Monday, February 28, 2011

The "Unholy Trinity"

6:48 a.m. The winter world outside my kitchen cold and dark as I prepare my coffee and warm the children’s milk. They sit sleepily at the kitchen table. Slurp, slurp goes their milk. The coffee pot burps and sizzles. "Ernesto, wanna play Guess Who?" Six-and-a-half year-old Gloria slides off her chair, darts into the playroom, and is back again not two seconds later, her new game in hand, and they're off!  Bing!  As if someone put quarters in their backs and toggled their "on" buttons. I continue my slower metamorphosis into waking life, cream into coffee, bleary-eyed email check, spam deletion, unfurling of the newspaper from its plastic cocoon……

"Ernesto! Stop it! No!! Ernesto, I said STOP IT!" My head snaps up to see three-and-a-half year-old Ernesto sprawled across the kitchen table, attempting to spy on Gloria's “secret card” - the one that is supposed to remain hidden from view as they take turns asking questions, trying to figure out who is the other player's "mystery person." I also see karate-girl, Gloria, straight-arming her brother at the forehead as he struggles onward in hot pursuit of a cheater's Pyrrhic victory. This is not good.  As I see it, I have three options: (1) Do nothing and see how the interaction plays itself out; (2) Intervene calmly and work with them to resolve their conflict; or (3) Give in to my early-morning, not quite awake irritation, raise my voice, and tell them to knock it off.  After one more sip of coffee and a quick prayer, I step into the fray. "Ernesto," I say, aiming for the ideal calm-but-firm tone, "Please respect Gloria's words and sit down on your bottom."  No response. Boy struggles onward, karate-girl increases the force of her arm against his head, her eyes silently pleading with me to do something. I repeat myself.  Nothing changes.  Something snaps inside. I feel angry and helpless.  I am not really ready for this day to begin, let alone to work at parenting them.  I just want this to be over. I just want to enjoy my coffee. I just want them to get along and play their game. So, what do I do? I SCREAM, of course. "ERNESTO! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!!!!!" Ernesto jerks back into his seat.  Gloria sits wide-eyed and waiting, relieved but wary. There is silence beyond deepest silence, followed by the heart-breaking rasp of little-boy sobs.  I feel empty.  I envision my life force, expelled by my scream, aerosolized, and now slowly raining back down onto my children and I.  As I breathe myself back into me, I am conscious of one thought - "Now what?" My heart sinks. Ugh. OK. Triage 101. First, tend to the “mortally wounded.”  I sit down, open my arms, and invite my sad, soggy little boy into them. "I am sorry I screamed at you.” I say. “I am so sorry. That must have been scary, huh?" "Ye-he-he-ess, Mommy, I don't like it you screamed at me-hee-hee..." he says.  "Well, I made a mistake. Mommies make mistakes too. I made a mistake and I am sorry. I will try to do better next time.”  There is silence, then sniffles, but the silence feels different. I can’t really explain it, it is intuitive, but there is a peace in it, and it often indicates that we are in a teachable moment, so I say, “Ernesto, you know what? It is not OK for me to scream at you when I could make a better choice, but I am not the only one who made a bad choice here. I think all three of us can learn from this. I can learn that screaming at you is not the best way to help you learn. But, do you know why I screamed?" I ask. "No," he replies. "Well, I was angry that you were trying to see Gloria's cards – that is not a fair way to play the game - and you weren't respecting her words – she asked you to stop twice – and you didn’t stop, and you weren’t respecting my words, and that made me angry too.  I asked you to sit down in your chair, and you didn’t do what I asked. So, I can learn to not yell at you, but you can learn from this too. You can learn to try and follow the rules of the game and to listen to your sister and respect her words." As he quietly ponders, I turn to my daughter next and say, "And, you can learn from this too.  What do you think about the way you were touching your brother?  Is it OK to push your brother's head like that when you don't like what he is doing?" I ask. "No,” she mumbles. “That's right. So, what do you think you could do next time he doesn't listen to you, instead of pushing him?"  "Ask for help,” she replies. "That is one option. And it could be a good one, but what else? What if no one is right there and able to help you?" She looks at me blank-faced, completely stumped. I try again, "What is the worst thing that could happen if he kept trying to see your cards and you didn't push him away?" I ask.  Her face and voice flash with pent up anger and frustration as she blurts, "He would see who my mystery person is! And, then that would be cheating!  And, I would be angry and not want to play with him anymore!" She sinks back into her chair.  “Exactly. Natural consequences, right?  And, then, he might learn a lesson. He might learn why it is important to follow the rules of the game, not cheat, and respect other people's words, right?" She nods.  She wants a hug too, so there we are, as the sun rises over the backyard hedges, the “unholy trinity” wedged in one chair, in a single, soggy, pretzely embrace.

Later, many times over, I replay the scenes in my mind and ask myself:  Why did I flash with anger?  Why did I scream at my son?  Did I really need to intervene? Should I have stayed out of it?  Should I have allowed Ernesto to encounter his lesson in a different way?  As Mark Twain said, “A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.”[1] I rewind the scenes again, and this time, I replay them like one of those "choose your own adventure"[2] novels.  If I had taken a different path and had not "violently" intervened, I see Ernesto continue in his struggle to spy Gloria's card, she continues to push him, he sees the card, she gets angry, screams at him, ends the game.  Perhaps he learns his lesson, but, just as likely, he doesn't really learn anything, and just feels anger towards his sister, or even triumph in having viewed her secret card, a reward for his deviousness. Or, they continue to struggle and my karate-girl escalates the physical violence and hurts him, then he quits the game, and they learn only the same old lesson about the consequences of trying to resolve conflict through physical force. Compared with those potential outcomes, ours seems preferable.  Nevertheless, I am left with an emotional hangover of regret.  Why?  I rewind the scenes once again, and this time I see something new, something that might be obvious to you, but was not clear to me until I wrote it all out:  Because I “lost it,” and yelled at my child, what might have been just another sibling conflict became an opportunity for all of us – the “unholy trinity” – to learn.  Like my children, I have a chance to learn through the experience my own "natural consequences.”  These consequences were the guilt and regret I suffered after screaming at my child.  After reflecting on my behavior, here are the lessons I hope to carry with me:  (1) Raising my voice to get the children’s attention can be an acceptable choice, but next time, instead of singling out one child, I hope to remember to say something neutral, like "Freeze!”[3]; (2) When I engage in the work of parenting my children, I am not just teaching them, the process is teaching me and, if I am open and aware, I will receive valuable lessons; and (3) Guilt and regret can be helpful cues that a lesson is available for me, but once I identify the lesson, I can let go of those feelings, let the past be in the past, and move on to the next chapter in the adventure.


Photo credit:  http://www.littlebeanonline.com/

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Tuesday, February 1, 2011

The Parable of the Y-Wing Starfighter


My three year-old son sits on the playroom couch with his beloved white and yellow Lego Star Wars Y-Wing Starfighter - Anakin Skywalker's ship.  I watch as he carefully removes the plastic dome that sits over Anakin's Padawan or Jedi Apprentice, Ashoka, and then tries to fold up the plastic canopy that shields Anakin's cockpit. The plastic canopy comes off entirely.  "Mommy! Help! It's not working!!!" I have observed this scene before.  I know exactly what he needs to do to get the result he seeks, and I have shown him how to do it – to hold the canopy in place with his fingers to provide a counter-weight so it will not pop off.  Why won't he just do it?!  I take a deep breath. "Would you like some help?" I ask.  "Yes!" He says.  I feel oddly relieved. I was expecting more of a fight. He is three after all.  "Do you remember how I showed you to hold down here, on these two gray spots, to keep the canopy from coming off?" I ask, as I demonstrate again, for the third or fourth time this week. "Yes, I remember. But, I don't want to do it that way.  My way will work. It worked before . . . . . Once. . . . "  I feel momentarily exasperated by his stubborn refusal to do it my way – my way works every time, but as I look at him so patiently and diligently trying to recreate that one success, I feel a combination of pride and amusement as well.  I stifle a laugh, arch my eyebrows into what I hope is a slightly comical expression and say in what I hope is a neutral tone (i.e., devoid of sarcasm),[1] “So let me see if I understand what you are saying – your way has worked one time, and failed about one hundred times, but you still want to do it your way?”  He looks up from his Y-Wing as I continue, “You realize that what you are doing is Albert Einstein’s definition of insanity – doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.”  Even as this comes out my mouth, I am beginning to question my approach to this situation.  I am not speaking to an adult, after all, but to a three year-old boy.  My comment about Einstein was really for my own benefit – it amused me to recall it, to see its truth illustrated before me in the actions of my son.  I begin to worry that he may not understand my comment and feel disconnected from me – put down.  But then, his eyes twinkle, he chuckles merrily, and repeats, “It did work – once,” and quietly resumes his efforts.  Off comes the canopy, “Ah!”  He grunts in frustration.  Both my emotions and fingers are itching to control his behavior now.  I watch myself, mindful of my feelings, still a bit irritated that he is not listening to me.  I flash back to my own childhood.  I see myself as a young girl, determined to do something my way. I see my Dad, a well-meaning German-American physician, a staunch believer that there is “the one right way” to do things in this world, instructing me on how to do it right.  I see my clumsy little fingers trying to do it his way, still failing, wanting so much both to please him and to just do it my own way – right or wrong.  I see my teary refusal to pursue his method, the frustration on his face, his displeasure and disappointment with me.  I see him walking angrily away from me, leaving me to struggle alone. [2] Maybe there is a different way, I think to myself, as I continue to watch my boy.  My reverie is interrupted by his excited little voice.  “I know!”  He exclaims, “It is not working because today is not Sunday.”  For a moment, I think my son has just made one of those goofy, little-kid leaps into magical thinking that has no basis in reality, but then my mind is whirring, trying to make a connection.  Yes, he was playing with this toy on Sunday.  Perhaps his one success doing it his way occurred then and his new hypothesis is that his method works only on that day.  Perhaps this also is an opportunity for him to save face and for us to move beyond our power struggle and into a place where we can really play.  “Oh, yes,” I say (again, studiously devoid of sarcasm), “That’s the problem.  Your way will not work because today is Thursday.”  I look into his sweet face.  His eyes are twinkling again, and once again he chuckles.  He flips up Anakin’s canopy and off it pops.  “Oops!  Not Sunday!”  I say with a laugh.  He giggles.  We replace the canopy.  He flips up Anakin’s canopy again and off it pops.  “Oops!  Not Sunday!”  We say in unison.  We both giggle.  Over and over again we do this, because everything is funnier when it is repeated at least three times,[3] and by the time we are done, he has laughed so hard he has given himself the hiccups.  I feel cleansed by the laughter.  I am enjoying my son.  We sit and examine the Y-Wing.  We talk about the physics of counter-weights.  We try out different Lego pieces to see if they provide sufficient counter-weight to Anakin’s canopy (they do not), which leads to a discussion of the different surface areas and shapes of the various Lego pieces.  We are in a lovely flow of play and learning.  He is so teachable in this moment.  It is a high point in my day as a parent.

Later, I reflect on this interaction, wondering what general principles of parenting and human interaction I can take away from it.  What I see is that my son had permission to be his stubborn, three year-old self.  He had permission to succeed or fail on his own.  When he chose to pursue a course that I was fairly confident would lead to failure, I let him do it despite my desire to force him to do it my way, and in the end, we both succeeded, not by proving that either way was the “right” way, but by maintaining our connection to one another. 





[1] Although it can be hard to resist at times, I try to refrain from using sarcasm with my children.  At their ages (6 and 3), they really do not understand it, but they sense they are being ridiculed.  It is no coincidence that the word “sarcasm” comes from the Greek word sarkasmos, meaning to tear flesh.
[2] To his credit, my Dad recognized this dynamic between us.  For my birthday one year, he gave me a framed embroidery that he had secretly completed himself, depicting a bird and a mouse.  The blue bird patiently demonstrates flapping its wings to fly, while the mouse glides downward holding a daisy as a parachute.  He had carefully stitched my name across the mouse’s chest.
[3] This clip from "The Simpsons" provides one of my favorite examples of this rule of humor:

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Friday, January 28, 2011

Tiger Mothering

Parenting choices are exquisitely personal.  Differences in philosophy and application are as touchy as the classic “hush, hush” topics of politics, religion, and sex.  In our democratic culture, most of us aspire to hold a “live and let live” attitude when it comes to different parenting choices and philosophies, but most parents I know are deeply invested in their own parenting style and often, whether consciously or unconsciously, judge other parents’ choices to be inferior to their own.  Most often we keep our judgments to ourselves and say, “what ever works for each family is fine, as long as it is not abusive.”  This détente keeps the peace until someone like Amy Chua comes along, with a book like “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother,” and a splashy newspaper headline, “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior,”[1] which has generated death threats, hundreds of e-mails, more than 6,600 comments on the Wall Street Journal’s website, and numerous blog entries. (Kate Zernike, “Retreat of the Tiger Mother,” New York Times, 14 Jan. 2011 http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/16/fashion/16Cultural.html).

There is a remarkable amount of fodder for controversy in Ms. Chua’s article,[2] but the key concept I would like to explore is the role of coercion in parenting.  One vignette in Ms. Chua’s book, which she considers to be, “a story in favor of coercion,” describes her method of “motivating” her seven year-old daughter to perfect a challenging piano piece called “The Little White Donkey.”  Her daughter struggles with the piece, working on it “nonstop for a week,” until she finally announces that she is “giving up.”  Her mother responds by ordering her back to the piano, and when the daughter resists, Ms. Chua threatens to donate her dollhouse to the Salvation Army piece by piece if she doesn’t have the song perfected by the next day.  When the daughter continues to resist, she is threatened with, “no lunch, no dinner, no Christmas or Hanukkah presents, no birthday parties for two, three, four years.”  This is followed by ridicule and name-calling/shaming.  Ms. Chua continues to work with her daughter “through dinner and into the night,” not allowing her daughter to get up, “not for water, not even to go to the bathroom.”  Eventually, her daughter “gets it,” and all is well.  Her daughter successfully performs the piece at a recital, receives much praise, and eventually plays Carnegie Hall, which further reinforces Ms. Chua’s perspective that coercive parenting methods lead to filial success.  Ms. Chua concludes that, “Western parents are extremely anxious about their children’s self-esteem . . . . Chinese parents aren’t.  They assume strength, not fragility, and as a result they behave very differently.”  (Chua, “Why Chinese Mother’s Are Superior”).

Here are my thoughts on the use of coercion in parenting:

The definition of the word “coerce” is:  “1. To force to act or think in a certain way by use of pressure, threats, or intimidation; compel. 2. To dominate, restrain, or control forcibly . . . .”  (The American Heritage Dictionary, 2000 at 358).  Coercion works in the short-term.  I probably use coercion to some extent almost every day in my parenting.  However, I am conscious when I use it and selective about the types of situations in which I deploy this “weapon.”  For example, I might use coercion when my goal is to try and change my child’s behavior quickly and for the short-term:  “Ernesto, if you put your feet on the dinner table again, dinnertime will be over for you.”  I realize this is not ideal parenting, but it is effective in the short term.  I want quick results and the threat of banishment from the table and a less-than full tummy inspires nearly instant obedience with minimal consequences to my child’s long-term self-esteem.  It is what I call “short hand” parenting, and I use it most often when I am tired and not willing to invest the effort in discussing the issue with my child.  Once my child changes his or her behavior, and I have a moment to reflect (and if I have the energy), I usually will follow up with an explanation as to why it is important to me that certain behavioral norms are respected in our home.  In this way, I at least try to provide some context to the threat, in the hope that understanding will lead to more lasting compliance.  However, unlike Ms. Chua, I would never use coercion to “motivate” my child to acquire a new skill, or work to improve or perfect an activity, because I believe that form of motivation is counterproductive to my long-term parenting goal of raising a fully flourishing human.

This begs the questions, what were Ms. Chua’s long term parenting goals and what, exactly, are mine, and how similarly or differently would she and I define “success” as parents and as humans?  What is a flourishing life, after all?  Is it performing in Carnegie Hall?  If so, how much of that child’s “success” is grounded in the need to be viewed as successful in the eyes of others?  Is “fame” the end toward which we should all aspire?  I do not believe so.  In fact, I believe such a view can lead to deep frustration, disappointment, and paradoxically low self-esteem, which are not typically the emotional building blocks of a flourishing life.

In my opinion, the flourishing life is a life full of rich relationships; one of deep communion with one’s self, a Higher Power, and other living things, especially other human beings.  The flourishing life is one in which I cultivate my talents, experience the love of others, and give my energy and love in return, and none of this is likely to occur if I live a life driven by the need for external reward or by the fear of disappointing my parents and losing their love and respect.

That said, I am willing to admit that coercion works better with some children than others, and may work better in some cultures than others.  The Russian social psychologist, Lev Vygotsky, investigated child development and the role of culture and interpersonal communication on that development.  Vygotsky observed how higher mental functions developed historically within particular cultural groups, as well as individually through social interactions with significant people in a child's life, particularly parents, but also other adults. He believed that it is through these social interactions that a child comes to learn and internalize the habits of mind of his or her culture, including speech patterns, written language, and other symbolic knowledge. He called this interplay of culture and development “cultural mediation.”  The specific knowledge gained by children through these interactions also represented the shared knowledge of a culture.  He noted that although cultural mediation and internalization occur in all cultures, cultures might differ in the goals of development.  (Wikipedia, Lev Vygotsky, (visited on Jan. 21, 2011) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lev_Vygotsky.)  For example, in America, we value “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”  We value independence over interdependence.  Thus, we are more likely to model independence and, if our goal is for our children to develop in alignment with those values, it may behoove Americans to parent through collaboration with their children rather than coercion of them.  Chinese culture, by contrast, values “fate, duty, and the pursuit of interdependence?”[3]
As Confucius wrote, in The Analects:  Book III:

In the world, there are two great decrees:  one is fate and the other is duty.  That a son should love his parents is fate—you cannot erase this from his heart.  That a subject should serve his ruler is duty—there is no place he can go and be without his ruler, no place he can escape to between heaven and earth.  These are called the great decrees.  (Ibid.)


Is it possible that use of coercion by Chinese parents is more effective with their children because it is woven into the fabric of the culture?  As members of Western civilization, we assume that the desirability of individual choice and personal freedom are inherent in humankind.  However, “just as the idealized values of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness have shaped the motivation of Americans for centuries, contrasting cultural ideals might have shaped the motivational contexts of other societies quite differently.”  (Ibid.) 

In their study entitled, “Rethinking the Value of Choice:  A Cultural Perspective on Intrinsic Motivation,” Sheena Iyengar and Mark Lepper concluded that, while Anglo-American children perform better and show greater intrinsic motivation on tasks when given a choice of which task to perform, Asian-American children perform better on tasks selected for them by their mothers.  (Ibid. 354).  Ms. Chua never mentions this study, but its findings offer support for her parenting style in the context of her Asian-American family.  She does, however, identify an aspect of the cultural difference between American and Chinese parents when she states, “Chinese parents believe that their kids owe them everything.  The reason for this is a little unclear, but it’s probably a combination of Confucian filial piety and the fact that parents have sacrificed and done so much for their children . . . . [T]he understanding is that Chinese children must spend their lives repaying their parents by obeying them and making them proud.”[4]   (Chua, “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior”.)

Despite our cultural differences, there is a point on which Ms. Chua and I agree:  “One of the worst things you can do for your child’s self-esteem is to let them give up.  On the flip side, there’s nothing better for building confidence then learning you can do something you thought you couldn’t.”  (Ibid.)  But, when children face challenges and want to quit, coercion is not the only way to motivate them to persevere.  My approach to parenting is different because I do not believe that using coercion to “motivate” my children will be as effective for their long-term development of higher cognitive, social, spiritual/emotional skills as are other methods of inspiring/instilling self-regulation. 

One method I use, which I only recently discovered has a technical term, supported by peer-reviewed research, is “invitational learning.” This method presumes that children are “valuable and responsible persons who have untapped potential” and it is the parents’ (or teachers’) role to invite development. [5]  This is achieved by leading the child into the “zone of proximal development” or “ZPD.”  The ZPD is “the range of tasks that a child can complete independently and those completed with the guidance and assistance of adults or more skilled children.” Or, “the difference between the learner’s actual development and potential level of development with guidance.” (Ibid.)  As a child proceeds through the ZPD, the parent, teacher, or older child, assists them in the development of self-regulating behaviors.  For example, if the goal is that my child learn how to persevere with a difficult task until it is completed, I might attempt one or more of the following methods of guiding them through the ZPD:  In the moment, acknowledge the challenge and my child’s difficult feelings about it; tell a story about when I faced something similar as a child, felt the same way, persevered and completed it, and felt a great sense of accomplishment as a result; ask my child if he or she would like suggestions on how to approach/solve the task; model encouraging “self-talk”; suggest taking a short break with the understanding that the child will return to the task later; if I am getting cues that the child’s energy is waning, ask if the child is hungry,  and, if so, encourage them to have a snack to nourish the body and help it be at its best for facing the challenge.  If all of that fails, and my child chooses to quit, I can express my disappointment with the decision, but reassure my child that I love them, and reinforce that if, after a break, he or she is willing to attempt the task again, I would be happy to help.  According to Vygotsky, and my own belief and experience, learning and internalizing these self-regulating behaviors enables a learner to gradually perform without assistance, and to do so with their self-esteem intact.  (Ibid.)  

Interestingly, one week after Ms. Chua’s article appeared in the Journal, author and mother, Ayelet Waldman, published a response entitled, “In Defense of the Guilty, Ambivalent, Preoccupied Western Mom.”  (Ayelet Waldman, Wall Street Journal, 15 Jan. 2011http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703333504576080422577800488.html).  In this article, Ms. Waldman offers a counterpoint vignette; she shares the story of her mildly dyslexic daughter, who in second grade (approximately the same age as Ms. Chua’s daughter), was lagging far behind her classmates in reading.  Her parents discovered a special intensive reading program, “It sounded awful, but Rosie insisted on doing it . . . . At the end of a grim an brutal month, Rosie learned to read.  Not because we forced her to drill and practice and repeat, not because we dragged her kicking and screaming, or denied her food, or kept her from using the bathroom, but because she forced herself . . . . What’s more, she came out of the experience with a sense of herself as a powerful, tenacious person . . . .”  (Ibid.) 

That is a story in favor of “invitational learning.”  Rosie was given an option to challenge herself and improve her skills.  She chose to do so, and her parents supported her choice.  She succeeded and felt powerful.  When we parent by coercion, our children may “succeed,” but where is the locus of power?  It seems to me they will learn only how powerful others are.  They may acquire the skill, but along with it the ingrained belief that they could not have succeeded without the “support”/power/force of another.  No matter the “success” they may be left with a deep, uneasy sense of unworthiness and insecurity, as well as an intense fear of failure.  Thus, in response to Ms. Chua’s statement:  “Western parents are extremely anxious about their children’s self-esteem . . . . Chinese parents aren’t.  They assume strength, not fragility, and as a result they behave very differently.”  I say:  “Yes, I am very concerned about my children’s self-esteem and, like Chinese parents, I assume strength, but if I parent through coercion, I fear that they will become quite fragile indeed.”



[1] Amy Chua, “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior,” Wall Street Journal, 8 Jan. 2011.http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html
[2] Ms. Chua states, in response to harsh criticism from readers that, “much of my book is tongue-in-cheek, making fun of myself.”  (Amy Chua, “The Tiger Mother Talks Back,” Wall Street Journal, 15 Jan. 2011).http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703583404576080032661117462.html
[3] Sheena S. Iyengar & Mark R. Lepper, “Rethinking the Value of Choice:  A Cultural Perspective on Intrinsic Motivation,” Journal of Personal and Social Psychology, (1999) Vol. 76, No. 3, 349-366, at 365.http://www.columbia.edu/~ss957/articles/Rethinking_the_Value_of_Choice.pdf
[4] Nevertheless, I continue to question the long-term affects of coercive parenting on the self-esteem and self-motivation of Asian-American children born to immigrant parents and raised in the United States.  Anecdotal evidence from my Asian-American friends and many of the responses on the Journal’s website indicate that coercive parenting styles employed here often result in lower self-esteem, risk aversion, fear of failure, and for Asian-American women, ages 15-24, the highest suicide rate of women in any race or ethnic group in that age group.  In fact, suicide is the second-leading cause of death for Asian-American women in that age range. Asian-American women also have the highest suicide rate among women 65 or older (1.6 times higher than Anglo-American women in that age group). (http://www.surgeongeneral.gov/library/calltoaction/fact7.htm); http://minorityhealth.hhs.gov/templates/content.aspx?ID=6476; “Push to Achieve Tied to Suicide in Asian-American Women,” at http://articles.cnn.com/2007-05-16/health/asian.suicides_1_asian-american-families-asian-women-asian-american-parents?_s=PM:HEALTH.
[5] Stuart T. Haines, PharmD, “The Mentor-Protégé Relationship,” American Journal of Pharmaceutical Education, 2003; 67 (3) Article 82, at 5; see also http://www.ajpe.org/aj6703/aj670382/aj670382.pdf.  
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