Why Mexican mothers are better than Chinese mothers

For the irony impaired, there is a shitload of blogospheric commenting going on regarding this column by Amy Chua in the Wall Street Journal.

To start: they have so many things to pay attention to besides your mangy ass.
Like dad.
He’s drinking too much, he’s too busy with the people at work.
Maybe he spends too much time in the garage.
Maybe he’s everywhere but where he should be. For the kids.

Mom needs to fill in the blanks.
She needs to prop up this house. She works hard to keep it moving.
And those damn kids.
Crying, causing commotion, drama queening it up at 13, big adult problems too early.
Yeah, the Mexican mom is too busy. She’s burdened. Oh, and she’s also got to calm the wild beast that is her husband.

In the midst of this, she must be, (or act) concerned about her daughter’s Algebra test.
And she needs to retreat and calm the husband down. Again.
Cook, clean the house. The husband won’t do this shit.
And if it’s not done, he’ll live life in spite of itself. He can live in sloth or he can live in glitter. It doesn’t matter to him.

The snowball continues. One generation of neglect spawns another. It bequeaths more pain and ignorance and each generation learns to qualm the deficiencies of its deceased heritage. And it does nothing.

The mother must continue the charade, act as if things are OK, patch up the wounds, keep the machine running.
She doesn’t get to enjoy pesto or automobile showrooms serving coffee and donuts; the Mexican mother is handed an rusty platter.

And this feminized matriarchy does nothing but lay blame by negation.
My mother did nothing terribly wrong.

She never taught me to be a lawyer or a neurosurgeon, but she taught me something I have yet to witness in my anxious peers.


Our dreams are big; our aspirations, blown out of proportion.

Do bigger dreams mean we will go to sleep happier?