Response to Tiger Mom

You know, there was this huge debate online when the Tiger Mom article came out. “She’s right!” screamed one side. “She’s insane” rallied the other. I followed the debates like a little kid following the Magic School Bus – eyes glued and fascinated.

I, quite obviously, lean to the side where parents shouldn’t be so stereotypically Asian. I would have given up ‘being a good kid’ a long time ago if I had been forced through Amy Chua’s regime. I have to say, my parents did a great job balancing the sugar with the vinegar – in fact, I don’t really remember them saying anything when I didn’t practice my piano or finish my homework. And probably because of that, I almost always enjoyed my homework (hah! geek from birth), but almost never practiced my piano. And of course, there were no amount of threats that could keep me away from the horse stable.

Then, I read this article that supported Tiger Mom (or in this case, Dad).

She talks about how her dad forced her to practise tennis until everything was perfect. In the process, she developed such a hate for tennis that “When I step onto a court, I go through PTSD.” But who cares? She can do perfectly precise backhands.

I thought about writing a huge reply according to my guttural distaste for this kind of parenting. But it really boils down to this point:

I’d rather be crappy at playing the piano than hate playing at all.

I came to this realisation recently. I was listening to the amazing piano solo The Hours by Philip Glass, and my fingers were just itching to try out this piece. I jokingly told my friend that if I could play The Hours, I would die a happy person. I hadn’t had a feeling for wanting to play the piano for maybe a year.

I have to admit, I really do suck at playing the piano. Music rhythms and notes don’t come naturally to me. I can never remember any piece by heart. Plus I hate practicing. It’s not a good combination. I took lessons for maybe 6 years (?) and am still at a very low level. Part of the reason, I suspect, was because my piano teachers in Hong Kong only ever wanted me to take more piano exams. They pushed me to practice and I rebelled. During the years when I took classes, every time I sat in front of a piano, I felt a resistance. I couldn’t fully enjoy myself. Yet, it was only after I stopped taking classes that I started enjoying the piano once more. I would play the songs I already knew, over and over and over again. (Rather like my preference of listening to the same song for hours on end.) Sitting by myself, just listening to the notes coming from the movement of my hand. I didn’t care if the songs were simple. I didn’t care that I couldn’t do fancy techniques. I just enjoyed my time with my crappy music.

I wouldn’t trade perfect playing with this kind of joy.

I think it’s ridiculous to say that your enjoyment of certain activities only comes after you become good at said activity. I’d say that my enjoyment of music would be lower than the Dead Sea if I were forced to practice until perfection.