Forced piano lessons: a running joke in Asian America, calling to mind women named Amy (Tan, Chua...). Sam goes beyond the cliches to define the significance of piano in her childhood home.

It’s perfectly normal to meet several therapists before deciding on one with whom you feel a good rapport. As with dating, “that didn’t suck” is not a high enough bar.

Much as I hated having to read the entire smug business that is Amy Chua's book-promoting article, there was no way around it.

And much as I hate giving the writer more press, it's not an option to say nothing as, dangerously, she proselytizes to others her "Chinese mothering" strategies. Her piece opens like this:

I did not want to attend Group Therapy, strongly averse to the idea of sharing personal information (even if strategically fictionalized) with the shufflers and hunchers, the lounging men of sudden hellos.

I am given two sets of light blue pajamas, cotton pants and short-sleeve shirt with snap buttons, and except for the Marin General Hospital printed on the pocket, they’re not unattractive, functional and even comfortable. People wear them, together or mixed with other tops and bottoms, during the day too -- but I am strict with myself not to; they make you look like you belong here.

Hello, reader. The below is a work-in-progress: starter dough and nothing like a full list. But hopefully this opening gambit will inspire those with further information to add their knowledge to the resource list here. Ideally, this guide will eventually become a nationwide compendium of local mental-health resources -- personal-shopped for second-generation Asian Americans.