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

Be Kind

It's so easy to like a good cop.

If you asked young Lia which parent she liked more, she would whisper in your ear "mom." Why? Because my mom was the good cop and my dad was the bad cop. Whenever I tripped on an invisible pebble, dropped a glass jar bigger than the size of my arm, or received anything less than an 85, spit came flying at my face from a tiger who chastised me for my incompetencies. My mom, on the other hand, would be the medicine to soothe my scraped, bleeding knee, help me sweep up glass shards from the ground, and squeeze a book into my arms so that I could improve. It was the difference between crying and loving when it came to the two of them.

I believe every child needs a little toughness. No, not gluteus maximus beatings or screaming—I mean some stern talking and harsh no's. After all, I would not be as disciplined or exhibit the level of self-control that I do if it weren't for hard lessons as a child; rather, there was too much harshness and not a lot of open love to soothe my childhood. I could argue that a different approach to parenting might have made me come out the same way, but who could argue against results? If it worked for Tiger, it "should" (and did) work for me. However, everyone needs more tender care from their parents—yes, this is a desperate cry that I wish to transcend space and magically root itself into my father's brain, especially for my brother. He was harsher to him than me.

There's this stereotype that fathers often prefer daughters. But the reality is that my dad did not prefer me. It was not a simple preference he held for me. He loved me more and favored me over my brother. It is so obvious that even my brother recognizes it, and I do too. My brother is meek, timid, and quiet around adults, anxiety visible in the hunched back, downcasted gaze, and twiddling fingers. My father, traditional as he is, hated weakness in men and nearly anything that depressed masculinity. It is no wonder then, that my dad would find him an easy victim of criticism. Ever since me and my brother reunited at my father's restaurant, there was a disparity in how he treated us. It started small, with the way I got more candy, had less spit flying at my face, or received more physical affection. Maybe it was my cute chubby cheeks, the fact that I was the youngest, or that I was a fragile girl that made my dad more protective and caring, but I knew it was definitely just the fact that I was a daughter. He didn't love me as much as he did; he loved the idea of having a daughter, and that was it. On the other hand, he hated the idea of having such a weak son, and it showed.

I can't find much wrong with my brother that warrants the level of disrespect and anger the tiger directs at him. The only apparent flaw that bothered Tiger the most was his inability to stand up for himself—his shyness. There are millions of people in this world who're spectacular, functioning adult beings with their own timidity, so why should my brother fix his "issue?" Not only is this minuscule trait blown out of proportion by the tiger, it was him who made my brother this way. If there was anyone to blame, to criticize and reduce down to a teary mess as the cause of sheepishness, it would be the tiger who hunts for mutton.

Tiger perceives things his own way, and hates being told no, as do most Asian parents. However, when combined with his volatile nature, it goes beyond hate and the rising of octaves. It becomes physical. When my brother spoke against his wrongs, a tiger's paws would come diving down on his body. The same paws that clawed my mother into submission also did not hesitate when it came to my brother.

I remember the way one side of his face turned scarlet from the whip of a tiger's paws. His cheek was slightly swollen and heated, the tears tracing a ragged path were the only cool solace my brother found as he walked to the bathroom. I remember the times he lay on the floor, unmoving and cowering under the stalk of a tiger. I remember the many times he was made to leave our home, Tiger pushing him upstairs to pack his bags. I begged and cried before he disappeared up wooden stairs, that he didn't leave. But heedless, he hauled trashbags full of clothing, leaving with the urge of a tiger. I watched, silently biting back tears as I looked at my mother. Noting her inaction, I tugged on my brother's sleeve, before being shrugged away. I heard the sound of Tiger hastily shooing my brother away just as he opened glass doors and melted into the darkness. I couldn't help but peek at the back of the restaurant. Tiger acted as if this was only normal. As if my brother, whose age hadn't even reached the double digits yet, committed such a vile crime deserving of the all-consuming, dangerous night. All my brother had done was exist, but that was enough for my father to cast him to the night. That night, he had disappeared for so long that Tiger and my mother had to drive around for almost an hour in search of him.

I couldn't begin to imagine his fear. The feeling of doom and relief as he cautiously watched strangers pass him in hopes they didn't snatch him up to nowhere. The feeling of a chill settling deep into his thin bones, shaking him from his core as he huddled close to his plastic trash bags. The feeling of loneliness and of being an abomination as he sat on the dirty streets of the city, wondering if his parents had really abandoned him.

It scared me.

I knew it scared him more than me, so I didn't bring it up or speak about it. But, it really, really did scare me. It was the same, biting fear that settled at the bottom of my stomach when I saw my mother's keys left on the hook. It throttled my throat and pricked needles into my eyes, tears sprouting preemptively, as if my body knew something was ending.

I'm so glad he returned that night.

I never told him, and I know my father never apologized. Instead, he acted like nothing happened, treating my brother like he had before—like dirt on the ground. Tiger continued roaring at my brother. And when words are reinforced with pain, silence is the favored condition. I didn't choose silence, but my brother did. Unlike me, my brother did not inherit the same forwardness as I did from Tiger. So, instead of steeling himself against the strikes, he became pliable. Tiger beat down the little confidence and social drive he had until there was nothing left to rebuild from. My brother became the exact thing my father despised so much: weakness.

But my brother isn't weak. He is much stronger than the influences of alcohol, the thrill of nightlife, and the temptation of sex that the tiger submitted to. He is stronger in the clear minded morality and soft virtues he clutches close to heart, trampled upon by the tiger with a single-minded focus on pleasure. He is stronger than my dad's inability to provide, finding ways to juggle school, manage the home, and take care of me whilst my dad was out chasing money and whatever else rose out of the smoke of his cigarettes. My brother's strength is hidden and suppressed under the dictatorship of fury. But even so, I recognize it, because the tiger wasn't there to reinforce its reign.

My brother filled in the absence of parents. Where my father should've accompanied me to the grocery store, he was there leading me through the aisles and pushing the handles of the shopping cart into my grip. Where my mother should've fed and taught me, he was there to cook me pasta dinners and call me stupid for my mistakes. Instead of yellow curry, savory orange chicken, and spicy buffalo wings, I had rigatoni pasta. It became something that I grew to love, a dish shared between solely me and him. It was easy to make and filling, not to mention, delicious. The pasta was soft and often broke apart under chopsticks and forks, but that's just how we liked it. Even if our dad disapproved of the non-Asian origins of pasta, it was something I cherished and a reminder of my brother's attempts at taking care of me when my dad didn't. Despite all his efforts and attentiveness, at times I knew he saw in me what we hated the most when I was bratty: my father.

I was told I looked like my father, whilst my brother looked like my mom. Through my chubby round nose, left-cheek dimple, and wide smile, my parents' friends and grandparents compared me to my father. The idea was so unfortunately ingrained in the walls of my brain that whenever anyone asked me who I looked like more, it was almost instinctive to say it was my father. My brother, however, said it went beyond physical similarities—it was the way in which, momentarily, anger consumes all thoughts in our heads. In addition to childish anger, my selfishness, greed, and gluttony made his misplaced job as my guardian harder.

On top of me, he dealt with my dad's inattentiveness to him. We have even agreed upon the fact that if we ever needed something, I would be the one to ask. His desires would be reflected on me, as my dad is unable to say yes to him but more readily does so when I ask. Just the simple fact that we have to resort to such a tactic should show you just how obvious Tiger makes his favoritism. It is hard to communicate with and to love someone who treats you less than.

So how does a high school drop-out tiger parent? He never lets you take for granted the kindness of family. Tiger was nothing akin to kindness, from stature to action. But, he gave me a kindness that withstood the testament of evil, heartlessness, and burden. This kindness was undeserving of such a negligent father and a bratty sister. This kindness is my brother.