A High School Drop-Out's Guide to Tiger Parenting

Be the Light and the Night

In China, I rode a petite blue bike through the rain and sun. It was a bike put to daily use, the black faux leather seats practically an extension of my buttocks as I circled around the fountain like a worshiper. The bike was one of my prized possessions (amongst many other things that children prized, like a half eaten pink, swirly lollipop; a yellow duck stuffed toy; and a weighty, plastic robot). The only thing that made it obvious the bike wasn't mine was the image of an action cartoon character most of the boys idolized. Its face was comically distorted around the curve of the bike's skeleton, but I recognized its signature art style and pose: large fists raised up in the air. This child's strength had every boy (and me) staring at a television screen, pure desire for entertainment overpowering necks' craning and cramping. The blue and the boy left the impression that this bike was owned by a boy that very much enjoyed the cartoon, and probably did not use said bike because of it. Indeed, it was my brother's bike—until he left and I got my hands on it. At that point the bike wasn't blue or masculine to me—it was my unicorn and I flew on it. If you were strolling in the town square on a normal day, trying to enjoy the slight breeze that had built up, you would be sadly interrupted by the screaming of a girl and the screeching of bike tires and gear. Atop the blue bike would be a soft pink girl, with cute chubby cheeks and a pompous hairdo. You wouldn't question the sight of the bike and the girl if you had simply seen the determination on the girl's face, aforementioned big cheeks red with exhaustion and thrill. Anywhere I went, I was ahead by a mile on my bike (ie. my trips with my grandfather and cucumbers), racing ahead until my lungs burned with rapid breaths. I even swore if I were chased by a snake, I could probably escape purely by the pump of my legs and the wheels of my bike (and with the help of a little bit of screaming and adrenaline). It helped that the residential community I lived in had great, open spaces for me to swerve and curve with my child-sized bike. Otherwise, I would have crashed off my bike despite the presence of two, very big support wheels. But, the residential community was big and breezy, so the only thing I was crashing into was the wind, whipping through my hair and cooling my cheeks. It was usually always hot when I rode (minus the rain), so the breeze served as a sanctuary found easily by catching speed.

To a pretty lonely girl, the bike was a best friend found close to home. The only other child found within a mile radius of my home was a girl whose age lent itself to dumbfounded staring and confused nods. I would try to initiate play with her, telling her I was a superhero and she was another, but she couldn't understand. In the end, it was easier to ride solo on my superbike rather than stop every few seconds to check if she was following me, or even if she understood the purpose of our special mission as superheroes. I took my role plays very seriously, and the girl could not keep up. But who else could keep up? My bike. So, it was often just me and my bike going on rescue missions to save my toys stranded on the periphery of the square, a set up for this specific mission. The unease that my unattended toys would get kidnapped whilst I was distributing team roles made my legs work overtime to speed towards where my toys laid. If I was extra worried that day, I would have my grandfather pinky promise that he'd keep a sharp eye on my toys. I don't know if it was my speed or my grandfather, but my toys were never taken from me. What was taken away from me was my precious, unkempt bike.

It happened when I excitedly returned home, rushing from the sudden entrance of rain. I should've known something was wrong by the emptiness of my hands, but I had probably assumed my grandfather, who often carried my bike home for me, was doing so. He was, in fact, not carrying my bike, and had forgotten I had left the house with a bike. It was not until we returned home without a bike, that my grandfather asked me where my bike was. That was when my stomach dropped. He returned to the square, only to realize my bike was nowhere to be found. A few days later, we were once again at the square, this time without my bike. It wasn't until my grandfather saw a blue child's bike that looked suspiciously like the one that I had mistakenly abandoned, that we had found my lost bike. He confronted the mother that was carrying the bike for her child, demanding that she return the bike.