

“The important thing is that Lulu lovestennis,” the instructor said, very Americanly. “And she has an unbelievable work ethic—I’ve never seen anyone improve so fast. She’s a great kid. You and your husband havedone an amazing job with her. She neversettles for less than 110 percent. And she’s always so upbeat and polite.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. But despite myself, my spirits lifted. Could this bethe Chinese virtuous circle in action? Had Iperhaps just chosen the wrong activity forLulu? Tennis was very respectable—it wasn’tlike bowling. Michael Chang had playedtennis.

I started to gear up. I familiarized myselfwith the USTA rules and procedures and thenational ranking system. I also looked intotrainers and started calling around about thebest tennis clinics in the area.

Lulu overheard me one day. “What are youdoing?” she demanded. When I explainedthat I was just doing a little research, shesuddenly got furious. “No, Mommy—no!”she said fiercely. “Don’t wreck tennis for melike you wrecked violin.”

That really hurt. I backed off.

The next day I tried again. “Lulu, there’s aplace in Massachusetts—”

“No, Mommy—please stop,” Lulu said. “Ican do this on my own. I don’t need you to beinvolved.”

“Lulu, what we need to do is to channelyour strength—”

“Mommy, I get it. I’ve watched you andlistened to your lectures a million times. ButI don’t want you controlling my life.”

I focused my eyes on Lulu, taking her in. Everyone had always said she looked just likeme, something that I loved to hear but thatshe vehemently denied. An image of her atage three standing outside, defiant in thecold, came to my mind. She’s indomitable, Ithought to myself, and always has been. Wherever she ends up, she’s going to beamazing.

“Okay, Lulu, I can accept that,” I said. “Seehow undefensive and flexible I am? To succeed in this world, you always have to bewilling to adapt. That’s something I’m especially good at that you should learn fromme.”

But I didn’t really give up. I’m still in thefight, albeit with some significant modifications to my strategy. I’ve become newly accepting and open-minded. The other dayLulu told me she would have even less timefor violin because she wanted to pursue other interests, like writing and “improve.” Instead of choking, I was supportive and proactive. I’m taking the long view. Lulu can doside-splitting imitations, and while improvedoes seems un-Chinese and the opposite ofclassical music, it is definitely a skill. I alsoharbor hopes that Lulu won’t be able to escape her love of music and thatsomeday—maybe soon—she’ll return to theviolin of her own accord.

Meanwhile, every weekend, I drive Lulu totennis tournaments and watch her play. Sherecently made the high school varsity team, the only middle school kid to do so. BecauseLulu has insisted that she wants no advice orcriticism from me, I’ve resorted to espionageand guerrilla warfare. I secretly plant ideasin her tennis coach’s head, texting her withquestions and practice strategies, then deleting the text messages so Lulu won’t seethem. Sometimes, when Lulu’s least expecting it—at breakfast or when I’m saying goodnight—I’ll suddenly yell out, “More rotationon the swing volley!” or “Don’t move yourright foot on your kick serve!” And Lulu willplug her ears, and we’ll fight, but I’ll havegotten my message out, and I know sheknows I’m right.

Coda

Tigers are passionate and rash, blindingthemselves to danger. But they draw onexperience, gaining new energies andgreat strength. I started writing this book on June 29, 2009,the day after we got back from Russia. Ididn’t know why I was doing it or how thebook was going to end, but even though Iusually have writer’s block, this time thewords streamed out of me. The first two thirds of the book took me just eight weeksto write. (The last third was agonizing.) Ishowed every page to Jed and the girls.“We’re writing this together,” I said toSophia and Lulu.

“No, we’re not,” they both said. “It’s yourbook, Mommy, not ours.”

“I’m sure it’s all about you anyway,” addedLulu.

But as time went on, the more the girlsread, the more they contributed. The truth is, it’s been therapeutic—a Western concept, thegirls remind me.

I’d forgotten a lot of things over the years, good and bad, which the girls and Jed helpedme remember. To try to piece things together, I dug up old e-mails, computer files, music programs, and photo albums. Often, Jedand I were overcome with nostalgia. Sophiawas just a baby yesterday, it seemed, andnow she was a year away from applying tocollege. Sophia and Lulu were mainly overcome with how cute they used to be.

Don’t get me wrong: Writing this bookhasn’t been easy. Nothing in our family everis. I had to produce multiple drafts, revisingconstantly to address the girls’ objections. Iended up leaving out big chunks about Jed, because that’s a whole other book, and it’sreally his story to tell. Some parts I had to rewrite two dozen times before I could satisfyboth Sophia and Lulu. On several occasions, one of them would be reading a draftchapter, then suddenly burst into tears andstorm off. Or I’d get a curt, “This is great, Ma, very funny. I just don’t know who you’rewriting about, that’s all. It’s definitely notour family.”

“Oh no!” Lulu cried out once. “Am I supposed to be Pushkin, the dumb one? AndSophia is Coco, who’s smart and learnseverything?” I pointed out that Coco wasn’tsmart and couldn’t learn anything either. Iassured the girls that the dogs weren’t supposed to be metaphors for them.

“So what purpose are they serving?”Sophia asked, ever logical. “Why are they inthe book?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “But I knowthey’re important. There’s something inherently unstable about a Chinese mother raising dogs.”

Another time, Lulu complained, “I thinkyou’re exaggerating the difference betweenSophia and me to try to make the bookinteresting. You make me sound like a typical rebellious American teenager, when I’mnot even close.” Sophia, meanwhile, had justsaid, “I think you tone down Lulu too much. You make her sound like an angel.”

Naturally, both girls felt the book shortchanged them. “You should definitely dedicate this book to Lulu,” Sophia once said magnanimously. “She’s obviously the heroine. I’m the boring one readers will cheer against. She’s the one with verve and panache.” Andfrom Lulu: “Maybe you should call your bookThe Perfect Child and the Flesh-EatingDevil. Or Why Oldest Children Are Better. That’s what it’s about, right?”

As the summer went on, the girls neverstopped nagging me, “So how’s the book going to end, Mommy? Is it going to be a happyending?”

I’d always say something like, “It dependson you guys. But I’m guessing it’ll be atragedy.”

Months passed, but I just couldn’t figureout how to end the book. Once, I came running up to the girls. “I’ve got it! I’m about tofinish the book.”

The girls were excited. “So how will itend?” Sophia asked. “What’s your point going to be?”

“I’ve decided to favor a hybrid approach,” Isaid. “The best of both worlds. The Chineseway until the child is eighteen, to developconfidence and the value of excellence, thenthe Western way after that. Every individualhas to find their own path,” I added gallantly.

“Wait—until eighteen?” asked Sophia.“That’s not a hybrid approach. That’s justChinese parenting all through childhood.”

“I think you’re being too technical, Sophia.”

Nevertheless, I went back to the drawingboard. I spun more wheels, cranked outsome more duds. Finally, one day—actuallyyesterday—I asked the girls how theythought the book should end.

“Well,” said Sophia, “are you trying to tellthe truth in this book or just a good story?”

“The truth,” I replied.

“That’s going to be hard, because the truthkeeps changing,” said Sophia.

“No it doesn’t,” I said. “I have a perfectmemory.”

“Then why do you keep revising the endingall the time?” asked Sophia.

“Because she doesn’t know what she wantsto say,” Lulu offered.

“It’s not possible for you to tell the complete truth,” said Sophia. “You’ve left out somany facts. But that means no one can reallyunderstand. For example, everyone’s goingto think that I was subjected to Chinese parenting, but I wasn’t. I went along with it, bymy own choice.”

“Not when you were little,” Lulu said.“Mommy never gave us a choice when wewere little. Unless it was, ‘Do you want topractice six hours or five?’”

“Choice. . . I wonder if that’s what it allcomes down to,” I mused. “Westerners believe in choice; the Chinese don’t. I used tomake fun of Popo for giving Daddy a choiceabout violin lessons. Of course he chose notto. But now, Lulu, I wonder what would havehappened if I hadn’t forced you to auditionfor Juilliard or practice so many hours a day. Who knows? Maybe you’d still like violin. Orwhat if I’d let you choose your own instrument? Or no instrument? After all, Daddyturned out fine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Lulu. “Of courseI’m glad you forced me to play the violin.”

“Oh, right. Hello Dr. Jekyll! Where’s Mr. Hyde?”

“No—I mean it,” Lulu said. “I’m always going to love the violin. I’m even glad you mademe drill exponents. And study Chinese fortwo hours every day.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Yeah,” nodded Lulu.

“Really!” I said. “Because come to think ofit, I think those were great choices we madetoo, even though all those people worriedthat you and Sophia would be permanentlydamaged psychologically. And you know, themore I think about it, the madder I’m getting. All these Western parents with thesame party line about what’s good for children and what’s not—I’m not sure they’remaking choices at all. They just do whateveryone else does. They’re not questioninganything either, which is what Westernersare supposed to be so good at doing. Theyjust keep repeating things like ‘You have togive your children the freedom to pursuetheir passion’ when it’s obvious that the ‘passion’ is just going to turn out to be Facebookfor ten hours which is a total waste of timeand eating all that disgusting junk food—I’mtelling you this country is going to gostraight downhill! No wonder Western parents get thrown into nursing homes whenthey’re old! You guys better not put me inone of those. And I don’t want my plugpulled either.”

“Calm down, Mommy,” said Lulu.

“When their kids fail at something, insteadof telling them to work harder, the first thingWestern parents do is bring a lawsuit!”

“Who exactly are you talking about?”asked Sophia. “I don’t know any Westernparents who have brought a lawsuit.”

“I refuse to buckle to politically correctWestern social norms that are obviously stupid. And not even rooted historically. Whatare the origins of the Playdate anyway? Doyou think our Founding Fathers had Sleepovers? I actually think America’s FoundingFathers had Chinese values.”

“I hate to break it to you, Mommy, but—”

“Ben Franklin said, ‘If thou loveth life, never ever EVERwasteth time.’ ThomasJefferson said, ‘I’m a huge believer in luck, and the harder I work the more I have of it.’And Alexander Hamilton said, ‘Don’t be awhiner.’ That’s a totally Chinese way ofthinking.”

“Mommy, if the Founding Fathers thoughtthat way, then it’s an American way of thinking,” said Sophia. “Besides, I think you maybe misquoting.”

“Look it up,” I dared her. My sister Katrin is doing better now. Life isdefinitely tough for her, and she’s not out ofthe woods yet, but she’s a hero and bearseverything with grace, doing research aroundthe clock, writing paper after paper, andspending as much time as she can with herkids.

I often wonder what the lesson of her illness is. Given that life is so short and so fragile, surely each of us should be trying to getthe most out of every breath, every fleetingmoment. But what does it mean to live life toits fullest?

We all have to die. But which way doesthat cut? In any case, I’ve just told Jed that Iwant to get another dog.

AcknowledgmentsI have so many people to thank:

My mother and father—no one has believed in me more, and they have my deepestadmiration and gratitude.

Sophia and Louisa, my greatest source ofhappiness, the pride and joy of my life.

My extraordinary sisters, Michelle, Katrin, and Cindy.

And most of all, my husband, Jed Rubenfeld, who for twenty-five years has read everyword I’ve written. I am the unbelievablylucky beneficiary of his kindness and genius.

My brother-in-law Or Gozani and mynieces and nephews Amalia, Dimitri, Diana, Jake, and Ella.

The following dear friends, for insightfulcomments, passionate debates, and invaluable support: Alexis Contant and JordanSmoller, Sylvia and Walter Austerer, Susanand Paul Fiedler, Marina Santilli, AnneDailey, Jennifer Brown (for “humbled”!),Nancy Greenberg, Anne Tofflemire, SarahBilston and Daniel Markovits, and KathleenBrown-Dorato and Alex Dorato. Thanks alsoto Elizabeth Alexander, Barbara Rosen, Roger Spottiswoode, Emily Bazelon, LindaBurt, and Annie Witt for their generousencouragement.

All those who helped instill the love of music in Sophia and Lulu, including MichelleZingale, Carl Shugart, Fiona Murray, JodyRowitsch, and Alexis Zingale of the Neighborhood Music School; the fabulous RichardBrooks of the Norwalk Youth Symphony; Annette Chang Barger, YingYingHo, Yu-tingHuang, Nancy Jin, KiwonNahm, and Alexandra Newman; the exceptional Naoko

Tanaka and AlmitaVamos; and especiallymy good friend, the incomparable Wei-YiYang.

All of the wonderful teachers Sophia andLulu were lucky enough to have at the FooteSchool (and I actually loved the MedievalFestival), especially Judy Cuthbertson andCliff Sahlin.

On the tennis front: Alex Dorato, ChristianAppleman, and Stacia Fonseca.

My students Jacqueline Esai, Ronan Farrow, Sue Guan, Stephanie Lee, Jim Ligtenberg, Justin Lo, Peter McElligott, Luke Norris, Amelia Rawls, Nabiha Syed, and ElinaTetelbaum.

Finally, my heartfelt thanks to the amazingTina Bennett, the best agent imaginable, andto my editor and publisher, the brilliant, unsurpassed Ann Godoff.