Are we?  Yes, I just decided that we are.  Almost as much reading good books, I love talking about good books–especially with you, my faithful readers of good books and random blogs.  (You’re here, aren’t you?)  In my last post I offered a free Good Book* to the deserving contestant who guessed its title, and while we wait for a winner**, we need to talk about the Next Big Thing:  Triple Package, by Amy Chua and Jed Rubenfeld.

You remember the Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, of course, and I hope you read her fascinating and funny book.  My initial skepticism over Ms. Chua’s “strict parenting” gave way to admiration upon reading her self-deprecating memoir.  And because I was skeptical, I took the whole thing with a hefty grain of salt:  it was an entertaining read in which she made some valid points, but it certainly didn’t make a Chua-disciple out of me.  And though I applaud many of her theories, I lack the drive and discipline to carry them out as she does.  The result?  I have studious kids who will never make it to Carnegie Hall.  I’m okay with that.  And I still think that she’s just a fun and substantial writer to read.  We need more of those.

Which is why I’m excited to pick up a copy of The Triple Package this weekend.  (As with all important things in my life, I have also lost my Nook, so now I’m back to reading old-school paperbacks.  Don’t tease please.)  This time, Chua teamed up with hubby Jed Rubenfeld, a fellow Yale Law professor (whom I’ve decided is altogether dreamy.)

From what I’ve gathered, The Triple Package explores and explains why certain seemingly disparate cultures are performing disproportionately well in America today.  The cultures listed are:

Jewish

Indian

Chinese

Iranian

Lebanese-Americans

Nigerians

Cuban exiles

Mormons

Yep, its politically incorrect already.

And in these cultures, the authors claim, are three basic mindsets that drive its members to get ahead:

1.  A sense of exceptionalism:  believing you are special, and thus special things are expected of you

2.  A sense of insecurity:  believing you have something to prove, and being willing do what it takes to prove it

3.  Impulse control:  an ability to control your appetites and resist temptation–especially the temptation to give up

Riveting stuff, if you ask me.  Picking the brain of a single person is one thing, but understanding an entire culture’s secret to success is something else altogether.  Because if the same common denominators work for thousands–even millions–of people, they may just work for us.

As was surely intended by it’s authors, the book has already kicked up a firestorm of controversy, especially among academics and journalists who dismiss its claims as racist–though the authors emphasize that culture is what matters, not race.  (The debate is raging online; be prepared.)  The book examines cultural and familial expectations, not I.Q. points and genetic maps, which is what makes their argument so compelling and, I believe, so optimistic.  Everyone has access to the three tenets of the Triple Package–because it’s a mindset, not biology–and therefore, everyone has access to success.  The point is that some cultures are embracing these tenents more fully than others, so we can all learn from their example.

I should stop here and mention that I belong to one of the cultural groups listed in this book.  This may explain some of my interest in it.  (Three guesses on which culture I belong to.  Spoiler alert:  I’m not Nigerian.)  But the generalizations about an entire culture’s success are obviously broad, as I know many people from “my” culture who are confirmed underachievers.   (No offense, but really.  You know who you are.)  I wonder: were I not included in any of these esteemed cultural groups, would I feel differently about the premise of the book?  Probably.  Probably I wouldn’t like it at all, and that’s probably why it’s got so many people hopping mad.  But honestly, I am more interested in learning about the tools of success than about who’s using them.  Because then I can put them to use in my own family culture, which is where I believe my children’s destinies are truly determined.

As with her first book, Chua has taken common sense (Belief in Oneself + Discipline = Success) and wrapped it in a timely, readable package.  If nothing else, this writer knows how to get people talking, make people mad, and sell some serious books.  I, for one, don’t mind being one of the minions tossing coins in her well; I’ve spent money on worse.  (See pp. 3, insecurity  and impulse control.  Having the former without the latter has cost me a lot over the years.)  And as I did with Tiger Mother, I will also be taking this book with a hefty grain of salt.  These are general ideas about people and their habits, not scientific proof about where where we’ll each end up in life.  None of us want to feel “determined.”

Are you going to read The Triple Package?  I hope so.  Because if you do, I’ll invite you to post your opinion about it here.  And it’s okay if you don’t agree with it; I may not either.  Then again, I may love it–and so might you.  That’s the thrill of an unopened book, isn’t it?  Worlds await, admission is free.  (Well, not exactly.  But it made for a pleasing idiom, no?) Now I’m off to drive my son to basketball practice in a pitifully Western, non-Tiger Mom manner.  (He should be in violin, not basketball, speaking Manderin on the ride over while finishing his calculus.  And he should already be in bed–preferably without dinner.  Shoot.  I’m hosed.)

*hint:  the Good Good Book referred to here is not the Bible.  Although if I was a better person, that’s what I’d be giving away.

**hint hint:  the author’s last name is the first name of a certain befuddled-but-loveable germaphobe in 1993’s Sleepless in Seattle.  (Those of you under age 30 will be at a disadvantage with this hint and yes, that is intentional.  You’re too young and pretty.  I have to make things fair somehow.)

Have I told you about Bella Voce?   Because it’s the coolest thing I do.  Which is hardly an impressive distinction, I know, considering the level of my Cool Barometer, but that won’t stop me from bragging about it.  Bella Voce is an authors series sponsored by the Sterling Wealth Management Group, which is run by Sterling Bank, which is where my hubby’s business banks.  (Did you follow that?  Me neither.)  One of his partners, Lisa, holds three tickets to the tri-annual event and uses them as a marketing tool and fun perk for her many clients and colleagues.  A  couple of years ago, Lisa–being the kind and generous rock star that she is–offered the third ticket to me, indefinitely.  Her reasoning for sacrificing one of the coveted spots to a no-name gal east of the Gorge?  She knew I liked to read, and she thought that I’d enjoy it.  That’s all; that’s the way warm and thoughtful Lisa thinks.  So thanks to her, I get to bypass the long waiting list and high ticket price and, three days each year, I get to shimmy over to downtown Portland to sit in a beautiful ballroom, eat wonderful food, meet wonderful people, and listen to various New York Times bestselling authors talk about life as a writer.  If you think it sounds like a Pretentious Wannabe’s Dream Come True, you are absolutely right.  I gulp down this opportunity like a Tri-Citian does her Slurpees and let me tell you, even the Cherry Fanta doesn’t go down as smooth.  Bella Voce is interesting and exciting and genteel.  It’s enough to make a housewife smile.

Here’s me and my tablemate, Judi, after listening to Elizabeth Berg last year, who was charming and funny and really needs to be My New Best Friend.  (If only I could make her see.)  I have no photos with Lisa, as she is always behind the camera in her signature self-deprecation, making sure everyone else looks great and has fun.  I, on the other hand, will grasp at any photographic evidence of me doing Something Cool.  (I fear this speaks volumes about my insecurities, but…whatev.  Take the picture, get the flowers in it.)

Some of the other writers who’ve come are Lisa See, Ivan Doig, Anita Shreve, Cheryl Strand (I was glad to miss that one; email me if you want to know why), Heidi Durrow and, believe it or not, the great Ann Patchett.  (And, believe it or not, I missed the great Ann Patchett because my darling baby sister decided to go and have a darling baby of her own that week and, in spite of myself, I was compelled to go visit said baby and said sister.  Hmph.  Still kinda mad about it.)  (But the baby was darling.  I guess.)

So last week Bella Voce rolled around again, and brought with it the fantastic and formidable Rebecca Skloot, who’s won (and is probably still winning) countless awards for The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks.  Have you read it?  It’s fab.  Beefy and fascinating and fab.  My science-minded friends were enraptured; I was ardently impressed.  This writer knows her stuff.  I was determined to meet her afterward, if only for the purpose of bragging about it on this blog.  (See pp. 2, insecurities.)

As soon as Ms. Skloot left the stage and the lights went up, I beelined to where she stood talking with some bigwigs and slowed down to make my approach seem casual.  Their backs were all turned to me, however, and in a series of unfortunate events, the group began walking away from me just as I was walking toward them, oblivious (I hoped) to my lingering presence several paces behind.  An awkward moment ensued as I quickened my pace a little, trying to catch up with Rebecca and Friends, all of whom were walking–deliberately, it seemed–faster than I could follow, still with their backs turned to me, still ignoring my desperate attempt to infiltrate their clique.  Flashbacks from middle school nearly thwarted my mission, but I quickly refocused and continued stalking my prey.  I followed Rebecca silently and shamelessly all the way across the ballroom, until she found a seat behind a draped table with a long line forming in front of it for book signings.  Despite the time I felt we’d already spent together, I had no choice but to redirect my course to the back of the line, even though I was certain none of the ladies in front of me had hunted down Rebecca with the devotion I had.  But in the spirit of the event, I chose Graciousness and quietly waited my turn.  When it came, I worked up the courage to ask for a picture with her.  She agreed and her assistant snapped this dark, terrible shot.  I wish I could say it was not another awkward moment, but it was.  I can’t put my finger on why.  I just felt like a jack-a.

Turns out I looked like one too.  Please forgive the pooch.  I’m blaming winter, the camera angle, and forgetting to wear my Spanx that day.  I am not blaming my own perpetual lack of self-control, thankyouverymuch.  (And those are boots, not my calves!  Please be aware.)  It took a lot of nerve for me to post this pic, and I see my willingness to do so as a mark of emotional growth (read:  giving up the fight.)

Rebecca was polite enough, but I think maybe I’m just getting too old to be a groupie.  Come to think of it, if chasing down writers (instead of a band) for a photo that will impress no one (instead of everyone) causes you to call yourself a “groupie,” then you are definitely too old to be classified as one–no maybe about it.  But hey: I figure with this photo I’ve significantly raised my Cool Barometer–which hasn’t budged since 1995 when I married an engineer–and that’s what it’s really all about.  Afterward, I tempered my awkward Rebecca sighting with a little retail therapy downtown (new Spanx and a new skirt were first to be purchased), and that put all things aright.  And I still had a blast at this event, and I still think Lisa hangs the moon, and I still can’t wait for the next one in May.

And can you guess whose coming to lunch in May?  Leave your answer in the comment section; whoever guesses correctly gets a free copy of his (hint!) book.  I haven’t read it yet so I make no claims about the content, but let’s just say that it’s a runaway bestseller with a pretty, pretty cover.  And a title that every middle-aged woman can relate to.  In fact, so excited am I about this book, that whoever wins it will also receive a framed 16×20 picture of me, Rebecca, and my gut.  Just to sweeten the deal–and remind you who your Great Spanxless Benefactress is.

Years ago, my sister gave me a leather bookmark with this quote on it.  It’s one of the few things I’ve never lost over the years, not because of any special care on my part but because, I’ve decided, this bookmark was meant to be with me always.  Through move after move and mess after mess, the little brown scrap always stayed true, disappearing for weeks and months at a time only to pop up unexpectedly as I unpacked another box of books in another strange apartment.  And every time I felt its pliable softness against my tired and grubby fingers, I smiled.  Partly because it reminds me of my younger days (you know what a sentimental slob I am), but mostly because the statement is so true.  With our last move, I finally gave it the coveted kitchen-bulletin-board real estate it deserves.  See, it hangs just above our City of Kennewick Waste Management Coupons (i.e., dump passes), which are basically the most important documents in our home.  That’s some serious bookmark love.

 Wisdom begins in wonder.  If I had a life motto, I hope this would be it.  Because it explains how we won’t understand anything–won’t want to understand anything–until we humble ourselves before the miracle of that thing.  Information and art, people and places, the material and the abstract–all are gifts; questions that offer us the thrill of discovery in answering them.  How would we experience our world without a sense of wonder?  I think we’d worry only about what we can see, and grasp, and possess.  I think we’d try to understand only the things that are easy to understand; I think we’d stop trying when the understanding required too much of us.  Instead of looking beyond, I think we’d settle for looking around.  And instead of looking within, we’d seek affirmation without.  Losing our sense of wonder would mean valuing things only for what they mean to us–can do for us–in the here and now.  No seeking the possibility, no faith in the potential.  Without a sense of wonder, we’d put stock in Many Things with little regard for Everything.

Some days, I’m guilty of all of the above.  Some days, I burn through the clock irritated and insecure, egotistical and envious, petty and prideful.  On those days I learn nothing, because I’m too busy competing, comparing, looking around, to stop and look beyond–beyond the dumpster passes and up to Mr. Socrates.  But if I can do that–if I can set my sights just a little bit higher–then next I can look past my dirty kitchen and unfinished garage, past my lengthening to-do-list and my post-forty figure, past my sorry old self and my sorry lot in life, past the dripping sink and the messy table and the dusty blinds and the dustier windowsills and the clouded glass and then, then, I can see out, out into the white winter day that came with our first snowstorm of the year.  Then, I can see the wonder in this:

and this

and this

and this and this and this

and of course, this.

And with such wonders all around me, I’ll recall what another smart guy (named Albert something-or-other) once said:  “There are only two ways to live your life.  One is as though nothing is a miracle.  The other is as though everything is a miracle.”  And I’ll understand that I have a choice to make.  And when I see things like this

I’ll choose everything.