Kelly Eng – writer

Here’s an article I wrote for The Age on Tiger Mums.

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While they didn’t operate at Amy Chua’s level, my parents did try to raise me tiger style. Their method could be described as neo-TigerLite.

Like many Asian kids, I was forced to do extracurricular maths and frogmarched to music lessons. And just to complete the stereotype, I had a thick fringe. But, if I was a tiger cub, I was a pathetic lame one.

For example, tiger cubs are expected to be good at maths and Dad, being an accountant, relished teaching me this subject. Entire forests must have been felled for the amount of worksheets I was forced to complete after school, on the weekends and school holidays. I’m pretty sure I had Christmas Day off.

As the maths concepts got harder, it became clear that I just wasn’t cut out for carrying the 1 over to the next column or executing the BODMAS rule.

This was evidenced by my substandard test results. I once scored a shameful 52% on a maths test. As this was 49% away from the ideal score (is that right?), I decided that any evidence of the test had to disappear. I started a petite fire in the laundry sink. “BURN!” I cried and burn it did. The flames leapt higher, melting a plastic sheet on a shelf above the sink. After some frenzied firefighting, it was out. I scraped the ashes from the sink hole and sprayed OxiClean Maxforce stain remover round to disguise the burning smell.

So, I was mediocre at maths and terrible at fire safety.

Learning a classical instrument is a non-negotiable for tiger cubs (tiger parents fear that drum or guitar lessons will lead to a life of rock and roll) and I was shuttled off to weekly piano lessons. I tried to master simple minuets under the tutelage of Mr Murry. Despite being paid good money to teach me, it appeared that he couldn’t and didn’t want to. Might it have been something to do with the way that I kept pronouncing Chopin as ‘choppin’’? We’ll never know, but he begged my parents to let me quit.

It wasn’t all fractions and sonatas though, as academic excellence cannot be achieved without physical fitness. Tennis was the chosen sport. Dad lugged buckets of balls around and patiently tossed hundreds of them in my direction as I hopefully swung my racquet. He’d watch my D-grade matches with extreme interest as I struggled to remember the score and felt bad when my opponent hit the ball out. These games were treated with all the seriousness of a Wimbledon final and included a pre-match speech that could have motivated a Roman army.  

But, despite my parents attempts to send me down the tigress path of excellence, it seemed I was a failed tiger cub. A different animal needed to emerge.

Much to their bewilderment, I studied humanities in university. They gave me a fearful look as I chose subjects such as ‘Victorian Poetry, Disease and Desire’ and ‘Russian Soviet Cinema’.

And now, with my brother and me well into our careers, Mum neatly summarises our achievements as: “My son is a doctor and Kelly works full time.”

I’m also a parent and it’s no surprise that I’m no tiger. In fact, my partner calls us Poodle Parents. We’re fluffy, soft-hearted and unaggressive.

How do poodles parent?

My eldest has books to read after school. Following a snack and an amount of screen time that contravenes WHO’s recommendations, we’ll start.

After a few pages, she might say she’s tired.  My response? “Let’s have a rest.”

Another time, she said the images in her book were too scary. I concurred that the lizard did have weird eyes. Plus, she’d read a stop sign the other day which will have contributed to her literacy levels.

Despite our gentle approach to achievement, there’s a method to poodling. Poodles may have laughable hairdos, but they don’t have a brutal fringe. They’re known for being intelligent, fun and instinctive. We hope that our less prescriptive approach will enable our children to find their own passions.

But as we know, the best laid plans of tigers and poodles go awry.

My eldest recently sidled up to my parents (retired tigers) and said, “Can you give me some maths sums to do?”

I saw the glint in their feline eyes and a work sheet instantly appeared.

Then, when we were discussing ballet classes, I assured her that she never had to do an exam. It was all about fun.

But if I don’t do the exam, I won’t get the certificate, she said.

I gave her a sideways look.

It looks like the tiger gene may have skipped a generation. My young poodle has stripes.