My kid whines when piano practice gets too hard. "It's boring."
I snap back, "We don't say that. Bring back your focus, and keep practicing."
He starts pouting, clock-watching, sandbagging.
I furrow my brow and sigh. Sometimes I make a joke to lighten the mood (oh my my, mixed messaging!).
Loose sheets of music fall to the ground, due to a sudden breeze called "his arm". He bangs the keys.
I walk over and grab his small hand in my big hand, forcing him to replace the fallen paper and sit properly. I say loudly and forcefully into his face, "No! you are not allowed to hit the piano" while physically towering over him.
I can joke around with every Asian American[^1] male of my generation, about our fathers who: never told us they were proud of us (don't be satisfied! now's not the time to rest on your laurels); never expressed physical affection (can't sissify your sons!); never played ball or video games with us (don't model sloth or laziness, or even enjoyment!). That's if they were a...
