It was a revelation that stopped time: I had become my mother. A flashback raced through my head: My mom is standing over me with a wooden spoon while I’m sitting rigidly on the piano bench. I am 7 years old. This is the wooden spoon that I feared, the one used to discourage me from making careless mistakes while practicing the piano.

 

But here I was, 27 years later, standing over my own 7-year-old daughter with a flat, black rubber stick as she practiced her “Etude in F Major” for the Young Artists’ competition. Any moment she hesitated or played an incorrect note due to what I saw as her failure to focus, down I came with the rubber stick on her hand.

 

The nagging feeling telling me that I should squelch this desire to control was quickly squelched by the even more overwhelming feeling that she had to practice more and play better. She would be excellent. I would expect no less. This is the way it was.

 

Of course, I hesitated every once in a while as I noticed the disapproving glare of my husband who was on the edge of losing his temper with me. He had already warned me numerous times to watch my tone and maintain self-control. He said I was practically traumatizing our daughter.

 

My husband also grew up as a Korean American, but his childhood upbringing was a bit more mellow than mine. Not unlike many Korean Americans with demanding immigrant parents, I grew up in more of a pressure cooker environment, and the wooden stick at the piano bench was really just the tip of the iceberg.

 

Every summer during my childhood we attended a family reunion consisting of my mother’s brothers and sisters and their children. We would head to the beach where we could frolic on the sand and ride the waves. But then there was always a cloud of gloom surrounding the vacation for me. I knew it was inevitable that the adults would “share” news about their children, and that usually translated into a comparative list of accomplishments for that year.

 

We would also be expected to “show off” our musical talent in front of the adults. Every one of us played the piano, as well as the violin and the cello and the flute. I should also mention the fact that all my uncles and my father were medical doctors. So there were a few expectations in our family.

 

I am the third oldest out of 13 grandchildren on my mother’s side, but growing up, I felt pretty invisible next to my two older cousins who were considered the gems. One was labeled a genius and entered Stanford at age 16. The other was perfect at everything — perfect grades, perfect piano playing and perfectly well-mannered.

 

I was the black sheep because I played the piano only above average and, while I was a good student, I didn’t get straight A’s. And the truth is, I didn’t try to be a model example. I had a bit of a rebellious streak, misbehaved on occasion and did such unspeakable things as say “no” to my halmeoni (gasp!).