Photo by xinem

By Dorcas Cheng-Tozun

My experience growing up in a Chinese immigrant family in California is almost embarrassingly stereotypical. I was taught to respect my elders and work hard in school. I learned piano and attended Chinese school. In academics, I was held to the usual Chinese standards: only As and A-pluses were allowed; anything short of 100 percent on tests was failure; and all mistakes were earth-shattering events. My mom was very much what we’ve come to call a tiger mom, and my dad was her supportive (though mostly silent) partner in constantly pushing my older sister and me to do better.

Over the years, my sister and I have had many conversations about the weight of disappointment — from our parents and, eventually, ourselves — that crushed us whenever we fell short in school or at home. As adults, we have both dedicated an inordinate amount of energy toward pursuing perfection. We want to be competent and in control — or at least have the appearance of being so — as professionals, as church leaders, as spouses, and now as mothers ourselves.

The pressure I felt as a child, and how that shapes me as an adult, is something I had never spoken directly to my mom about — until recently. Now that I’m in my mid-thirties, my mom and I have finally reached that stage in life in which we’re building something that feels strangely like a friendship. And the doors are opening for new conversation topics that I never would have dared venture into before.

“I don’t understand why you and your sister always want everything perfect,” she mused the other day, genuinely perplexed. “Why is this so important to you?”

I waited a beat, unsure whether or not to respond. Feeling a divine burst of courage and grace, I opened my mouth and explained, “Well, you pushed us really hard when we were kids. We were always scared to make mistakes because we didn’t want to make you disappointed or angry.”

She looked baffled. “Really? I seemed disappointed and angry to you?” And then she fell silent.

I sat very still in the quiet, worrying that I had done irreparable damage to our nascent friendship.

But then my mom spoke again. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, reaching out to hug me. “That’s not what I meant to be like. It’s just… I didn’t know the language. I didn’t know anything about how the schools worked here. I couldn’t help you with your classes.”

Her apology fell like a gentle rain on the tender places in my spirit. But the words that I kept hearing were “I didn’t know… I didn’t know.”

For the first time, I saw my tiger mom from a completely different vantage point. Her actions hadn’t been simply about performance and achievement. She had been motivated by survival. She had pushed me to work hard, and then work some more, so I could do for myself what she couldn’t do for me. She taught me to be self-sufficient and to aim for the best — in order to protect me. To equip me. To make sure I took full advantage of every opportunity before me, even if she didn’t know what those opportunities were.

She was my mama bear, doing whatever she felt necessary to make sure I made it. To make sure I thrived.

I am only three years into my own journey as a mom, and I now know the deep fear and anxiety that accompanies that role. I see how all my weaknesses and imperfections get projected onto my son. I see how, in my desire for my ceiling to be his floor, I am tempted to pressure him in ways that may not always serve him well, despite my best intentions.

But I also see how I have it so much easier than my mom did. I am a native to this language and culture; I grew up in the public school system and was able to do pretty well for myself. I don’t need to take my claws out because I know I can competently guide my child through the academic and cultural expectations that await him.

In many ways, that’s only possible because my mom didn’t let up on me. She pushed me to figure everything out, to master the system as well as I could. By pressuring me to do my best, she allowed me to bring the best of what I have learned and experienced to the next generation.

Her approach wasn’t without its flaws, of course, especially as it was rooted in fear and manifested in disappointment. But I know that, in her heart of hearts, she was looking out for me. As a result, I don’t have to be a tiger mom for my son to thrive. I know that he and his mama bear are going to be just fine.

Dorcas Cheng-Tozun is a writer, blogger, and editor who has found healing and hope through words. She is a regular contributor to Her.meneutics and The Well, and her work has appeared in The Wall Street Journal, Christianity Today, BlogHer, and more than a dozen other publications. Previously she worked as a nonprofit and social enterprise professional in the U.S. and Asia. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and adorable hapa son. Find her online at www.chengtozun.com or on Twitter @dorcas_ct.