The other morning, I was busy at work when I got that dreaded call from the nurse at my daughter’s school. “She’s feeling unwell, and you need to come pick her up,” she informed me. Now, I’ve had my fair share of these calls, but this was the first time the “sick” child was old enough to vote.
“Can’t do it,” I replied. “I’m on a tight deadline. Just let her take a cab.” Our home is just a six-minute ride away from her school, while my office commute drags on for over an hour via subway.
“School policy,” the nurse reiterated.
“Seriously? She’s 18!” I exclaimed. This kid has been commuting solo since she was ten. She’s old enough to enlist in the army, and she even babysat her younger brother for four days while I was off on a work trip to L.A. last summer. I couldn’t see why I should drop everything to pick up my fully-grown child from the nurse’s office, especially when there were so many reasons against it.
I argued passionately. Oh, how I argued. The principal got involved. I learned that the principal is supposed to be my ally, but on that day, standing firm on outdated policies, she clearly wasn’t.
To make matters worse, the subway was experiencing major delays due to some vague “incident,” so I ended up shelling out nearly $46 for a cab ride from Manhattan’s Flatiron District to my daughter’s high school in the Bronx. As I watched the meter climb, a sudden realization hit me: I’ve had it.
I’ve really had it.
This country, along with its parents and schools, is so misguided when it comes to nurturing and educating our children, it’s hard to know where to even begin. But let’s give it a shot.
Questioning the System
How is it that a school that supposedly cares so deeply about my 18-year-old daughter’s health insists I come to pick her up when she’s sick, yet has piled on eight hours of homework every day for the last four years? If she manages to get four hours of sleep each night, she’s lucky. I’m not exaggerating when I say that since her freshman year, I’ve seen my daughter for a total of maybe 20 minutes each day, during the family dinners I make—not out of some martyr complex, but because otherwise, I’d hardly see my kids at all. Meanwhile, this so-called top public high school has literally stressed her and her friends into illness.
When she got accepted to both this school and another renowned public institution famed for its arts program, I tried to persuade her to choose the latter. “Imagine how fantastic it would be to do art for two hours every morning before diving into academics,” I said. Her response broke my heart: “But the academics aren’t as strong, and I won’t get into a good college.”
“I don’t care where you go to college!” I insisted to my 14-year-old. “I’d rather you have a less stressful adolescence. Plus, I doubt that’s true. The teachers are fantastic. It’s all about the quality of teaching. Less homework doesn’t equate to lower academic standards; it simply reflects an enlightened approach.” Yet, she had already bought into the societal pressure.
The Tiger Mother Phenomenon
Four years ago, when my daughter began high school, a book about a “tiger mother” emerged, stirring up a storm among everyone I knew. Some found it painful to read about the lengths a parent would go to ensure her daughter practiced the piano, while others saw it as a rallying cry: we’ve been too lenient with our American kids, they argued. We need to adopt a more Asian parenting style.
The student body at my daughter’s school is predominantly made up of children from first- and second-generation Asian immigrants, comprising 62% of the enrollment. Their parents have put in the hard work and financial sacrifices to secure expensive tutors who prepare their kids for the standardized tests that help them get into these high-pressure schools. They proudly showcase bumper stickers, water bottles, and sweatshirts emblazoned with the school’s name. But what’s the ultimate goal?
Critics of the tiger mother often pointed to the fact that her daughters were accepted into Harvard and Yale, as if that alone validated her methods.
Here’s something to consider: I attended Harvard back when getting in was a lot easier, and even then, it was teeming with highly-stressed overachievers who often ended up in the bathroom, vomiting from stress and alcohol. Eating disorders were rampant, and it was bewildering for those of us who didn’t fit the mold: Wait, is that the standard? I even ended up restricting my own food intake for a few months during my sophomore year, simply from being around it.
Many of my peers had been so meticulously groomed for that illustrious spot at that esteemed institution that, once there, we struggled to find our own identities outside of our parents’ expectations. My family wanted me to pursue law school, but I found myself in Afghanistan after graduation, much to their surprise. Thankfully, they eventually came to terms with the fact that I had evolved into a different kind of adult than they had envisioned.
Moreover, holding an Ivy League degree can sometimes be a disadvantage. Sure, it might open doors in banking, but in many other fields, you risk being labeled overqualified or elitist. After a recent article of mine gained traction, I was wrongly accused in The New York Times of “copious use” of the word Harvard (spoiler: I used it once) and of being out of touch with reality: “If Harvard doesn’t teach its students that sometimes a degree isn’t an advantage, then it’s failing its students.”
To clarify, I genuinely wanted and needed that job at The Container Store for reasons I outlined in the essay, before eventually landing a position here at Home Insemination Kit. I also recognize the disadvantages that come with my degree. While I enjoyed my time at Harvard, with its ups and downs (the all-male final clubs, the weather, and those noted disadvantages), I firmly believe I could have had just as enriching an experience elsewhere.
A Different Approach to Parenting
I made a promise to myself early on: if and when I became a parent, I would allow my children to choose their own destinies—not just regarding college, but their entire paths in life. It’s not the opposite of tiger parenting; it’s simply a different mindset. I don’t have a fancy label for it or strict rules; it’s just common sense, born from my unique perspective.
My teens have never had a curfew. They just know to send me a text around midnight to let me know where they are. Wine was never off-limits; they could enjoy a sip with dinner on special occasions starting in their early teens. When my daughter asked to bring her boyfriend on vacation with us when she was 16, I didn’t impose any outdated restrictions.
When my son lost interest in soccer—not that he was ever really into it, but I thought he should try—I let him stop playing and focus on the activities he truly loved: acting and music. If he skipped guitar practice, the disappointment was his to feel—not mine to enforce. Today, he’s an excellent guitarist, and I take no credit for it other than paying for his lessons and reminding him to hop on the subway.
When my daughter faced crippling stage fright at nine after performing a song at a talent show, I allowed her to quit music lessons. “What’s the point of studying an instrument if I can’t perform?” she declared. It made perfect sense to both of us.
After my husband and I separated a year and a half ago, I decided to take guitar lessons to cope with the change. Suddenly, my daughter expressed a desire to join me. “I’m more advanced than you,” I joked, “but sure, let’s give it a go.” Three months later, she had dedicated herself to learning the guitar and was far ahead of me.
Last week, her band played at Webster Hall in Manhattan. This week, she awaits news on college acceptances, feeling stressed and anxious about her future.
What I told her was simple: I don’t care where you end up for college. You’ll get in somewhere or you won’t. If you’re not happy with your options, you can always take a year off and reapply. No matter where you go, you’ll learn valuable lessons, meet great people, and thrive. I know this because I witnessed a girl who once had crippling stage fright sing her heart out on stage.
When she leaves for college this fall—wherever that may be—I’ll still have my son to raise; he’s just eight. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, by the time he turns 18 and finds himself unwell at school, society has finally evolved enough to allow our children to find their own way home?