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America changes people. When I was four, my father said to me, “You will marry a nonChinese over my dead body.” But I ended upmarrying Jed, and today my husband andmy father are the best of friends. When I waslittle, my parents had no sympathy for disabled people. In much of Asia, disabilitiesare seen as shameful, so when my youngestsister Cynthia was born with Down syndrome, my mother initially cried all the time, and some of my relatives encouraged us tosend Cindy away to an institution in the Philippines. But my mother was put in touchwith special education teachers and otherparents of children with disabilities, andsoon she was spending hours patiently doingpuzzles with Cindy and teaching her to draw. When Cindy started grade school, my mother taught her to read and drilled multiplication tables with her. Today, Cindy holds twoInternational Special Olympics gold medalsin swimming.

A tiny part of me regrets that I didn’tmarry another Chinese person and worriesthat I am letting down four thousand years ofcivilization. But most of me feels tremendousgratitude for the freedom and creative opportunity that America has given me. Mydaughters don’t feel like outsiders in America. I sometimes still do. But for me, that isless a burden than a privilege."

5On Generational Decline

"Newborn me and my brave parents, twoyears after they arrived in America

One of my greatest fears is family decline. There’s an old Chinese saying that“prosperity can never last for three generations.” I’ll bet that if someone with empiricalskills conducted a longitudinal survey aboutintergenerational performance, they’d find aremarkably common pattern among Chineseimmigrants fortunate enough to have cometo the United States as graduate students orskilled workers over the last fifty years. Thepattern would go something like this:

• The immigrant generation (like myparents) is the hardest-working. Manywill have started off in the UnitedStates almost penniless, but they willwork nonstop until they become successful engineers, scientists, doctors, academics, or businesspeople. As parents, they will be extremely strict andrabidly thrifty. (“Don’t throw outthose leftovers! Why are you using somuch dishwasher liquid? You don’tneed a beauty salon—I can cut yourhair even nicer.”) They will invest inreal estate. They will not drink much. Everything they do and earn will gotoward their children’s education andfuture.

The next generation (mine), the first tobe born in America, will typically behigh-achieving. They will usually playthe piano and/or violin. They will attend an Ivy League or Top Ten university. They will tend to be professionals—lawyers, doctors, bankers, television anchors—and surpass theirparents in income, but that’s partlybecause they started off with moremoney and because their parents invested so much in them. They will beless frugal than their parents. Theywill enjoy cocktails. If they are female, they will often marry a white person. Whether male or female, they will notbe as strict with their children as theirparents were with them.

• The next generation (Sophia andLulu’s) is the one I spend nights lyingawake worrying about. Because of thehard work of their parents and grandparents, this generation will be borninto the great comforts of the uppermiddle class. Even as children theywill own many hardcover books (analmost criminal luxury from the pointof view of immigrant parents). Theywill have wealthy friends who get paidfor B-pluses. They may or may not attend private schools, but in either casethey will expect expensive, brand nameclothes. Finally and most problematically, they will feel that theyhave individual rights guaranteed bythe U. S. Constitution and therefore bemuch more likely to disobey their parents and ignore career advice. Inshort, all factors point to this generation being headed straight for decline.

Well, not on my watch. From the momentSophia was born and I looked into her cuteand knowing face, I was determined not tolet it happen to her, not to raise a soft, entitled child—not to let my family fall.

That’s one of the reasons that I insistedSophia and Lulu do classical music. I knewthat I couldn’t artificially make them feel likepoor immigrant kids. There was no gettingaround the fact that we lived in a large oldhouse, owned two decent cars, and stayed innice hotels when we vacationed. But I couldmake sure that Sophia and Lulu were deeperand more cultivated than my parents and Iwere. Classical music was the opposite of decline, the opposite of laziness, vulgarity, andspoiledness. It was a way for my children toachieve something I hadn’t. But it was also atie-in to the high cultural tradition of my ancient ancestors.

My antidecline campaign had other components too. Like my parents, I requiredSophia and Lulu to be fluent in Chinese andto be straight-A students. “Always check yourtest answers three times,” I told them. “Lookup every word you don’t know and memorizethe exact definition.” To make sure thatSophia and Lulu weren’t pampered and decadent like the Romans when their empirefell, I also insisted that they do physicallabor.

“When I was fourteen, I dug a swimmingpool for my father by myself with a pick andshovel,” I told my daughters more than once. This is actually true. The pool was only threefeet deep and ten feet in diameter and camein a kit, but I really did dig it in the backyardof a cabin near Lake Tahoe that my fatherbought, after saving up for years. “EverySaturday morning,” I also loved to harp, “Ivacuumed half the house while my sister didthe other half. I cleaned toilets, weeded thelawn, and chopped wood. Once I built a rockgarden for my father, and I had to carryboulders that were over fifty pounds each. That’s why I’m so tough.”

Because I wanted them to practice asmuch as possible, I didn’t ask my daughtersto chop wood or dig a pool. But I did try tomake them carry heavy objects—overflowinglaundry baskets up and down stairs, garbageout on Sundays, suitcases when wetraveled—as often as I could. Interestingly, Jed had the opposite instinct. It botheredhim to see the girls loaded down, and he always worried about their backs.

In imparting these lessons to the girls, I’dconstantly remember things my own parentshad said to me. “Be modest, be humble, besimple,” my mother used to chide. “The lastshall come first.” What she really meant ofcourse was, “Make sure you come in first sothat you have something to be humbleabout.” One of my father’s bedrock principles was, “Never complain or make excuses. If something seems unfair at school, just prove yourself by working twice as hardand being twice as good.” These tenets too Itried to convey to Sophia and Lulu.

Finally, I tried to demand as much respectfrom the girls as my parents did of me. Thisis where I was least successful. Growing up, Iwas terrified of my parents’ disapproval. Notso with Sophia and especially Lulu. Americaseems to convey something to kids thatChinese culture doesn’t. In Chinese culture, it just wouldn’t occur to children to question, disobey, or talk back to their parents. InAmerican culture, kids in books, TV shows, and movies constantly score points withtheir snappy backtalk and independentstreaks. Typically, it’s the parents who needto be taught a life lesson—by their children.

6The Virtuos Circle

Sophia’s first three piano teachers were notgood fits. The first, whom Sophia met whenshe was three, was a dour old Bulgarian woman named Elina, who lived in our neighborhood. She wore a shapeless skirt andknee-high stockings, and seemed to carry thesorrows of the world on her shoulders. Heridea of a piano lesson was to come to ourhouse and play the piano herself for an hour, while Sophia and I sat on the couch andlistened to her tortured anguish. When thefirst session ended, I felt like sticking myhead in the oven; Sophia was playing withpaper dolls. I was terrified to tell Elina itwouldn’t work out, for fear that she mightthrow herself wailing over a parapet. So Itold her we were incredibly excited abouthaving another lesson, and that I’d contacther soon.

The next teacher we tried was a peculiarlittle person with short hair and round, wire rimmed glasses named MJ, who had been inthe military. We couldn’t tell if MJ was maleor female, but it always wore a suit and bowtie, and I liked its matter-of-fact style. MJtold us the first time we met that Sophia wasdefinitely musically gifted. Unfortunately, MJ disappeared after three weeks. One daywe arrived at MJ’s house for a lesson as usual, and found no trace of MJ. Instead, therewere strangers living in the house, with completely different furniture.

Our third teacher was a soft-spoken jazzguy named Richard, with wide hips. He saidhe had a two-year-old daughter. At our firstmeeting, he gave Sophia and me a big lectureabout the importance of living in the moment and playing for oneself. Unlike traditional teachers, he said he didn’t believe inusing books written by others, and insteadwould emphasize improvisation and self-expression. Richard said there were no rules inmusic, only what felt right, and no one hadthe right to judge you, and the piano worldhad been destroyed by commercialism andcut-throat competition. Poor guy—I guess hejust didn’t have what it took.

As the eldest daughter of Chinese immigrants, I don’t have time to improvise or makeup my own rules. I have a family name to uphold, aging parents to make proud. I likeclear goals, and clear ways of measuringsuccess.

That’s why I liked the Suzuki method ofteaching piano. There are seven books, andeverybody has to start with Book One. Eachbook includes ten to fifteen songs, and youhave to go in order. Kids who practice hardget assigned new songs each week, whereaskids who don’t practice get stuck on the samesong for weeks, even months, and sometimesjust quit because they’re bored out of theirminds. Anyway, the bottom line is that somekids go through the Suzuki books muchfaster than others. So a hardworking four-year-old can be ahead of a six-year-old, a six year-old can be way ahead of a sixteen-year old, and so on—which is why the Suzuki system is known for producing “childprodigies.”

That’s what happened with thetime she was five, we had settled in with afabulous Suzuki teacher named Michelle, who had a big piano studio in New Haven ata place called the Neighborhood MusicSchool. Patient and perceptive, Michelle gotSophia—appreciated her aptitude but sawbeyond it—and it was Michelle who instilledthe love of music in her.

The Suzuki method was perfect for Sophia. She learned really quickly and could stay focused for a long time. She also had a big cultural advantage: Most of the other studentsat the school had liberal Western parents, who were weak-willed and indulgent when itcame to practicing. I remember a girl namedAubrey, who was required to practice oneminute per day for every year of her age. Shewas seven. Other kids got paid for practicing, with giant ice cream sundaes or big Legokits. And many were excused from practicingaltogether on lesson days.

A key feature of the Suzuki approach isthat a parent is expected to attend every music lesson and then to supervise practice sessions at home. What this meant was thatevery moment Sophia was at the piano, I wasthere with her, and I was being educated too. I had taken piano lessons as a child, but myparents didn’t have the money to hire anyonegood, so I ended up studying with aneighbor, who sometimes hosted Tupperware parties during my lesson. With Sophia’steacher, I started learning all kinds of thingsabout music theory and music history thatI’d never known before.

With me at her side, Sophia practiced atleast ninety minutes every day, includingweekends. On lesson days, we practicedtwice as long. I made Sophia memorizeeverything, even if it wasn’t required, and Inever paid her a penny. That’s how we blasted through those Suzuki books. Other parents aimed for one book a year. We startedoff with the “Twinkle, Twinkle” variations(Book One); three months later Sophia wasplaying Schumann (Book Two); six monthsafter that, she was playing a sonatina by Clementi (Book Three). And I still felt we weregoing too slow.

This seems like a good time to getsomething off my chest. The truth is, itwasn’t always enjoyable for Sophia to haveme as a mother. According to Sophia, hereare three things I actually said to her at thepiano as I supervised her practicing:

1. Oh my God, you’re just getting worseand worse.

2. I’m going to count to three, then Iwant musicality!

3. If the next time’s not PERFECT, I’mgoing to TAKE ALL YOUR STUFFEDANIMALS AND BURN THEM!

In retrospect, these coaching suggestionsseem a bit extreme. On the other hand, theywere highly effective. Sophia and I were agreat mother-daughter fit. I had the conviction and the tunnel-vision drive. Sophia hadthe maturity, patience, and empathy I shouldhave had, but didn’t. She accepted mypremise that I knew and wanted what wasbest for her—and she cut me a break when Iwas bad-tempered or said hurtful things.

When Sophia was nine, she won a local piano award, performing a piece calledButterfly by the Norwegian composer Edward Grieg. Butterfly is one of Grieg’s sixty-six Lyric Pieces, which are miniature compositions, each meant to evoke a particularmood or image. Butterfly is supposed to belight and carefree—and it takes hours andhours of grueling drudge-drilling to get it tosound that way.

What Chinese parents understand is thatnothing is fun until you’re good at it. To getgood at anything you have to work, and children on their own never want to work, whichis why it is crucial to override their preferences. This often requires fortitude on thepart of the parents because the child will resist; things are always hardest at the beginning, which is where Western parents tend togive up. But if done properly, the Chinesestrategy produces a virtuous circle. Tenacious practice, practice, practice is crucial forexcellence; rote repetition is underrated inAmerica. Once a child starts to excel atsomething—whether it’s math, piano, pitching, or ballet—he or she gets praise, admiration, and satisfaction. This builds confidenceand makes the once not-fun activity fun. Thisin turn makes it easier for the parent to getthe child to work even more.

At the Winners Concert where Sophia performed, as I watched her deft fingers fluttering and tumbling up and down the piano likereal butterfly wings, I was overcome withpride, exhilaration, and hope. I couldn’t waitfor the next day, to work more with Sophia, and to learn more music together.

7 Tiger Luck

Like every Asian American woman in herlate twenties, I had the idea of writing anepic novel about mother-daughter relationships spanning several generations, basedloosely on my own family’s story. This wasbefore Sophia was born, when I was living inNew York, trying to figure out what I was doing working at a Wall Street law firm.

Thank goodness I’m a lucky person, because all my life I’ve made important decisions for the wrong reasons. I started off asan applied mathematics major at Harvardbecause I thought it would please my parents; I dropped it after my father, watchingme struggling with a problem set over winterbreak, told me I was in over my head, savingme. But then I mechanically switched to economics because it seemed vaguely science like. I wrote my senior thesis on commutingpatterns of two-earner families, a subject Ifound so boring I could never rememberwhat my conclusion was.

I went to law school, mainly because Ididn’t want to go to medical school. I didwell at law school, by working psychoticallyhard. I even made it onto the highly competitive Harvard Law Review, where I met Jedand became an executive editor. But I alwaysworried that law really wasn’t my calling. Ididn’t care about the rights of criminals theway others did, and I froze whenever a professor called on me. I also wasn’t naturallyskeptical and questioning; I just wanted towrite down everything the professor said andmemorize it.

After graduating I went to a Wall Streetlaw firm because it was the path of least resistance. I chose corporate practice because Ididn’t like litigation. I was actually decent atthe job; long hours never bothered me, and Iwas good at understanding what the clientswanted and translating it into legaldocuments. But my entire three years at thefirm, I always felt like I was play-acting, ridiculous in my suit. At the all-night draftingsessions with investment bankers, whileeveryone else was popping veins over theminutiae of some multibillion-dollar deal, I’dfind my mind drifting to thoughts of dinner, and I just couldn’t get myself to care aboutwhether the sentence should be prefaced by“To the best of the Company’s knowledge.”Any statement contained in a documentincorporated or deemed to be incorporated by reference herein shall bedeemed to be modified or supersededfor purposes of this Offering Circular tothe extent that a statement containedherein, or in any other subsequentlyfiled document that also is incorporatedby reference herein, modifies or supersedes such a statement.

Jed, meanwhile, loved the law, and thecontrast made my misfit all the more glaring. At his law firm, which specialized inlate-1980s takeovers, he loved writing briefsand litigating and had great successes. Thenhe went to the U. S. Attorney’s Office andsued Mafia guys and loved that too. For fun, he wrote a 100-page article on the right ofprivacy—it just poured out of him—whichwas accepted by the same Harvard LawReview we’d worked on as students (whichalmost never publishes articles by non-professors). The next thing we knew he got a callfrom the dean of Yale Law School, and eventhough I was the one who always wanted tobecome an academic (I guess because myfather was one), he got a job as a Yale lawprofessor the year before Sophia was born. Itwas a dream job for Jed. He was the only junior person on the faculty, the golden boy, surrounded by brilliant colleagues whothought like he did. I’d always thought of myself as someoneimaginative with lots of ideas, but aroundJed’s colleagues, my brain turned to sludge. When we first moved to New Haven—I wason pregnancy leave with Sophia—Jed told hisfriends on the faculty that I was thinkingabout being a professor too. But when theyasked about the legal issues I was interestedin, I felt like a stroke victim. I was so nervousI couldn’t think or speak. When I forced myself to talk, my sentences came out allgarbled with weird words inserted in weirdplaces.

That’s when I decided to write an epic novel. Unfortunately, I had no talent for novelwriting, as Jed’s polite coughs and forcedlaughter while he read my manuscriptshould have told me. What’s more, MaxineHong Kingston, Amy Tan, and Jung Changall beat me to it with their books The WomanWarrior, The Joy Luck Club, and WildSwans. At first, I was bitter and resentful, but then I got over it and came up with a bining my law degree with my ownfamily’s background, I would write about lawand ethnicity in the developing world. Ethnicity was my favorite thing to talk about anyway. Law and development, which very fewpeople were studying at the time, would bemy specialty.

The stars were aligned. Just after Sophiawas born, I wrote an article about privatization, nationalization, and ethnicity in LatinAmerica and Southeast Asia, which theColumbia Law Review accepted for publication. Armed with my new article, I appliedfor law teaching jobs all over the country. Ina mind-boggling act of temerity, I said yeswhen Yale’s hiring committee invited me tointerview with them. I met with the committee over lunch at a scary Yale institutioncalled Mory’s, and was so tongue-tied thattwo professors excused themselves early andthe dean of the law school spent the rest ofthe two hours pointing out Italianate influences on New Haven architecture.

I did not get asked back to meet the fullYale Law faculty, which meant that I’dflunked the lunch. In other words, I’d beenrejected by Jed’s colleagues. This was notideal—and it made socializing a little tricky.

But then I got another huge break. WhenSophia was two, Duke Law School gave me ateaching offer. Ecstatic, I accepted the offerimmediately, and we moved to Durham, North Carolina.

8 Lulu’s Instrument

I loved Duke. My colleagues were generous, kind, and smart, and we made many closefriends. The only hitch was that Jed stillworked at Yale, which was five hundredmiles away. But we made it work, alternatingsome years between Durham and NewHaven, with Jed doing most of thecommuting.