I don’t mind slacking.

It is good to relax and just take a deep breath and soak up life. What I don’t like is wasting time, having my time or my son’s time wasted, or wasting someone else’s time. I’ve been to countless scout meetings over the years where I just scratch my head and wonder what the heck is going on. We have to make the most out of that slice of life we dedicate to scouting.

I think we all sense the increased level of competitiveness in the world. It affects everyone, from soccer moms & global industrialists to surfer dudes and Buddhist monks. Too many people competing for too few resources (the world population has doubled from 3B people to just over 6B from 1950 to 2009!). The divide between the ‘haves’ and ‘have nots’ continues to grow throughout the world, inevitably increasing tensions and conflict. Life is just more complicated now. I know it is a matter of life choices in many regards, but again, I think everyone in the world is impacted by advances in computers, medicine, communications, and on the negative side, the spread of diseases, harmful ideologies, and evil beings.  Unquestionably, Baden Powell would have wanted scouting to prepare our youth for this changing world. It wasn’t just camping he was talking about when he created the scout motto.

We want our kids to enjoy life and their childhood and step off on their own with a feeling of hope and optimism. Parenting skills can provide them with the love and wisdom they need as a foundation, we shouldn’t tamper with that. It’s the other areas, like school, lessons/practices, and scouting that we need to constantly optimize to help our kids face the challenges of this new world. Doing it with each other’s help is so much more efficient.

Every morning in Africa a gazelle wakes up. It knows it must move faster than the lion or it will not survive. Every morning a lion wakes up and it knows it must move faster than the slowest gazelle or it will starve. It doesn’t matter if you are the lion or the gazelle, when the sun comes up, you better be moving.

I was listening to NPR the other night and heard this very well-spoken guest discuss her views on bringing up kids. She says they should be GEEKS - genuine, enthusiastic, empowered kids.  ”Cool is killing our kids’ spirits, trapping them in an empty media-driven culture.  Making them grow up too fast, too jaded … too cool.”

Worth the time to listen, here’s the link:

http://www.onpointradio.org/shows/2008/07/bringing-up-geeks/

Read the comments on this page as well. The pro’s and con’s of her message are also interesting.

Nature Deficit Disorder

Kids from the ages of 8 to 18 spend about six hours a day plugged into TVs, computers, video games and other media, according to a 2005 Kaiser Family Foundation study. I suppose with the advent of social networking, this may have gone up more since the study was conducted.

Nature Deficit Disorder is a term coined by Richard Louv in his 2005 book, Last Child in the Woods. If you have not heard it by now, it refers to the alleged trend that children are spending less time outdoors, resulting in a wide range of behavioral problems. Computers, television, and video games compete for a kid’s time, but it’s also the parent’s fear of traffic, strangers, even mosquitoes that keep kids indoors.

Here’s another decent NPR story on NDD if any interest:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4665933

From yet another angle, here’s an article I recently read in The Economist regarding kids today. Very insightful.

The net generation

The kids are alright

The man who christened the “net generation” in his 1997 bestseller, “Growing Up Digital”, has no time for such views. In the past two years, Don Tapscott has overseen a $4.5m study of nearly 8,000 people in 12 countries born between 1978 and 1994. In “Grown Up Digital” he uses the results to paint a portrait of this generation that is entertaining, optimistic and convincing. The problem, he suspects, is not the net generation but befuddled baby-boomers, who once sang along with Bob Dylan that “something is happening here, but you don’t know what it is”, yet now find that they are clueless about the revolutionary changes taking place among the young.

“As the first global generation ever, the Net Geners are smarter, quicker and more tolerant of diversity than their predecessors,” Mr Tapscott argues. “These empowered young people are beginning to transform every institution of modern life.” They care strongly about justice, and are actively trying to improve society—witness their role in the recent Obama campaign, in which they organised themselves through the internet and mobile phones and campaigned on YouTube. Mr Tapscott’s prescient chapter on “The Net Generation and Democracy: Obama, Social Networks and Citizen Engagement” alone should ensure his book a wide readership.

Contrary to the claims that video games, Facebook and constant text-messaging have robbed today’s young of the ability to think, Mr Tapscott believes that “Net Geners” are the “smartest generation ever”. The experience of parents who grew up watching television is misleading when it comes to judging the 20,000 hours on the internet and 10,000 hours playing video games already spent by a typical 20-year-old American today. “The Net Generation is in many ways the antithesis of the TV generation,” he argues. One-way broadcasting via television created passive couch potatoes, whereas the net is interactive, and, he says, stimulates and improves the brain.

There is growing neuroscientific support for this claim. People who play video games, for example, have been found to process complex visual information more quickly. They may also be better at multi-tasking than earlier generations, which equips them better for the modern world.

Mr Tapscott identifies eight norms that define Net Geners, which he believes everyone should take on board to avoid being swept away by the sort of generational tsunami that helped Barack Obama beat John McCain. Net Geners value freedom and choice in everything they do. They love to customise and personalise. They scrutinise everything. They demand integrity and openness, including when deciding what to buy and where to work. They want entertainment and play in their work and education, as well as their social life. They love to collaborate. They expect everything to happen fast. And they expect constant innovation.

These patterns have important implications for the workplace. Employers who ban the use of Facebook in the office—the equivalent of forbidding older staff to use their rolodexes—show clear signs of being out of touch, he argues. Two out of three Net Geners feel that “working and having fun can and should be the same thing”. That does not mean they want to play games all day, but that they want the work itself to be enjoyable. They also expect collaboration, constant feedback and rapid career advancement based on merit. How they will react to being fired en masse as the downturn worsens remains to be seen, but Mr Tapscott suspects they will take it in their stride.

Two things do worry Mr Tapscott. One is the inadequacy of the education system in many countries; while two-thirds of Net Geners will be the smartest generation ever, the other third is failing to achieve its potential. Here the fault is the education, not the internet, which needs to be given a much bigger role in classrooms (real and virtual). The second is the net generation’s lack of any regard for personal privacy, which Mr Tapscott says is a “serious mistake, and most of them don’t realise it.” Already, posting pictures of alcohol fuelled parties, let alone mentioning drug use or other intimate matters, is causing a growing number of job applicants to fail the “reference test” as employers trawl Facebook and MySpace for clues about the character and behaviour of potential employees.

More optimistically, the Net Geners are much more positive than their predecessors about their family. Half of those interviewed regard at least one parent as their “hero”. Mr Tapscott believes the internet is producing an improved, more collaborative version of family life, which he calls the “open family”. Parents increasingly recognise that their youngsters have digital expertise they lack but want to tap, and also that their best defence against their children falling foul of the dark side of the internet, such as online sexual predators, is to win their children’s trust through honest conversation. Ironically, Mr Tapscott’s recommended “platform” for this essential social networking could hardly be more old tech: the family dinner table.

 

 
 The Hard Work of Getting Ahead

BY PHILIP DELVES BROUGHTON,   OCTOBER 29, 2008
 

The story of Tiger Woods is a bane for parents everywhere. There you are spoon-feeding your beloved mashed banana and watching “Bob the Builder” only to realize that, at this age, Woods was already slamming golf balls into the garage door. By the age your child removes the training wheels off his bicycle, Woods was tearing up California’s public courses. And so, you fear, it will go on. If only you were as committed as Earl Woods, Tiger’s father, your children too could be prodigies — gifted, rich, revered. But for simple want of effort on your part, they will be no more than average.

This is one of the grimmer messages of Geoff Colvin’s excellent “Talent Is Overrated.” Mr. Colvin, a writer at Fortune, seeks to explode the notion that the talent contest among human beings ends with their genetic inheritance. Instead, he argues, great performance comes down to one thing more than any other: deliberate practice. He does not mean simply hitting 200 balls on the driving range or mindlessly playing scales at the piano. He means a disciplined focus on weakness and a relentless effort to improve. Such practice, when it is done right, is “highly demanding” and “isn’t much fun.” But it is necessary, not least in the world of business.

 Here is a similar article drawing the same conclusions…

 A gift or hard graft?

We look at outrageously talented and successful people – the Beatles, Mozart, Rockefeller, Bill Gates – and assume there is such a thing as pure genius. Not necessarily, argues Malcolm Gladwell…

The University of Michigan opened its new computer centre in 1971, in a low-slung building on Beal Avenue in Ann Arbor. The university’s enormous mainframe computers stood in the middle of a vast, white-tiled room, looking, as one faculty member remembers, “like one of the last scenes in 2001: A Space Odyssey”. Off to the side were dozens of key-punch machines – what passed in those days for computer terminals. Over the years, thousands of students would pass through that white-tiled room – the most famous of whom was a gawky teenager named Bill Joy.

Joy came to the University of Michigan the year the computer centre opened, at the age of 16. He had been voted “most studious student” by his graduating class at North Framingham high school, outside Detroit, which, as he puts it, meant he was a “no-date nerd”. He had thought he might end up as a biologist or a mathematician, but late in his freshman year he stumbled across the computing centre – and he was hooked.

From then on, the computer centre was his life. He programmed whenever he could. He got a job with a computer science professor, so he could program over the summer. In 1975, Joy enrolled in graduate school at the University of California, Berkeley. There, he buried himself even deeper in the world of computer software. During the oral exams for his PhD, he made up a particularly complicated algorithm on the fly that – as one of his many admirers has written – “so stunned his examiners [that] one of them later compared the experience to ‘Jesus confounding his elders’ “.

Working in collaboration with a small group of programmers, Joy took on the task of rewriting Unix, a software system developed by AT&T for mainframe computers. Joy’s version was so good that it became – and remains – the operating system on which millions of computers around the world run. “If you put your Mac in that funny mode where you can see the code,” Joy says, “I see things that I remember typing in 25 years ago.” And when you go online, do you know who wrote the software that allows you to access the internet? Bill Joy.

After Berkeley, Joy co-founded the Silicon Valley firm Sun Microsystems. There, he rewrote another computer language, Java, and his legend grew still further. Among Silicon Valley insiders, Joy is spoken of with as much awe as Bill Gates. He is sometimes called the Edison of the internet.

The story of Joy’s genius has been told many times, and the lesson is always the same. Here was a world that was the purest of meritocracies. Computer programming didn’t operate as an old-boy network, where you got ahead because of money or connections. It was a wide-open field, in which all participants were judged solely by their talent and accomplishments. It was a world where the best men won, and Joy was clearly one of those best men.

Sport, too, is supposed to be just such a pure meritocracy. But is it? Take ice hockey in Canada: look at any team and you will find that a disproportionate number of players will have been born in the first three months of the year. This, it turns out, is because the cut-off date for children eligible for the nine-year-old, 10-year-old, 11-year-old league and so on is January 1. Boys who are oldest and biggest at the beginning of the hockey season are inevitably the best. And so they get the most coaching and practice, and they get chosen for the all-star team, and so their advantage increases – on into the professional game. A similar pattern applies to other sports. What we think of as talent is actually a complicated combination of ability, opportunity and utterly arbitrary advantage.

Does something similar apply to outliers in other fields, such as Bill Joy? Do they benefit from special opportunities, and do those opportunities follow any kind of pattern? The evidence suggests they do.

In the early 90s, the psychologist K Anders Ericsson and two colleagues set up shop at Berlin’s elite Academy of Music. With the help of the academy’s professors, they divided the school’s violinists into three groups. The first group were the stars, the students with the potential to become world-class soloists. The second were those judged to be merely “good”. The third were students who were unlikely ever to play professionally, and intended to be music teachers in the school system. All the violinists were then asked the same question. Over the course of your career, ever since you first picked up the violin, how many hours have you practised?

Everyone, from all three groups, started playing at roughly the same time – around the age of five. In those first few years, everyone practised roughly the same amount – about two or three hours a week. But around the age of eight real differences started to emerge. The students who would end up as the best in their class began to practise more than everyone else: six hours a week by age nine, eight by age 12, 16 a week by age 14, and up and up, until by the age of 20 they were practising well over 30 hours a week. By the age of 20, the elite performers had all totalled 10,000 hours of practice over the course of their lives. The merely good students had totalled, by contrast, 8,000 hours, and the future music teachers just over 4,000 hours.

The curious thing about Ericsson’s study is that he and his colleagues couldn’t find any “naturals” – musicians who could float effortlessly to the top while practising a fraction of the time that their peers did. Nor could they find “grinds”, people who worked harder than everyone else and yet just didn’t have what it takes to break into the top ranks. Their research suggested that once you have enough ability to get into a top music school, the thing that distinguishes one performer from another is how hard he or she works. That’s it. What’s more, the people at the very top don’t just work much harder than everyone else. They work much, much harder.

This idea – that excellence at a complex task requires a critical, minimum level of practice – surfaces again and again in studies of expertise. In fact, researchers have settled on what they believe is a magic number for true expertise: 10,000 hours.

“In study after study, of composers, basketball players, fiction writers, ice-skaters, concert pianists, chess players, master criminals,” writes the neurologist Daniel Levitin, “this number comes up again and again. Ten thousand hours is equivalent to roughly three hours a day, or 20 hours a week, of practice over 10 years… No one has yet found a case in which true world-class expertise was accomplished in less time. It seems that it takes the brain this long to assimilate all that it needs to know to achieve true mastery.”

This is true even of people we think of as prodigies. Mozart, for example, famously started writing music at six. But, the psychologist Michael Howe writes in his book Genius Explained, by the standards of mature composers Mozart’s early works are not outstanding. The earliest pieces were all probably written down by his father, and perhaps improved in the process. Many of Wolfgang’s childhood compositions, such as the first seven of his concertos for piano and orchestra, are largely arrangements of works by other composers. Of those concertos that contain only music original to Mozart, the earliest that is now regarded as a masterwork (No9 K271) was not composed until he was 21: by that time Mozart had already been composing concertos for 10 years.

To become a chess grandmaster also seems to take about 10 years. (Only the legendary Bobby Fischer got to that elite level in less than that time: it took him nine years.) And what’s 10 years? Well, it’s roughly how long it takes to put in 10,000 hours of hard practice.

Ten thousand hours is, of course, an enormous amount of time. It’s all but impossible to reach that number, by the time you’re a young adult, all by yourself. You have to have parents who are encouraging and supportive. You can’t be poor, because if you have to hold down a part-time job on the side to help make ends meet, there won’t be enough time left over in the day. In fact, most people can really only reach that number if they get into some kind of special programme – like a hockey all-star squad – or get some kind of extraordinary opportunity that gives them a chance to put in that kind of work.

So, back to Bill Joy. It’s 1971 and he’s 16. He’s the maths wiz, the kind of student that schools like MIT, Caltech or the University of Waterloo attract by the hundreds. “When Bill was a little kid, he wanted to know everything about everything way before he should’ve even known he wanted to know,” his father William says. “We answered him when we could. And when we couldn’t, we would just give him a book.” When he applied to college, Joy got a perfect score on the maths portion of the scholastic aptitude test. “It wasn’t particularly hard,” he says, matter-of-factly. “There was plenty of time to check it twice.” He could have gone in any number of directions. He could have done a PhD in biology. He could have gone to medical school. He could easily have had a “typical” college career: lots of schoolwork, football games, drunken fraternity parties, awkward encounters with girls, long discussions with roommates about the meaning of life. But he didn’t, because he stumbled across that nondescript building on Beal Avenue.

In the 70s, when Joy was learning about programming, computers were the size of rooms. A single machine – which might have less power and memory than your microwave – could cost upwards of a million dollars. Computers were hard to get access to, and renting time on them cost a fortune. This was the era when computer programs were created using cardboard “punch” cards. A complex program might include hundreds, if not thousands, of these cards, in tall stacks. Since computers could handle only one task at a time, the operator made an appointment for your program and, depending on how many other people were ahead of you in line, you might not get your cards back for several hours. And if you made even a single error in your program, then you had to take the cards back, track down the error and begin the whole process again. Under those circumstances, it was exceedingly difficult for anyone to become a programming expert. Certainly becoming an expert by your early 20s was all but impossible. “Programming with cards,” one computer scientist from the era remembers, “did not teach you programming. It taught you patience and proofreading.”

That’s where the University of Michigan came in. It was one of the first universities in the world to abandon computer cards for the brand-new system called “time-sharing”. Computer scientists realised you could train a computer to handle hundreds of tasks at the same time. No more punch cards. You could build dozens of terminals, link them all to the mainframe by a telephone line, and have everyone programming – online – all at once.

This was the opportunity that greeted Bill Joy when he arrived on the Ann Arbor campus in the autumn of 1971. “Do you know what the difference is between the computing cards and time-sharing?” Joy says. “It’s the difference between playing chess by mail and speed chess.” Programming wasn’t an exercise in frustration any more. It was fun.

According to Joy, he spent a phenomenal amount of time at the computer centre. “It was open 24 hours. I would stay there all night, and just walk home in the morning. In an average week in those years I was spending more time in the computer centre than on my classes. All of us down there had this recurring nightmare of forgetting to show up for class at all, of not even realising we were enrolled.”

Just look at the stream of opportunities that came Joy’s way. Because he happened to go to a far-sighted school, he was able to practise on a time-sharing system, instead of punch cards; because the university was willing to spend the money to keep the computer centre open 24 hours, he could stay up all night; and because he was able to put in so many hours, by the time he was presented with the opportunity to rewrite Unix, he was up to the task. Bill Joy was brilliant. He wanted to learn – that was a big part of it – but before he could become an expert, someone had to give him the opportunity to learn how to be expert.

At Michigan, I was probably programming eight or 10 hours a day,” he says. “By the time I was at Berkeley, I was doing it day and night… ” He pauses for a moment, to do the maths in his head which, for him, doesn’t take long. “It’s five years,” he says, finally. “So, so, maybe… 10,000 hours? That’s about right.”

Is this a general rule of success? If you scratch below the surface of every great achiever, do you always find the equivalent of the Michigan Computer Centre or the hockey all-star team – some sort of special opportunity for practice? Let’s test the idea with two examples: the Beatles, one of the most famous rock bands ever, and Bill Gates, one of the world’s richest men.

The Beatles – John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr – came to the US in February 1964, starting the so-called “British Invasion” of the American music scene. The interesting thing is how long they had already been playing together. Lennon and McCartney began in 1957. (Incidentally, the time that elapsed between their founding and their greatest artistic achievements – arguably Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and the White Album – is 10 years.) In 1960, while they were still a struggling school rock band, they were invited to play in Hamburg, Germany.

Hamburg in those days did not have rock’n'roll music clubs. It had strip clubs,” says Philip Norman, who wrote the Beatles’ biography, Shout! “There was one particular club owner called Bruno, who was originally a fairground showman. He had the idea of bringing in rock groups to play in various clubs. They had this formula. It was a huge nonstop show, hour after hour, with a lot of people lurching in and the other lot lurching out. And the bands would play all the time to catch the passing traffic. In an American red-light district, they would call it nonstop striptease.

“Many of the bands that played in Hamburg were from Liverpool,” Norman continues. “It was an accident. Bruno went to London to look for bands. But he happened to meet a Liverpool entrepreneur in Soho, who was down in London by pure chance. And he arranged to send some bands over. That’s how the connection was established. And eventually the Beatles made a connection not just with Bruno, but with other club owners as well. They kept going back, because they got a lot of alcohol and a lot of sex.”

And what was so special about Hamburg? It wasn’t that it paid well. (It didn’t.) Or that the acoustics were fantastic. (They weren’t.) Or that the audiences were savvy and appreciative. (They were anything but.) It was the sheer amount of time the band was forced to play. Here is John Lennon, in an interview after the Beatles disbanded, talking about the band’s performances at a Hamburg strip club called the Indra: “We got better and got more confidence. We couldn’t help it with all the experience playing all night long. It was handy them being foreign. We had to try even harder, put our heart and soul into it, to get ourselves over. In Liverpool, we’d only ever done one-hour sessions, and we just used to do our best numbers, the same ones, at every one. In Hamburg we had to play for eight hours, so we really had to find a new way of playing.”

The Beatles ended up travelling to Hamburg five times between 1960 and the end of 1962. On the first trip, they played 106 nights, of five or more hours a night. Their second trip they played 92 times. Their third trip they played 48 times, for a total of 172 hours on stage. The last two Hamburg stints, in November and December 1962, involved another 90 hours of performing. All told, they performed for 270 nights in just over a year and a half. By the time they had their first burst of success in 1964, they had performed live an estimated 1,200 times, which is extraordinary. Most bands today don’t perform 1,200 times in their entire careers. The Hamburg crucible is what set the Beatles apart.

“They were no good on stage when they went there and they were very good when they came back,” Norman says. “They learned not only stamina, they had to learn an enormous amount of numbers – cover versions of everything you can think of, not just rock’n'roll, a bit of jazz, too. They weren’t disciplined on stage at all before that. But when they came back they sounded like no one else. It was the making of them.”

Let’s now turn to the history of Bill Gates. His story is almost as well-known as the Beatles’. Brilliant young maths wiz discovers computer programming. Drops out of Harvard. Starts a little computer company called Microsoft with his friends. Through sheer brilliance, ambition and guts builds it into the giant of the software world.

Now let’s dig a bit deeper. Gates’ father was a wealthy lawyer in Seattle, and his mother was the daughter of a well-to-do banker. As a child Gates was precocious, and easily bored by his studies. So his parents took him out of public school, and at the beginning of seventh grade sent him to Lakeside, a private school that catered to Seattle’s elite families. Midway through Gates’ second year, the school started a computer club. “The Mothers’ Club at school did a rummage sale every year, and there was always the question of what the money would go to,” Gates remembers. “That year, they put $3,000 into buying a computer terminal down in this funny little room that we subsequently took control of. It was kind of an amazing thing.”

Even more remarkable was the kind of computer Lakeside bought: it was an ASR-33 Teletype, a time-sharing terminal with a direct link to a mainframe computer in downtown Seattle. “The whole idea of time-sharing only got invented in 1965,” Gates says. “Someone was pretty forward looking.”

From that moment on, Gates lived in the computer room. He and a number of others began to teach themselves how to use this strange new device. The parents raised more money to buy time on the mainframe computer. The students spent it. As luck would have it, Monique Rona, one of the founders of C-Cubed – a company that leased computer time – had a son at Lakeside, a class ahead of Gates. Would the Lakeside computer club, Rona wondered, like to test out the company’s software programs on the weekends in exchange for free programming time? Absolutely!

Before long, Gates and his friends latched on to another outfit called ISI, which agreed to let them have free computer time in exchange for working on a piece of software that could be used to automate company payrolls. In one seven-month period in 1971, Gates and his cohorts ran up 1,575 hours of computer time on the ISI mainframe, which averages out at eight hours a day, seven days a week.

“It was my obsession,” Gates says of his early high school years. “I skipped athletics. I went up there at night. We were programming on weekends. It would be a rare week that we wouldn’t get 20 or 30 hours in. There was a period where Paul Allen and I got in trouble for stealing a bunch of passwords and crashing the system. We got kicked out. I didn’t get to use the computer the whole summer. This is when I was 15 and 16. Then I found out Paul had found a computer that was free at the University of Washington. They had these machines in the medical centre and the physics department. They were on a 24-hour schedule, but with this big slack period so between three and six in the morning they never scheduled anything.” Gates laughed. “That’s why I’m always so generous to the University of Washington, because they let me steal so much computer time. I’d leave at night, after my bedtime. I could walk up to the university from my house. Or I’d take the bus.” Years later, Gates’ mother said, “We always wondered why it was so hard for him to get up in the morning.”

Through one of the founders of ISI, Gates landed a secondment programming a computer system at the Bonneville Power station in southern Washington State. There, he spent the spring of his senior year writing code.

Those five years, from eighth grade to the end of high school, were Bill Gates’ Hamburg, and by any measure he was presented with an even more extraordinary series of opportunities than Bill Joy. And virtually every one of those opportunities gave Gates extra time to practise. By the time he dropped out of Harvard, he’d been programming nonstop for seven consecutive years. He was way past 10,000 hours. How many teenagers had the kind of experience Gates had? “If there were 50 in the world, I’d be stunned,” he says.

If you put together the stories of hockey players and the Beatles and Bill Joy and Bill Gates, I think we get a more complete picture of the path to success. Joy, Gates and the Beatles are all undeniably talented. Lennon and McCartney had a musical gift, of the sort that comes along once in a generation, and Joy, let us not forget, had a mind so quick that he could make up a complicated algorithm on the fly that left his professors in awe. A good part of that “talent”, however, was something other than an innate aptitude for music or maths. It was desire. The Beatles were willing to play for eight hours straight, seven days a week. Joy was willing to stay up all night programming. In either case, most of us would have gone home to bed. In other words, a key part of what it means to be talented is being able to practise for hours and hours – to the point where it is really hard to know where “natural ability” stops and the simple willingness to work hard begins.

What is so striking about these success stories is that the outliers were the beneficiaries of some kind of unusual opportunity. Lucky breaks don’t seem like the exception with software billionaires, rock bands and star athletes; they seem like the rule.

Recently Forbes Magazine compiled a list of the 75 richest people in history. It includes queens and kings and pharaohs from centuries past, as well as contemporary billionaires such as Warren Buffet and Carlos Slim. However, an astonishing 14 on the list are Americans born within nine years of each other in the mid-19th century. In other words, almost 20% of the names come from a single generation – born between 1831 and 1840 in a single country. The list includes industrialists and financiers who are still household names today: John Rockefeller, born in 1839 (the richest of the lot); Andrew Carnegie, 1835; Jay Gould, 1836; and JP Morgan, 1837.

What’s going on here is obvious, if you think about it. In the 1860s and 1870s, the American economy went through perhaps the greatest transformation in its history. This was when the railways were built, and when Wall Street emerged. It was when industrial manufacturing started in earnest. It was when all the rules by which the traditional economy functioned were broken and remade. What that list says is that it was absolutely critical, if you were going to take advantage of those opportunities, to be in your 20s when that transformation was happening.

If you were born in the late 1840s, you missed it – you were too young to take advantage of that moment. If you were born in the 1820s, you were too old – your mindset was shaped by the old, pre-civil war ways. But there is a particular, narrow nine-year window that was just perfect. All of the 14 men and women on that list had vision and talent. But they also were given an extraordinary opportunity, in the same way that hockey players born in January, February and March were given an extraordinary opportunity.

Let’s do the same kind of analysis for software tycoons such as Bill Joy and Bill Gates.

Veterans of Silicon Valley will tell you that the most important date in the history of the personal computer revolution was January 1975. That was when the magazine Popular Electronics ran a cover story on a machine called the Altair 8800. The Altair cost $397. It was a do-it-yourself contraption that you could assemble at home. The headline on the story read: Project Breakthrough! World’s First Minicomputer Kit To Rival Commercial Models. To readers of Popular Electronics, then the bible of the fledgling software and computer world, that headline was a revelation. Computers up to that point were the massive, expensive mainframes of the sort sitting in the white-tiled expanse of the Michigan computing centre. For years, every hacker and electronics wiz had dreamed of the day when a computer would come along that was small and inexpensive enough for an ordinary person to use and own. That day had finally arrived.

If January 1975 was the dawn of the personal computer age, then who would be in the best position to take advantage of it? If you’re a few years out of college in 1975, and if you have had any experience with programming at all, you would have already been hired by IBM or one of the other traditional, old-line computer firms of that era. You belonged to the old paradigm. You have just bought a house. You’re married. A baby is on the way. You’re in no position to give up a good job and pension for some pie-in-the-sky $397 computer kit. So let’s also rule out all those born before, say, 1952.

At the same time, though, you don’t want to be too young. You can’t seize the moment if you’re still in high school. So let’s also rule out anyone born after, say, 1958. The perfect age to be in 1975, in other words, is young enough to see the coming revolution but not so old as to have missed it. You want to be 20 or 21, born in 1954 or 1955.

Let’s start with Gates, the richest and most famous of all Silicon Valley tycoons. When was he born? Bill Gates: October 28 1955. The perfect birthdate. Gates is the hockey player born on January 1.

Gates’s best friend at Lakeside was Paul Allen. He also hung out in the computer room with Gates, and shared those long evenings at ISI and C-Cubed. Allen went on to found Microsoft with Gates. Paul Allen: January 21 1953.

The third richest man at Microsoft is the one who has been running the company on a day-to-day basis since 2000 – one of the most respected executives in the software world, Steve Ballmer. Steve Ballmer: March 24 1956.

And let’s not forget a man every bit as famous as Gates, Steve Jobs, the co-founder of Apple Computer. He wasn’t from a rich family, like Gates, and he didn’t go to Michigan, like Joy. But it doesn’t take much investigation of his upbringing to realise that he had his Hamburg, too. He grew up in Mountain View California, just south of San Francisco, which is the absolute epicentre of Silicon Valley. His neighbourhood was filled with engineers from Hewlett-Packard, then, as now, one of the most important electronics firms in the world. As a teenager he prowled the flea markets of Mountain View, where electronics hobbyists and tinkerers sold spare parts. Jobs came of age breathing the air of the very business he would later dominate. He picked the brains of Hewlett-Packard engineers and once even called Bill Hewlett, one of the company’s founders, to request parts. Jobs not only received the parts he wanted, he managed to wangle a summer job. He worked on an assembly line to build computers and was so fascinated that he tried to design his own… Steve Jobs was born on February 24 1955.

Another of the pioneers of the software revolution was Eric Schmidt. He ran Novell, one of Silicon Valley’s most important software firms, and in 2001 became the chief executive officer of Google. He was born on April 27 1955.

I don’t mean to suggest, of course, that every software tycoon in Silicon Valley was born in 1955. But there are very clearly patterns here, and what’s striking is how little we seem to want to talk about them. We pretend that success is a matter of individual merit. That is not the whole story. These are stories about people who were given a special opportunity to work really hard and seized it, and who happened to come of age at a time when that extraordinary effort was rewarded by the rest of society. Their success was not of their own making. It was a product of the world in which they grew up. Their success, in other words, wasn’t due to some mysterious process known only to themselves. It had a logic, and if we can understand that logic, think of all the tantalising possibilities that opens up.

By the way, let’s not forget Bill Joy. Had he been just a little bit older and had to face the drudgery of programming with computer cards, he says he would have studied science. Bill Joy the computer legend would have been Bill Joy the biologist. In fact, he was born on November 8 1954. And his three fellow founders of Sun Microsystems – one of the oldest and most important of Silicon Valley’s software companies? Scott McNealy: born November 13 1954. Vinod Khosla: born January 28 1955. Andy Bechtolsheim: born June 1955. ·

This is an edited extract from Outliers: The Story Of Success, by Malcolm Gladwell.

The “basic premise,” the study reports, is that “a person is responsible for emissions of his descendents.”

When Mr. Murtaugh runs the numbers, he finds some alarming results. Take an American woman who checks all the green boxes: She recycles, installs energy efficient windows, cuts back how much she drives, and so on. Yet simply by having two children, Prof. Murtaugh reports, she will add nearly 40 times the amount of carbon dioxide emissions she had saved with those lifestyle changes. No wonder the Los Angeles Times Web site reports on this study under the title “Tie Your Tubes and Save the Planet?”

 The president’s science adviser, John Holdren, appears to share Mr. Murtaugh’s worries about too many Americans. In a 1973 article, he argued that “210 million [Americans] now is too many and 280 million in 2040 is likely to be too many.” He concluded that we should encourage women to have fewer children.

 When questioned about this during his confirmation hearings, Mr. Holdren said he no longer thinks it “productive” to focus on the “optimum population” (possibly because America now has 304 million people). But he gave no indication of abandoning the underlying idea that having more Americans is a big problem.

 Little more than a week ago, two British doctors writing in the British Medical Journal made the same point—this time about British babies. Each new birth in the U.K., they note, will end up resulting in 160 times more greenhouse gas emissions than a new birth in Ethiopia.

 Their conclusion? British couples need to be told that having one less child “is the simplest and biggest gift anyone can make” to a habitable planet. Britain, they suggest, needs to promote an “environmental ethics” where having fewer children is “analogous to avoiding patio heaters and high carbon cars.”

 In some ways, this focus on American and British births is an improvement over the previous bout of overpopulation worries. Back in the 1970s, when the experts complained about people having too many children, they meant Chinese, Filipinos, Latin Americans, Africans, et al.

 Many still believe this is so. At least for the moment, however, the American mom who brings a new life into this world seems to be regarded as more of an environmental menace than the Bangladeshi mother who does the same.

There’s a larger trouble with this point of view, of course, and it has nothing to do with the arithmetic. However new-sounding the language about “carbon footprints” may be, what we have here is the same old Malthusian view of people breeding themselves to destruction.

 Mr. Murtaugh may reject this—he stresses in an email that he suggests no policies, offering only “some complicated arithmetic showing the likely effects of an individual’s reproductive activities on future carbon emissions.”

Maybe. But accept his assumptions, and it means that when a friend has a baby, you have to think we’re all the worse for it. It means that instead of celebrating the development that brings things like refrigeration, cars and calories to people who don’t now have them, we fear the day that a child in Manila enjoys enough of the blessings of life to have the same carbon footprint as a kid from Minnesota.

 And if we really think the answer is below-replacement level fertility, it should mean taking a closer look at places such as Japan and Europe, where we can see what happens to societies when people stop having children.

The real answer, of course, is to have a little more faith in the creative powers of human beings. Given the freedom to grow and innovate, surely the same people who have licked polio, sent a man to the moon, and given us a revolution in information will sooner or later come up with new technologies that will provide for our energy needs while being friendlier to the environment.

 The task is not without its challenges. But we’re not likely to get far with a “science” that defines the problem as American babies.

Trailing Indicators: Out of a Job, Some Decide to Take a Hike

By Joel Millman, Sept 21, 2009

RUTLAND, Vt. — Unable to find steady work in a dismal Florida job market, Dan Kearns did something a lot of gainfully employed Americans can only dream of: Ditch the straight life and hike the length of the Appalachian Trail.

Dan Kearns

Shouldering a 50-pound backpack, the 32-year-old construction worker hopped onto the trail in April at Neels Gap, Ga., joining other “through-hikers” bound for the AT’s northern end point, nearly 2,200 miles away in Maine’s Baxter State Park. He sold his car for $1,000 to finance the first leg of the trip, relying after that on handouts and the occasional farm job — often backbreaking work weeding vegetable beds or rolling bales of hay.

“I wouldn’t do this if I was employed,” the New Jersey native explains. “I couldn’t find any work, so I just decided to take a walk.”

He also took a trail moniker, “Snipe,” and joined two hikers in Virginia who called themselves “Angry Hippie” and “Dance Party.” Over Labor Day weekend, the three trudged into Rutland, the final stop before the slog through New Hampshire’s White Mountains and Maine’s 100-Mile Wilderness.

An economist might have another name for Snipe and his fellow travelers: trailing indicators. Depending on one’s level of optimism, an Appalachian Trail through-hiker is either a symbol of a jobless recovery or of a still-deepening recession.

In any case, there has been a surplus of hikers this year on the Appalachian Trail, which was unexpectedly in the news in June when South Carolina’s Gov. Mark Sanford used the excuse of hiking the trail while pursuing an extramarital affair in Argentina. Typically, about 1,000 hikers leave Georgia each spring in hopes of completing the trail in one all-out trek. This year, trail monitors say, close to 1,400 hikers were in the first wave, with hundreds more following behind through early summer.

Now, as the last of the north-bounders — known as NoBos — enter New England, they’re meeting lagging south-bounders, or SoBos, racing toward Georgia. Hikers say they budget $1 a mile for food and the rare motel stay, making life on the trail cheaper than life in town — and much more socially acceptable.

More than 1,400 hikers attempted to trek the entire Appalachian Trail this season. Many swapped work for food and a place to stay along the way.

“If you do this on the trail, you’re a hiker,” says The Druid, a 48-year-old south-bounder from Tennessee. “If you do this off the trail, you’re a bum.”

NoBos and SoBos are reminiscent of the hobos of the Great Depression, though there aren’t so many of them this time. Moreover, they’re a throwback to a simpler economy, where swapping short-term labor for food and shelter was common.

That barter system remains today. Dozens of “Trail Angels” provide free meals and lodging to hikers who are short of cash. “I was shooting pool in Duncannon, Pa., with a hiker named Big Camera. I heard a guy at the bar offering $12 an hour to clean his yard,” recalls Jack Magullian, a 55-year-old through-hiker whose trail name is Archaeopterix.

Motel operator Ron Haven of Franklin, N.C., is known as a generous soul, willing to exchange nights in beds that have real sheets for light labor like cleaning guest rooms.

Elmer Hall at the Sunnybank Inn nearby in Hot Springs is another soft touch. “People will stay for a week or a month,” says Mr. Hall, who hiked most of the AT himself in 1976. He pays $8 an hour to anyone who stays more than a week and does chores. This season he has employed about 75 through-hikers, he says, mainly to toss feed to his ducks and chickens, or to pick berries or weed his organic garden.

“I saw more people who are out of work this year,” Mr. Hall adds. “You get six months’ government unemployment, and it’s cheaper to live off the land.”

Some people complain of aggressive panhandling, robberies and homeless hikers blending in with genuine backpackers to take advantage of free food or work-for-stay opportunities.

“The biggest problem is the have-nots latching onto the haves and trying to mooch their way up the trail,” says Jeff Hoch, who runs The Hike Inn close to where the Appalachian Trail enters Great Smoky Mountains National Park. “This creates stress around the campsites.”

Up in New England, through-hikers have become a popular form of just-in-time labor for rural businesses, especially for organic farmers like Joseph De Sena.

He operates Amee Farm in Pittsfield, Vt., which lies a few miles from a trailhead. Mr. De Sena says that in a good year, “hikers could provide 50% of the labor we need,” doing everything from watering lettuce in the greenhouse, to weeding the garden to shearing the sheep.

He estimates that hiring similar labor locally, if he could find it, would cost $50 to $75 a day. He does a barter deal with hikers who stay at the farm in exchange for their labor. No money is exchanged.

But it isn’t always an easy fit, Mr. De Sena says.

“We thought there was a correlation between people who would hike the 2,200 miles and an incredible work ethic,” says the 40-year-old entrepreneur, a former Wall Street trader who, besides farming, also operates an asset-management firm. “Turns out those people tend to be athletic hippies, just looking to have fun forever.”

He lucked out when he met Wes Foster and Stacy Burdett, two through-hikers from Tampa, Fla., who recently completed their journey. The couple decided to winter at Amee Farm, swapping their labor for room and board and the chance to learn organic farming.

“I’d love to have a farm like this one day,” says Ms. Burdett, who has a degree in massage therapy and worked in theater production before hiking the trail.

Dominic Palumbo’s Moon in the Pond organic farm in Sheffield, Mass., is another AT neighbor who harvests through-hikers’ labor.

Mr. Palumbo’s efforts began in 2005, when a former through-hiker named Rich Ciotola came to work at Moon in the Pond as an apprentice.

“We were short of hands, and had no money to hire anyone,” the 53-year-old farmer recalls. “Rich just ran up the trail and came back with some guys.” Mr. Palumbo has been relying on hikers ever since, even publicizing his work-for-stay swap in trail guides. This summer Mr. Ciotola began working his own farm, employing hikers from his old mentor’s spread whenever he had extras to spare.

Andrea Wilkins, from Maryland, and Jon Letteer, a Texan, were two south-bounders who worked at Moon in the Pond this month. The two labored 14-hour days in the late summer sun but were grateful for a respite from walking.

Mr. Letteer, 23, has a job waiting for him in Austin, but his 22-year-old hiking partner doesn’t. She says that once she finishes hiking, she hopes to join the Peace Corps and go to Africa or Micronesia. “They asked if I had farming experience when I applied, and I hadn’t,” she says, stretching as she weeds onions. “But this is farm experience that could go on my résumé. Man, they would love it!”

The “Tiger Mom” debate that started in 2011…

Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior

Can a regimen of no playdates, no TV, no computer games and hours of music practice create happy kids? And what happens when they fight back?

By AMY CHUA, Wall Street Journal, January 8, 2011

A lot of people wonder how Chinese parents raise such stereotypically successful kids. They wonder what these parents do to produce so many math whizzes and music prodigies, what it’s like inside the family, and whether they could do it too. Well, I can tell them, because I’ve done it. Here are some things my daughters, Sophia and Louisa, were never allowed to do:
• attend a sleepover
• have a playdate
• be in a school play
• complain about not being in a school play
• watch TV or play computer games
• choose their own extracurricular activities
• get any grade less than an A
• not be the No. 1 student in every subject except gym and drama
• play any instrument other than the piano or violin
• not play the piano or violin.

 
I’m using the term “Chinese mother” loosely. I know some Korean, Indian, Jamaican, Irish and Ghanaian parents who qualify too. Conversely, I know some mothers of Chinese heritage, almost always born in the West, who are not Chinese mothers, by choice or otherwise. I’m also using the term “Western parents” loosely. Western parents come in all varieties. 
 
All the same, even when Western parents think they’re being strict, they usually don’t come close to being Chinese mothers. For example, my Western friends who consider themselves strict make their children practice their instruments 30 minutes every day. An hour at most. For a Chinese mother, the first hour is the easy part. It’s hours two and three that get tough.

Despite our squeamishness about cultural stereotypes, there are tons of studies out there showing marked and quantifiable differences between Chinese and Westerners when it comes to parenting. In one study of 50 Western American mothers and 48 Chinese immigrant mothers, almost 70% of the Western mothers said either that “stressing academic success is not good for children” or that “parents need to foster the idea that learning is fun.” By contrast, roughly 0% of the Chinese mothers felt the same way. Instead, the vast majority of the Chinese mothers said that they believe their children can be “the best” students, that “academic achievement reflects successful parenting,” and that if children did not excel at school then there was “a problem” and parents “were not doing their job.” Other studies indicate that compared to Western parents, Chinese parents spend approximately 10 times as long every day drilling academic activities with their children. By contrast, Western kids are more likely to participate in sports teams.

When it comes to parenting, the Chinese seem to produce children who display academic excellence, musical mastery and professional success – or so the stereotype goes. WSJ’s Christina Tsuei speaks to two moms raised by Chinese immigrants who share what it was like growing up and how they hope to raise their children.
What Chinese parents understand is that nothing is fun until you’re good at it. To get good at anything you have to work, and children on their own never want to work, which is why it is crucial to override their preferences. This often requires fortitude on the part of the parents because the child will resist; things are always hardest at the beginning, which is where Western parents tend to give up. But if done properly, the Chinese strategy produces a virtuous circle. Tenacious practice, practice, practice is crucial for excellence; rote repetition is underrated in America. Once a child starts to excel at something—whether it’s math, piano, pitching or ballet—he or she gets praise, admiration and satisfaction. This builds confidence and makes the once not-fun activity fun. This in turn makes it easier for the parent to get the child to work even more.

Chinese parents can get away with things that Western parents can’t. Once when I was young—maybe more than once—when I was extremely disrespectful to my mother, my father angrily called me “garbage” in our native Hokkien dialect. It worked really well. I felt terrible and deeply ashamed of what I had done. But it didn’t damage my self-esteem or anything like that. I knew exactly how highly he thought of me. I didn’t actually think I was worthless or feel like a piece of garbage.

As an adult, I once did the same thing to Sophia, calling her garbage in English when she acted extremely disrespectfully toward me. When I mentioned that I had done this at a dinner party, I was immediately ostracized. One guest named Marcy got so upset she broke down in tears and had to leave early. My friend Susan, the host, tried to rehabilitate me with the remaining guests.

The fact is that Chinese parents can do things that would seem unimaginable—even legally actionable—to Westerners. Chinese mothers can say to their daughters, “Hey fatty—lose some weight.” By contrast, Western parents have to tiptoe around the issue, talking in terms of “health” and never ever mentioning the f-word, and their kids still end up in therapy for eating disorders and negative self-image. (I also once heard a Western father toast his adult daughter by calling her “beautiful and incredibly competent.” She later told me that made her feel like garbage.)

Chinese parents can order their kids to get straight As. Western parents can only ask their kids to try their best. Chinese parents can say, “You’re lazy. All your classmates are getting ahead of you.” By contrast, Western parents have to struggle with their own conflicted feelings about achievement, and try to persuade themselves that they’re not disappointed about how their kids turned out.

I’ve thought long and hard about how Chinese parents can get away with what they do. I think there are three big differences between the Chinese and Western parental mind-sets. First, I’ve noticed that Western parents are extremely anxious about their children’s self-esteem. They worry about how their children will feel if they fail at something, and they constantly try to reassure their children about how good they are notwithstanding a mediocre performance on a test or at a recital. In other words, Western parents are concerned about their children’s psyches. Chinese parents aren’t. They assume strength, not fragility, and as a result they behave very differently.

For example, if a child comes home with an A-minus on a test, a Western parent will most likely praise the child. The Chinese mother will gasp in horror and ask what went wrong. If the child comes home with a B on the test, some Western parents will still praise the child. Other Western parents will sit their child down and express disapproval, but they will be careful not to make their child feel inadequate or insecure, and they will not call their child “stupid,” “worthless” or “a disgrace.” Privately, the Western parents may worry that their child does not test well or have aptitude in the subject or that there is something wrong with the curriculum and possibly the whole school. If the child’s grades do not improve, they may eventually schedule a meeting with the school principal to challenge the way the subject is being taught or to call into question the teacher’s credentials.

If a Chinese child gets a B—which would never happen—there would first be a screaming, hair-tearing explosion. The devastated Chinese mother would then get dozens, maybe hundreds of practice tests and work through them with her child for as long as it takes to get the grade up to an A.

Chinese parents demand perfect grades because they believe that their child can get them. If their child doesn’t get them, the Chinese parent assumes it’s because the child didn’t work hard enough. That’s why the solution to substandard performance is always to excoriate, punish and shame the child. The Chinese parent believes that their child will be strong enough to take the shaming and to improve from it. (And when Chinese kids do excel, there is plenty of ego-inflating parental praise lavished in the privacy of the home.)
 
Second, 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 the parents have sacrificed and done so much for their children. (And it’s true that Chinese mothers get in the trenches, putting in long grueling hours personally tutoring, training, interrogating and spying on their kids.) Anyway, the understanding is that Chinese children must spend their lives repaying their parents by obeying them and making them proud.
By contrast, I don’t think most Westerners have the same view of children being permanently indebted to their parents. My husband, Jed, actually has the opposite view. “Children don’t choose their parents,” he once said to me. “They don’t even choose to be born. It’s parents who foist life on their kids, so it’s the parents’ responsibility to provide for them. Kids don’t owe their parents anything. Their duty will be to their own kids.” This strikes me as a terrible deal for the Western parent.

Third, Chinese parents believe that they know what is best for their children and therefore override all of their children’s own desires and preferences. That’s why Chinese daughters can’t have boyfriends in high school and why Chinese kids can’t go to sleepaway camp. It’s also why no Chinese kid would ever dare say to their mother, “I got a part in the school play! I’m Villager Number Six. I’ll have to stay after school for rehearsal every day from 3:00 to 7:00, and I’ll also need a ride on weekends.” God help any Chinese kid who tried that one.
Don’t get me wrong: It’s not that Chinese parents don’t care about their children. Just the opposite. They would give up anything for their children. It’s just an entirely different parenting model.

Here’s a story in favor of coercion, Chinese-style. Lulu was about 7, still playing two instruments, and working on a piano piece called “The Little White Donkey” by the French composer Jacques Ibert. The piece is really cute—you can just imagine a little donkey ambling along a country road with its master—but it’s also incredibly difficult for young players because the two hands have to keep schizophrenically different rhythms.
Lulu couldn’t do it. We worked on it nonstop for a week, drilling each of her hands separately, over and over. But whenever we tried putting the hands together, one always morphed into the other, and everything fell apart. Finally, the day before her lesson, Lulu announced in exasperation that she was giving up and stomped off.

“Get back to the piano now,” I ordered.
“You can’t make me.”
“Oh yes, I can.”
Back at the piano, Lulu made me pay. She punched, thrashed and kicked. She grabbed the music score and tore it to shreds. I taped the score back together and encased it in a plastic shield so that it could never be destroyed again. Then I hauled Lulu’s dollhouse to the car and told her I’d donate it to the Salvation Army piece by piece if she didn’t have “The Little White Donkey” perfect by the next day. When Lulu said, “I thought you were going to the Salvation Army, why are you still here?” I threatened her with no lunch, no dinner, no Christmas or Hanukkah presents, no birthday parties for two, three, four years. When she still kept playing it wrong, I told her she was purposely working herself into a frenzy because she was secretly afraid she couldn’t do it. I told her to stop being lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic.

Jed took me aside. He told me to stop insulting Lulu—which I wasn’t even doing, I was just motivating her—and that he didn’t think threatening Lulu was helpful. Also, he said, maybe Lulu really just couldn’t do the technique—perhaps she didn’t have the coordination yet—had I considered that possibility? “You just don’t believe in her,” I accused. “That’s ridiculous,” Jed said scornfully. “Of course I do.” “Sophia could play the piece when she was this age.” “But Lulu and Sophia are different people,” Jed pointed out. “Oh no, not this,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Everyone is special in their special own way,” I mimicked sarcastically. “Even losers are special in their own special way. Well don’t worry, you don’t have to lift a finger. I’m willing to put in as long as it takes, and I’m happy to be the one hated. And you can be the one they adore because you make them pancakes and take them to Yankees games.”

I rolled up my sleeves and went back to Lulu. I used every weapon and tactic I could think of. We worked right through dinner into the night, and I wouldn’t let Lulu get up, not for water, not even to go to the bathroom. The house became a war zone, and I lost my voice yelling, but still there seemed to be only negative progress, and even I began to have doubts. Then, out of the blue, Lulu did it. Her hands suddenly came together—her right and left hands each doing their own imperturbable thing—just like that. Lulu realized it the same time I did. I held my breath. She tried it tentatively again. Then she played it more confidently and faster, and still the rhythm held. A moment later, she was beaming. “Mommy, look—it’s easy!” After that, she wanted to play the piece over and over and wouldn’t leave the piano. That night, she came to sleep in my bed, and we snuggled and hugged, cracking each other up. When she performed “The Little White Donkey” at a recital a few weeks later, parents came up to me and said, “What a perfect piece for Lulu—it’s so spunky and so her.”

Even Jed gave me credit for that one. Western parents worry a lot about their children’s self-esteem. But as a parent, 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 than learning you can do something you thought you couldn’t.
There are all these new books out there portraying Asian mothers as scheming, callous, overdriven people indifferent to their kids’ true interests. For their part, many Chinese secretly believe that they care more about their children and are willing to sacrifice much more for them than Westerners, who seem perfectly content to let their children turn out badly. I think it’s a misunderstanding on both sides. All decent parents want to do what’s best for their children. The Chinese just have a totally different idea of how to do that.

Western parents try to respect their children’s individuality, encouraging them to pursue their true passions, supporting their choices, and providing positive reinforcement and a nurturing environment. By contrast, the Chinese believe that the best way to protect their children is by preparing them for the future, letting them see what they’re capable of, and arming them with skills, work habits and inner confidence that no one can ever take away.

—Amy Chua is a professor at Yale Law School and author of “Day of Empire” and “World on Fire: How Exporting Free Market Democracy Breeds Ethnic Hatred and Global Instability.” This essay is excerpted from “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” by Amy Chua, to be published Tuesday by the Penguin Press, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Copyright © 2011 by Amy Chua.

How to Keep Going and Going
In an eight-decade study, parental divorce in childhood was the strongest predictor of early death in adulthood.
The Longevity Project, by Howard S. Friedman and Leslie R. Martin

By LAURA LANDRO
MARCH 9, 2011, Wall Street Journal

What can 1,500 Americans born a century ago, most of them long dead, tell us about the secret to a long life? Plenty, according to Howard S. Friedman and Leslie R. Martin, two psychologists who, in “The Longevity Project,” mine an eight-decade research effort for answers to the kinds of questions that sent Ponce de León searching for the Fountain of Youth.

There are no magic potions on offer here, but many of the findings are provocative. The best childhood predictor of longevity, it turns out, is a quality best defined as conscientiousness: “the often complex pattern of persistence, prudence, hard work, close involvement with friends and communities” that produces a well-organized person who is “somewhat obsessive and not at all carefree.”

The study was initiated in 1921 by Stanford University psychologist Lewis Terman, who asked San Francisco teachers to pick out their brightest students—most were about 10 years old—to help him try to identify early glimmers of high potential. Terman was most interested in intellectual achievement (his revision of Alfred Binet’s intelligence scale produced the Stanford-Binet IQ test), but his interviews were so detailed that the results could be used as a basis for studying the respondents’ lives in follow-up interviews across the years. Terman himself died in 1956, just shy of 80; after his death his work was picked up by others, with Mr. Friedman and Ms. Martin launching their portion of the project in 1990.

The study’s participants, dubbed Terman’s Termites, were bright students, but having a high IQ didn’t seem to play a direct role in longevity. Neither did going on to an advanced degree. The authors suggest that persistence and the ability to navigate life’s challenges were better predictors of longevity.
Some of the findings in “The Longevity Project” are surprising, others are troubling. Cheerful children, alas, turned out to be shorter-lived than their more sober classmates. The early death of a parent had no measurable effect on children’s life spans or mortality risk, but the long-term health effects of broken families were often devastating. Parental divorce during childhood emerged as the single strongest predictor of early death in adulthood. The grown children of divorced parents died almost five years earlier, on average, than children from intact families. The causes of death ranged from accidents and violence to cancer, heart attack and stroke. Parental break-ups remain, the authors say, among the most traumatic and harmful events for children.

“The Longevity Project” is short on actual statistics, asserting instead broad trends among its study subjects and leaving readers to search through footnotes and then track down published studies if they want to learn more. With its relatively small sample and retrospective design, it hardly reaches the level of large population-based scientific investigations like the Framingham Heart Study, which followed thousands of participants for decades to identify common factors that contribute to cardiovascular disease, or the Women’s Health Study, a 10-year randomized, double-blind, placebo-controlled study of nearly 40,000 women age 45 and older.

Mr. Friedman and Ms. Martin do claim to have used accepted scientific-validation methods to confirm that their findings can be extrapolated for a general understanding of health and longevity. But their results are based mostly on sifting participants’ self-reported data, with death certificates providing the only verifiable information: age and cause of death. Data on factors like genetic predisposition to disease weren’t gathered.

Moreover, the study’s subjects lived most of their lives in a dramatically different time, before AIDS threatened longevity and before medical advances such as angioplasty and the development of cholesterol drugs came along to improve life-span. The respondents were almost uniformly white children from middle-class families, so the results don’t tell us much about the longevity of other groups. And many of the girl students did not go on to have careers, so “The Longevity Project” focuses on men when it discusses workplace matters and their role in long-term health.

The book offers quizzes so that readers can assess various qualities—such as sociability, neuroticism and the tendency to “catastrophize”—and compare the results with those of Terman’s Termites. The respondents to the study who fared best in the longevity sweepstakes tended to have a fairly high level of physical activity, a habit of giving back to the community, a thriving and long-running career, and a healthy marriage and family life. They summoned resilience against reverses and challenges— including divorce, loss of a spouse, career upsets and war trauma. By contrast, those with the darkest dispositions—catastrophizers, who viewed every stumble as a calamity—were most likely to die sooner. (The book doesn’t say by what margin; a study published in 1998 reported that men in the Terman group were 25% more likely to die by age 65 if they were catastrophizers.)

And what about those cheerful, relatively doomed kids? The authors tell us that, later in life, such children would be more likely than their peers to throw caution to the wind when it came to life-shortening habits like smoking, drinking and driving fast cars. The chipper types were also more likely to die from homicide, suicide or accident. Of course, the authors don’t suggest telling happy kids to wipe the grins off their faces, but Mr. Friedman and Ms. Martin do make a case for instilling values such as forethought and purposefulness. Indeed, “The Longevity Project” is not just an exercise in numbers-crunching; its larger aim seems to be to improve public health by encouraging a society with more goal-oriented and conscientious citizens. Now that’s a long-term project.
Ms. Landro writes The Informed Patient column for the Journal.

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