Every story has a hero and a villain. Whether that'd be the Prince Charming or something more abstract like poverty, every story has its light and its darkness. And of course, stories are almost always not reflective of real life. After all, it's in the definition; they're stories for a reason, locked behind fictitious characters and chance events with the heroic good and definitive bad. However, things are not always black and white as they seem in childhood stories. Likewise, my dad is gray.
He's a mix of everything I love and hate. I see red in his anger, exploding and swelling even when you'd think someone couldn't get any angrier. I see orange in his pride, his inability to submit to his wrongs. I see yellow in his dedication, the sweat staining familiar hues onto white cloth. I see green in his decisiveness, cutting through childish quarrels with dictatorial endings. I see blue in his sadness, in tears held back by glossy eyes. I see indigo in his mystery, dark days of youth overshadowed by the troubles of today. I see purple in his frugality, a restraint on the excessiveness heard in the tales of royals. All these come together to create black, a color of nothing but wraith, pain, and emptiness. But circumstances always cast a different light, and I can't help but recognize the brightness of hope, of a clean white slate brought to me so that I may tell my own story in my own time.
When I'm faced with all these colors, of black and of white, I cannot make up my mind. I am not able to choose a focus from the hurt of the past or from the soreness of the present. It is often hard to ignore when the tiger leaves a trail of red from its mouth, much like how it is often hard to forget when a parent leaves their mark in pain. This is reality, and the reality is that there exists no Eternal Sunshine mechanic that may alleviate the burden of trauma.
You may very well realize that I am a very confused individual (amongst other things), torn between love and hate for a person that one should naturally love. That's one thing that hasn't changed about me. But there are other things that did change, and other people who have too.
YOU ARE READING
A High School Drop-Out's Guide to Tiger Parenting
Non-FictionRuminate with me about how a high school drop-out tiger parents between lessons in mistakes, growth, and appreciation. A fictionalized memoir of me, my brother, and our tiger father.
