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

Be Cautious

Like a bowl-cut buzzed way too far up, my dad's hair was in a circular patch on the top and center of his head, hair sprouting abundantly but suppressed by oil and days without wash. Slicked back and tied, the end was dyed in purple and blue, the thin strand of washed-out hair hanging limply on the back of his bumpy, bald head. It made onlookers give my father a little more consideration, eyes trailing on the tiny rope of hair dangling not at all menacingly despite its fierce color. On his head was a face that spoke levels of frustration and annoyance by the furrowed thick eyebrows and a hard etched frown, eye bags pointing to nights awake. His youth disappeared along with his smile throughout the years, the sun aging the wrinkles around his lips and the specks of brown against his dark skin. When he smiles, it wrinkles his eyes and makes you a little more comfortable—a little more joyous. His back was rounded and bent from grueling days of work, and his hands roughened by calluses from holding knives during take-out restaurant days. With broad shoulders and not much of an astounding height, my dad stood innocently, but the sheer width of him and the way his clenched hands jutted out on his sides, he stood as a threat to whoever crossed his path. His stomach pushed out into a round beer belly, probably from days of drinking and eating without working out his core. Black, blue, red, and yellow tattoos covered his thick arms, back, and chest. The ink on his skin was implanted in intricate and poorly done ways, warning those who saw him that he was trouble. His wrist held a large red flag of China, his home country.

I remember staring at the tattoo each time he would caress my face or hold out a piece of bread to me, the large rectangle bright and opaque on previously inked skin (and subsequently unattractive to the modern eye). Each time my eyes flickered between the black images on my father's body, I imagined the grimace on my grandmother's face, the disappointment manifesting in closed eyes and head shakes of disapproval. But this was how my dad looked, and after near constant exposure, the harshness of it almost looked natural. Fitting, if you will, for his character and fearsome stature.

He does not have any tattoos on his legs, though (or at least none that I know of). Covered often in ripped jeans, he pairs his outfits with plaid button-up shirts and luxury brand shoes. His shirts were never buttoned up fully, revealing stained tank tops from sweat or other oils. His denim was marbled in all shades of blue, streaked in a dark midnight, a pale baby blue, or white. Borrowed or not, his outfits are often embellished with some sort of luxury item, whether it'd be the shoes, or some gold-black beaded jewelry with a dragon head in its center. Hidden behind somewhat clean clothing and an even cleaner brand, was a certain stench of cigarettes and body that was indisputable. Even a long shower with floral feminine products wouldn't get rid of it. It pervades every corner of his room, the musk hitting my face like a tidal wave every time I enter it to retrieve something. I had to crinkle my nose, treading quickly so that I could relieve myself with the air outside. Despite the horrid smell of his room, there was a smell worse: his socks.

When washing his socks, I was taught by my mom to always separate his clothing—specifically his socks—from the rest, so that the smell wouldn't infiltrate them. I obediently picked out his socks with the tips of my pointer finger and thumb, holding my breath as I tossed them to a pile on the side. Even after a wash with fabric softener, the socks would stink like it had before. But before the wash, the stink was like the musk in his room, but condensed into a powerful punch. Like how the sourness of a lemon coats the tongue, attacks the taste buds, and forces the squeezing together of the eyes, my father's socks were pungent to the nose. If I held it for long, I swear I could break out in hives and threaten throw-up in a gag. Often black, the socks had a discoloration and an unnatural shine of crust, resulting from dried out sweat and whatever gunk lay on my dad's feet. Despite our protests, my dad never did anything about the plague surrounding his feet. He just laughed, rhetorically asking "is it stinky?"

Oh, undeniably yes. Yes, it is! But it didn't matter as family accepts everything about you, even your extremely stinky feet.

He, with his extremely stinky feet and oily hair, is what my brother would call a "greasy man." This phrase has been used to describe many Asian men who all have a few things in common: sweatiness, chubbiness, bad habits, criticism, and a bit of narcissism. Noticeably, many have disheveled clothing, greasy hair, smoke stained teeth, unsightly skin, and a big mouth. My dad is a greasy man, amongst many other things. He's kind, seen by the small smiles he wears when he helps strangers pick up fallen things. He's hardworking, seen by the sweat beading on his shiny forehead. He's caring, seen by the times he would wonder if we ate.

He's many other things besides the greasiness of his hair, the dirtiness of his clothes, and the stink of his socks.

But when people see him, they think he's scary. I've asked many people, and they've all said he looks like... a gangster. Honestly, I've fallen victim to that thought too. I mean, the dyed hair, massive tattoos, stoic face, and lit cigarettes—they really do remind me of stereotypical movie-gangster men. But to me, he's not a gangster. He's a father that has gone through a lot, and that has put me through a lot too. He's a father with a suspiciously great amount of tattoos, a confusing style of a mix of hip street wear and luxury items, and a funny haircut.

Even though many people do say I have his facial features, we don't have much in common—visually. First of all, you will never catch me drinking and smoking. Nights of staring at my father raise a lit bud or a lip of a bottle to his mouth taught me its danger and inebriation. Secondly, I've never been one to wear luxury items. It was seen as a waste for a child to wear one, and we've never had the money to afford it. I'm perfectly content and comfortable in my plain clothing. I've never been one for flashy styles or varying different (neon) colors, instead choosing to wear black jeggings and a single colored T-shirt, sometimes with a design. It was simple, but effective—I came off not like a gangster, but as a simple high schooler. My clothes, despite being old and simple, were clean and neat. So was my long hair that I brush everyday, and let hang loose or in a ponytail. The key being, I look presentable, but not fancy or rich. It was good enough for a high schooler going to high school and doing high schooler things. Even though I look like a nice, calm girl, I'm not a perfect person. Even though I try my best to smile, I'm not always happy or positive. I scream, I cry, I get angry, and I'm not always responsive to people who just want to be friends with me.

Sometimes I mess up. I trip on air, I drop a book, and I write "recieve" instead of "receive." I hiccup from shoving food down my throat too quickly, I break vases, and I hurt people. But I also run, pick up fallen books, and write "receive" instead of "recieve." I chew my food slowly, I buy new vases, and I apologize to people.

Sometimes my dad messes up. He did mess up. He hurt us, and himself. But silently, he makes it up to us. He cups our hands with his own, rubbing them in the cold of winter. He looks at us when we speak. He nudges us when we should act, but are frozen in indecision.

I look like a perfect daughter, but I'm not.

My dad looks like a gangster, but he's not.

So how does a high school drop-out tiger parent? He shows you how sometimes smiles can be deceiving, looks can be misleading, and assumptions can be easy to make, but the truth is harder to swallow. We like to reaffirm our own assumptions, but sometimes it's easier to have doubt: to see the good in someone who seems evil, and to see the flaws in someone who seems perfect.