Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright.

This week, what used to be called the “ladies section” of the newspaper, which has now has turned into the “mommy bloggers” cadre was alive with reviews and comments about the Tiger Mother theory of parenting.  Espoused by a Chinese-American law professor, the methodology seems to rely heavily on the practice of musical instruments and demanding perfection in all things by small children.  I will admit that I only read the reviews, and have no interest in the actual book, if only because my effort at parenting is finished, with the outcome managing for himself, with any wounds I may have inflicted.

Whenever parenting techniques are mentioned, I am naturally thrown back to my own childhood memories, which were recently enhanced by the arrival of a treasure trove of photos, drawings and words from my mother.  Having just turned 80, Mom is lightening her physical burden by dividing the snapshot collection, historically kept  in an undifferentiated pile in a plain wood box, parceling them out to me and my siblings.

The photos were ones that I had seen many times before and therefore they did not trigger any new memories, only reawakened the little storage compartments in my brain where those scenes were stored.   The pictures confirm my general impression that my childhood was full of positive experiences.  I especially like the one of me intently gripping a baseball bat, ready to swing.  Unlike today’s emphasis on organized teams and proper uniforms, this picture has me in a dress, in my neighbor’s fenced  yard.  The other one I love is a rare shot of me in band class, holding my trombone like a lover, which given how long my lips pressed against the mouthpiece, I suppose it was. 

Although I was a straight-A student throughout grade school, I did not go on to become a great scholar in college.  I did not become a famous musician or baseball player.  I have no memory of either parent ever telling me to do my homework or practice longer, or even try harder.  It seems I was self-motivated, though I know that my father succeeded in conveying his high expectations for excellence to his children through more subtle and not altogether nice methods.  Because he was a high school teacher of English, as opposed to my artistically focused mother, his praise was what was important to us children in the academic realm.  Unfortunately, he rarely expressed approval directly, and we divided between those who worked for his cryptic affirmations and those who rejected his right to judge.

There was plenty of contention in our home, concentrated between my parents, but their frustration spilled out on us children as loud commands to do this and that, in a fruitless effort to maintain the household in an organized state.  Five children make a constant mess and that is just a fact.  As a result of overcrowding, we sought other people’s homes to while away the free hours, and also spent a lot of time outdoors.  This gave us every opportunity for adventure and new experiences, which formed the bulk of my learning. 

The idea that parents should force their children into long hours of study and practice as a matter of discipline seems absolutely wrong to me.  Although I am still upset that I couldn’t get my son to memorize the multiplication table, I know that my formative childhood experiences were not in a classroom.  They were when we kids explored the world on our own, without parental supervision, daring ourselves to go somewhere we hadn’t been before.