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

Work (on) Relationships

Glass panes from roof to floor greet you, a heavy glass door inviting a push that leads you to a, surprisingly, spacious world of red. You step onto burgundy wooden floors, taking in the white walls paneled by glossy black tiles with the same, burgundy chair rail. Scratched, crimson booths lie to the left, whilst a mysterious white door stands ominously at the right. That was the door where my parents took their fights, where banging and screaming originated. If not, they were beyond the counter far in front of you. The little curiosity you might have about the black door is infectious, so you can't help but hesitate at the doorway, examining the ATM machine you had walked past, the paper signs scribbled with colorful markers, and the limited seating area. As you inspect the tables, deciding whether or not you wanted to dine in or just do take-out to hide away in your abode, you might notice a few potato crumbs, fried rice grains, and salt dotting the usually clean tables. If you could overlook the furniture checkered with stains and the abysmal interior design, ahead would be the tall counter bordered by more glass panels. They offer a generous view of a refrigerator stacked with canned and bottled sodas, fruit drinks, and homemade lemonades and iced teas.

Excited by the prospect of food and drinks, you head over there. Beyond, you see the cooking station: a line of pots, pans, and woks stretching to oblivion. You may also witness casual abuse by a tiger to his employee, a manly voice roaring profanities in Mandarin. Just as you start getting a bit concerned by the kitchen tension, you're hit with the comforting scent of deep-fryer oil and some sweet, umami sauce. It was that pleasant smell that first attracted you here, and now you're standing in front of two smiling kids and their mom.

Oh? When did they appear?

Brushing it off, you return a greeting as they ask for your order, in which you would likely order a fried chicken with French fries, a chicken and broccoli with white rice, or a lo mein. Those were the most popular—and safe—choices, ones the children would likely recommend you if you had asked.

The two kids? That's me and my brother. You might also have a thought cross your mind: is this child labor? Yes, indeed it was.

To give you perspective, I was eight when I first began picking up phone calls and orders from walk-in customers. I didn't even understand the phrase I mumbled into the greasy, cordless telephones; I simply sounded out exactly what my mom said into the telephone whenever a customer called. It wasn't until years later, I was slapped with the sudden thought that I only knew the phonetics of what I was saying, not the actual words.

I found out the phrase was "how may I help you?"

What I had stumbled out before was something akin to "ow-may-i-owpew," and that's exactly what I thought it was. I started off slow, with only phone calls in the beginning. As I grew, the restaurant staff did not. In fact, it decreased as my dad ventured to his nightly escapades. Thus, I took on more responsibility in front of the counter as a "cashier" (which was the understatement of the century). When my mom left, my dad came back to replace her, only returning when the situation was dire and not out of a concern uninspired by circumstance. When he came back, things were even worse than before.

Before my dad's nightly escapades and his subsequent return, his presence meant the clanging of metal against metal, a booming voice calling for correction, and the smacking of hands against heads. The employees, my mom, my brother, and I were powerless against a large man dominated by red, hot anger. My brother and I chalked it up to anger issues, but it went beyond that. Tiger is a prideful person, and feels the need to exercise his control in any way, even by chastising adult employees who are perfectly competent. When he was out, it was them who made sure we were fed. When both my mom and him were out, it was them who made sure our business stayed afloat, our tummies full, and our eyes caught enough shut time. They were our parents second to the ones who almost seemingly did not deserve first, but first by blood. They did not deserve the scalding anger, the pain of my dad's hands, and the grueling work hours.