Even though I’m a child of Asian immigrants, my mama was no tiger. True, she was a bit cat-like, but more kitty-cat than jungle beast. Ever since the Wall Street Journal published the article “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior,” Eastern parents have been denounced as vicious, heartless animals.
The article is an excerpt of the provocative parenting memoir Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua, which has created a media firestorm. I’ll be the first to admit that my childhood was different than those of my blonde neighbors (and my parents were cruel and heartless at times), but it wasn’t nearly as intense as what Chua’s children faced. Growing up Asian American did have its perks. Here, I present the five best (and worst) things about having immigrant parents:
1. Trips to the Motha-land. If I add together all the time I’ve spent in India in my 20-odd years, the grand total comes in at over two full years of my life. My most magical childhood memories are from the time I spent in and around Bombay. (To those of us with an intimate relationship with the city, it will always be Bombay, never Mumbai.) India is my second home, my mother’s land. I profoundly believe that the best gift my parents gave me was the gift of travel.
2. Curry and Chapati. While I have nothing against a hearty chicken casserole, I didn’t taste one until after college. Comfort food in our house was rice, daal, curry and samosas. Being raised in a household that wasn’t afraid of spice has instilled a deep passion in me for all types of ethnic food. There’s no food I won’t try once. After all, what’s more annoying than a picky eater?
3. Dozens of Aunties and Uncles. Loneliness isn’t an option when every Indian you know is your “auntie” or “uncle.” While my friends often got confused as to who my “real” relatives were, to us it never mattered. Growing up an Indian out of India, every friend of the family becomes your family.
4. Know Your ABCs. While I never got berated for getting an A-, academics always came first. I remember countless days when I was handcuffed (no, not literally) to my dad’s side and tutored in algebra. Although I still have no clue about the quadratic equation, I did go to college, graduate and get a job — just like every other child raised in our community.
5. Kids First, Parents Second. From the Tiger Mama to my mama, there’s one consistency that’s true for every immigrant household — the kids come first. Whether it’s foregoing sleep to drive to crew practice at 5 a.m. (Thanks, mom!) or learning the location of all 50 states just so we’d pass, there’s nothing that comes before a tiger mama’s cubs.
My mom never did force me to hold my pee until I mastered Mozart, but my immigrant experience wasn’t always ripe with mangoes and hugs. Being an Indian girl in California did have a downside all its own:
1. It’s Auntie’s Birthday, Again?! I know I mentioned that having a (pseudo) family big enough to fill a football field was a good thing, but when you’re 16, homecoming is much more important than Indian New Years. I remember begging, pleading and bartering with my mother to please, just this once, let me go to John Jones’ party instead of Ritu Auntie’s birthday at Kabab Palace. The score was consistently Mom: 1; Daughter: 0.
2. Dude, What Did Your Mom Just Say? Even though I now wish I was fluent in Hindi, when I was 12 I didn’t. There was nothing more embarrassing than having my friends hear my parents speaking loudly in some “foreign language.” I played earsplitting music, blasted the TV and spoke at the noisiest levels my vocal chords would reach all the try to drown out that strange, “alien” language.
3. Santa Who? As a kid, sometimes we celebrated Christmas and sometimes we didn’t. If we were traveling (which we did during almost every winter break) my parents didn’t bother with a tree, stockings, or even a candy cane. While there were plenty of other Indian holidays we celebrated with gusto, our lack of holly and jolly for Xmas has turned me into a bit of a Grinch. Bah humbug.
4. What’s That Smell? I hated having friends over when my mom was cooking Indian food. There’s no smell more grossly permeating than the stench of frying onions, garlic, ginger and masala. Even when it was 30 degrees, I’d force my friends to play outside if I knew it was a stinky (yet oh so delicious) curry night.
5. Megan, Megan, Megan! I’ll never forget that solar system assignment in third grade when my three best friends who all happened to be named Megan chose to be in the same group. When I asked them to join they said, “Only Megans allowed.” For years after that I begged my parents to let me change my name to something more American like “Amy” or “Sara.” They never agreed.
My mom and dad fell somewhere between being tigers and Labradors. Sometimes I wonder if they had a bit more bite and a bit more rumble, would I have ended up a Ph.D. candidate at Harvard? Who knows. I guess we just have to march to the battle hymn we’re given and hope for the best.