Tiger Ladies

By John Skow

THE JOY LUCK CLUB

by Amy Tan

Putnam; 288 pages; $18.95

Growing up ethnic is surely the liveliest theme to appear in the American novel since the closing of the frontier (growing up alienated and getting a divorce are the dreariest). One cheerful result is that Wasps, to the disgust of Nathan Zuckerman's relatives, now know about Jewish families, shnorrers, yentas and all, and that Catholics are knowledgeable about those little ethnicities that Presbyterians possess but do not like to admit to. Northerners understand Southerners, at least on paper, and whites even know something of how life ferments, black among black.

The Chinese-American culture is only beginning to throw off such literary sparks, and Amy Tan's bright, sharp-flavored first novel belongs on a short shelf dominated by Maxine Hong Kingston's remarkable works of a decade or so ago, The Woman Warrior and China Men. Tan's book is a wry group portrait of four elderly and feisty women who emigrated from China to the U.S., and their grown, very Americanized daughters. "A girl is like a young tree," says one of the stern mothers, who explains to her daughter that she lacks the necessary wood in her character. "You must stand tall and listen to your mother standing next to you . . . But if you bend to listen to other people, you will grow crooked and weak." The daughter does not ignore this old- country wisdom, "but I also learned how to let her words blow through me."

One of the mothers thinks, "When my daughter looks at me, she sees a small old lady. That is because she sees only with her outside eyes." If she had inside knowing, "she would see a tiger lady. And she would have careful fear." One of the daughters, carefully fearful, remarks to a friend, "I don't know if it's explicitly stated in the law, but you can't ever tell a Chinese mother to shut up. You could be charged as an accessory to your own murder."

A Chinese (or Jewish or Presbyterian) mother broods when an adult offspring says, "I'm my own person!" Her response is, "How can she be her own person? When did I give her up?" The author writes with both inside and outside knowing, and her novel rings clearly, like a fine porcelain bowl.