China Boy

China Boy

(Excerpts)

1

Concrete Crucible

The sky collapsed like an old roof in an avalanche of rock and boulder， cracking me on the noggin and crushing me to the pavement[1].Through a fog of hot tears and slick blood I heard words that at once sounded distant and entirely too close.It was the Voice of Doom[2].

“China Boy，” said Big Willie Mack in his deep and easy slum basso，“I be from Fist City.Gimme yo’ lunch money， ratface[3].”

“Agrfa,” I moaned.

He was standing on my chest.I was not large to begin with； now I was flattening out[4].

“Hey， China Boy shitferbrains[5].You got coins fo’ me， or does I gotta teach you some manners？”

In my youth， I was， like all kids， mostly a lot of things waiting to develop.I thought I was destined for dog meat.Of the flat， kibbled variety.[6]

In the days when hard times should have meant a spilled double-decker vanilla ice cream on absorbent asphalt， I contented with the fact that I was a wretched streetfighter.[7]

“China,” said my friend Toussaint.“You’se gotta be a streetfighta.”

I thought a “streetfighta” was someone who busted up pavement for a living.I was right.I used my face to do it.[8]

I had already developed an infantryman’s foxhole devotion； I constantly sought cover from a host of opportunities to meet my Maker.[9]I began during this stage to view every meal as my last， a juxtaposition of values that made the General Lew Wallace Eatery on McAllister[10] my first true church.Its offerings of food， in a venue where fighting was unwelcome， made my attendance sincere.

The Eatery was a rude green stucco shack.On one side was a bar named the Double Olive that looked like a dark crushed hat and smelled like the reason Pine Sol was invented[11].On the other flank was an overlit barbershop with linoleum floors in the pattern of a huge checkerboard.

The Eatery’s windows were blotched mica of milky greased cataract，its walls a miasma of fissured paint， crayoned graffiti， lipstick， blood， and ink.I always imagined that Rupert and Dozer， the Eatery’s sweaty，corpulent cooks， were refugees from pirate ships.They had more tattoos than napkins， more greased forearms than tablecloths.They were surly，they were angry， they were bearded and they were brothers， bickering acidly over what customers had ordered， over the origin of complaints or the mishandling of precious change； enemies for life， and so angered by countless hoarded and well-remembered offenses experienced and returned that no one would consider even arguing inside the Eatery， lest the mere static of disagreement spark a killing frenzy by the anger cooks[12].

“Flies， please，”[13] I said to Rupert， who was the smaller， but louder，sibling.

“Fries！ Crap！ Boy， how long you bin in dis country？ You bettah learn how ta talk， an’ you bettah have some coin， and don be usin no oriental mo-jo on me[14].Don job me outa nothin！[15]” His voice churned like a meat grinder that had long been abused by its owner.

The Lew Wallace Eatery’s proximity to dying winos and artistic kids，its daunting distance from the Ritz， its casualness in differentiating dirt from entree—all were of no consequence to young folk who had tasted its fries and salivated to worship them again.Inside， food was ample， aromas were beguiling and my scuffed and badly tied Buster Browns were drawn like sailors to Sirens[16].

The Eatery was central to the nutrition of the Panhandle[17]， but it failed to draw critics from the papers， gourmets from other nations， or gourmands from the suburbs.Passersby in search of phones， tourists seeking refreshments， the disoriented hoping for directions would study the Eatery’s opaquely cracked windowpanes， the cranky bulk of its grill managers， and steadfastly move on.The Eatery had not been featured in the convention bureau’s brochures.The Panhandle was the butt end of the underbelly of the city， and was lucky to have plumbing.

San Francisco is possessed with its own atmosphere, proudly conscious of its untempered and eccentric internationalism.With grand self-recognition, it calls itself “the City.” It is foreign domesticity and local grandeur.It is Paris, New York, Shanghai, Rome, and Rio de Janeiro captured within a square peninsula, seven by seven miles, framed by the vastness of the Pacific Ocean and the interior half-moon of satellite villages rolling on small hills with starlight vistas of Drake’s Bay.

The City’s principal park is the Golden Gate， a better Disneyland for adults than anything Walt ever fashioned[18].It has aquaria， planetaria， stadia，museums， arboreta， windmills， sailing ships， make-out corners， Eastern tea gardens， statues， ducks， swans， and buffalo.The park runs east directly from the Pacific Ocean for nearly half the width of the City， traversing diverse neighborhoods as blithely as a midnight train crosses state lines.

The Panhandle is where Golden Gate Park narrows to the width of a single block.It looks like the hand of a frying pan, and is almost in the dead center of the city.On this surface I came to boyhood, again and again,without success.I was a Panhandler.Panhandler boys did not beg.We fought.

A street kid with his hormones pumping， his anger up， and his fists tight would scout ambitiously in the hopes of administering a whipping to a lesser skilled chump.That was me.I was Chicken Little[19] in Thumpville，the Madison Square Garden for tykes.It was a low-paying job with a high price in plasma.[20] I had all the street fighting competence of a worm on a hook.

Street fighting was like menstruation for men—merely thinking about it did not make it happen; the imagined results were frightening; and the rationale for wanting to do it was less than clear.

Fighting was a metaphor.My struggle on the street was really an effort to fix identity， to survive as a member of a group and even succeed as a human being.The jam was that I felt that hurting people damaged my yuing chi， my balanced karma.I had to watch my long-term scorecard with the Big Ref in the permanently striped shirt.Panhandle kids described karma as， what go around， come around.[21]

“Kai Ting,” my Uncle Shim said to me, “you have excellent yuing chi,karma.You are the only living son in your father’s line.This is very special, very grand!”

I was special.I was trying to become an accepted black male youth in the 1950s—a competitive， dangerous， and harshly won objective.This was all the more difficult because I was Chinese.I was ignorant of the culture，clumsy in the language， and blessed with a body that made Tinker Bell look ruthless[22].I was guileless and awkward in sports.I faced an uphill challenge with a downhill set of assets.

I was seven years old and simpler， shorter， and blinder than most.I enjoyed Chinese calligraphy， loved Shanghai food， and hated peanuts and my own spilled blood.[23] It was all very　simple， but the results were so complicated.God sat at a big table in T’ien， Heaven， and sorted people into their various incarnations.I was supposed to go to a remote mountain monastery in East Asia where I could read prayers and repeat chants until my mind and soul became instruments of the other world.I had a physique perfect for meditation， and ill-suited for an inner-city slum.

God sneezed， or St.Pete tickled Him， and my card was misdealt onto the cold concrete of the Panhandle， from whence all youth fled—often in supine postures with noses and toes pointed skyward.[24]

Some who survived became cops， but more became crooks.We played dodgeball with alcohol， drugs， gambling， sharp knives， and crime.[25]As children， we learned to worry about youth who held hidden razors in their hands and would cut you for the pleasure of seeing red.We avoided men who would beat boys as quickly as maggots took a dead dog in a closed and airless alleyway.The compulsion to develop physical maturity long in advance of emotional growth was irresistible.It caused all kids， the tough and the meek， the tall and the small， to march to the same drum of battle.

It was a drum tattoo[26] that was foreign to the nature of my mother，but all too familiar to her life.This beat resonated with the strength of a jungle tom-tom in my father， but it ran counter to the very principles of his original culture and violated the essence of his ancient， classical education and the immutable humanistic standards of Chinese society.

Almost to a man， or boy， the children of the Panhandle became soldiers， until the Big Card Dealer issued a permanent recall， with the same result.Noses up.[27]

As we struggled against the fates， Korea was claiming its last dead from the neighborhood， the ‘hood[28]， and Vietnam and every evil addiction society could conjure were on the way.

6

Revolution

While the manly stage of development on the street would last a decade, only the first year was dehumanizing.At home, however, the process of reconstruction began badly and soon worsened.

To an unformed child， Edna Madalyn McGurk Ting was like nuclear fusion.[29] Awesome power， few controls， and no reasonable comprehension for the technically uninformed.

I think she liked me until she heard me speak, watched me walk, saw my clothing, observed my skinniness, and realized that I ate Chinese food willingly.

She had come from wealth and had mistaken Father’s moneyed past as a precursor for the future.She had never before met a poor banker.We were waiting for a number of good things to happen， such as winning the Irish Sweepstakes[30] or discovering uranium under the staircase.None of these events occurred.Edna pretended that they already had.She used denial the way Big Willie Mack used fists.

“Tell me again,” she sighed languorously to my father, “about the servants who bathed your mother.” Or about the live-in cook’s family, the splendid fish cook, the live-in tailor who could fix Western watches.About the Sikh house constabulary, the personal maids, the servants who swept the outside verandas and journeyed to the burial grounds to sweep graves,the servants who stood silently against the walls of the dining room during meals, waiting to offer the gold tongue scrapers and gargling bowls before dessert, the amahs who tended the many raucous children of the Ting clan.

The geocultural distance between Shanghai and Philadelphia describes all the differences in the world, but she completely understood one major element in our domestic practice: the hallowed protection of family secrets.

When Stepmother Edna’s younger sister Eileen visited us, I was instructed, “You will smile and obey me absolutely while Aunt Eileen is here.If you do not, if you show that dull, ugly, scowly little Asiatic expression in her presence I will make you sleep outside in the street and will tan your bottom black and blue.”

She could not have learned to think like that at Smith[31].

When Aunt Eileen arrived with her family， Janie and I smiled like beauty-queen contestants until our faces ached.We were ready to do toothpaste ads for Ipana or Pepsodent[32].

“Don’t you wish you looked like our cousin Kate?” I asked Janie.I had wanted to look black, but Eileen and Kate had more food, nicer clothes, and apparently had never been beaten.

“Shhh！” hissed Janie.“Speak in English！ No！ Why would I want to look like a lo fan ghost？ Her hair is so light， it looks like it’s not there.[33]”She paused.

“It’s weird; Eileen doesn’t seem anything like Edna.Something really bad must’ve happened to her.”

True, I thought.Me.

“I’m so lucky!” cried Edna to her sister.“These children are wonderful.They are the blessings of my life.”

“See that you maintain this comportment at all times,” she instructed after Eileen left.

To keep a secret, Edna sacrificed truth and took no prisoners.

“As far as anyone else is concerned, we are not poor.We are merely saving for future purchases.”

I feel sympathy for her now, when my regrets can provide her no comfort, and the memory of my growing antipathy sits like corrosive guilt on the linings of my heart.

She expected to be the happy wife of a good lawyer, without any intent to have children.She instead became a lonely bereaved widow.Then she anticipated joining a sophisticated Chinese society family and living comfortably, and ended up in a mother role without the money, the temperament, or the training.

In making our family a victim of her cultural chauvinism, she administered a self-inflicted wound and denied herself the love and affection that could have been the sustenance of her life.

Father， known as the Colonel， was a celebrity of sorts in Chinatown.He was a decorated war hero， a former biplane fighter pilot， a paratrooper trained by the American army， an infantryman trained by the Germans.He worked for Madam Amethyst Jade Cheng， who had as much wealth as Croesus and whose parents had possessed impeccable political connections to Chiang Kai-shek.[34] She had a deep， rich laugh that showed all her teeth.She was a free person， invigorated every day by the undeniable fact of her freedom， elevated by the inestimable breadth of her material wealth.She loved success， adored money， and learned charity.It was only the latter fact that drew my father to her in any personal way：charity was American.

I remember Madame Cheng as two people.First, as an alabaster goddess who was almost spritelike, a young woman prancing in the world of mature financiers, giggling as I and other young sons of her employees knelt and pressed our foreheads to the cold, re-tiled floor.Within the space of a few years, she had abandoned her ivory complexion for the burnished bronze of a frequent traveler to the south of France and would laughingly pull us to our feet whenever the kow tao seemed appropriate.

“Young gentlemen！” she said in her Shanghai-accented Mandarin.“You are Americans！ Don’t bow！ Chew gum！” and she would laugh as she lifted her chin， her ebony-black， short-cropped， Dutch Boy coif[35] falling back from her prominent forehead.

Father was poor, handsome, direct, and dashing.He was utterly unconventional.Father saw what had become of traditional Chinese values in the modern world.He had suffered the chaos, the irresponsibility, the waste, and the obsolescence of a culture that could not fashion an airborne corps, run a modern railway, operate a film industry, or defeat superstition.

His father, a friend of the poppy and an escort for concubines, a man who had not worked a day in his life, had been Chinese.My father was going to be American.

“We are in America!” he roared at his colleagues in the China Lights Bank, causing inkwells to jump and paper stacks to crash to the tiled floor.

“No more ancestor worship! No more stinking joss sticks!Firecrackers to chase spirits! No!! We should be celebrating Thanksgiving and Fourth of July! And memorizing goddamn Constitution! To form more perfect union, establish justice!”

So Father was in a unique position—a society notable whose rabid pro-Americanism placed him on the daring edge of the social register[36].Neo-hero， counterculture rebel.A middle-aged Jimmy Dean.[37]

The president of the bank was a hard-faced aesthete with cheekbones so deeply indented that he appeared skull-like under harsh ceiling lights.He had been a Cheng kinsman in the Su Sung Tai and had honorably carried a fourth of the wealth of the clan out of war-torn China to the Bank of England, in his patron’s name.Amethyst Jade knew that Mr.Lew could have forgotten his duty and disappeared in storied opulence in Zurich.But he was the ultimate in loyalty, drawn to his boss by her entrepreneurial courage, her charismatic capitalism.He was also amused by Father’s unconventionality, and clearly marveled at him for his lack of focus on wealth.I think he regarded the marriage to Edna McGurk as a supreme coup, since Edna looked like the women who made movies in Hollywood and advertised kitchen soaps in the magazines.But there were some in the community who did not share his cosmopolitanism.

When the later woes of the China Lights Bank became common knowledge, Edna discovered that we were genuinely poor.

Victoria Lum Ting， one of the powers in the local family association，visited our house.She made a point of speaking to all of us in Songhai[38]，and dealing with Edna as if she were the village idiot.Victoria， who had all the compassion of a toad after flies， knew that Father’s fortune was waning while her wealth increased.The word was out on Grant Avenue： Amethyst Jade is restructuring and will base her operations henceforth in Singapore and Hong Kong.All staff who wish can follow.Those who stay possess their own joss.[39]

Edna, would you want to live in Singapore?” asked Father.

“Oh, darling, you can’t be serious!” she exclaimed.“The communists would love to take Singapore.It fell to the Japanese in—hours! You can’t possibly want me to be so close to the Reds!”

Victoria wore her most sumptuous mink coat, her fingers winking with every diamond ring she could borrow from the Ying Yum Jewelry Mart.Victoria’s rude demeanor did not promise improved East-West relations.

“Ah ha, Ting Taitai,” said Victoria.“You like mink, or you like sable?Thank golly my husband, when he alive, no put his money in China Lights Bank! So, you think go, Singapore? Ha-ha.Nice ring, ehah?”

So my pushing and hustling for Chinese food in what was regarded as a hostile tongue must have set the worst possible tone for positive coexistence.The sound of the Chinese language had become Edna’s talisman for poverty, exclusion, isolation.

This set up the Sunday punch.This was the Western world, where to spare the rod was to spoil the child.On the other hand, the Chinese think that if you continually beat a youngster or slap him in the face his brains will seep through his ears.And you will be rewarded in later years with someone who fires burning arrows into everyone’s barns.

“Why must you make terrible faces at me when I tell you to do something?” she asked.

I struggled for the words.

“You’re frowning again!” Stop that! said her hand against my cheek.The nonverbal tradition of the family was being upheld.

She discovered that fate had rendered her a missionary, tasked with the salvation of a heathen band of lost souls, without offerings at the altar or solace in the prayers.Missionaries should have willing flocks.It is tough to reform something that is shapeless and indifferent to improvement, like Jell-O in the hands of a carpenter.

We had lost our cultural glue in the Run.The keepers of the flame of custom were dead， absent， or in college.[40]

Edna McGurk valued the suburban look.This was the ascent of the Golden Fifties， when Good Housekeeping was more than a magazine and the concept was grander than a golden seal.[41] Suburban thinking was in vogue， but totalitarianism was better.It was also more affordable.

“Sit up taller.Put your knife on the back of the plate.Keep the napkin square on your lap or it will fall off, and you may not drop anything on the floor.Cut small pieces and chew methodically with your mouth totally closed.No speaking at the dinner table.Elbows off, wipe your mouth.”There was much to learn.

Whipped by bad fortune， surrendering to the inexorable gravity of downward-sliding consequences， Edna enforced home order without compromise.Discipline was the staff of life[42].It became our true religion，more impressive than the magical fries in the Lew Wallace Eatery， more eloquent than the heavenly chorus in the neighborhood Holy Christian Church of Almighty God.

But the application of discipline was uneven.Edna was intimidated by Jennifer and Megan’s maturity, and they were in college at Cal.Jennifer Sung-ah was studying music; Megan was in education.Jennifer liked Edna because she was smart and honest.Megan liked Edna because she did not torture her, as our mother had.

Jennifer could have outwitted Einstein and was the safest from Edna’s interference.That left the short sprouts of Janie and me.[43] Edna was not reluctant to beat us for an endless series of capital transgressions， usually involving facial expressions， illegally spoken Chinese， poor table manners，and miserable carping about being slapped， hit， and kicked， in that order.

I had never been hit before.I think my sisters used to squeeze my arms or other appendages when my crying became insufferable, but face-slapping was not appropriate.Nor was kicking.Or punching.

The first time Stepmother Edna hit me I was convinced it was a mistake and waited dumbly for an apology.She was waiting for mine.When I realized that she meant to hit me， I trembled and let loose the tears of the Last Flood[44].Edna discovered， to her surprise， that more， emphatic hitting did not terminate my crying.I felt pain， outrage， more pain， hot anger.Then， a flat disassociation.I am not here， I said， limiting my involvement in the world to the range of my myopic eyes.Edna wondered if I was retarded， but the thought was not enough to save me.

Megan hinted that slapping children in the face was not Chinese.

“We are not in China, Megan,” Edna would say through her teeth.“That is precisely the point I am striving to make.”

Then Janie announced that if Edna ever touched her again， she would kill her.Janie had turned fourteen without a party， a noisemaker， or a hot cup of tea.She looked twelve， and had been as innocent as Mary’s little lamb[45].Like all children， she was not inherently violent； she was adapting to the culture of her home.We thought we were becoming European.

“How would you kill her?” I whispered in Songhai while Janie read the Hunan chopsticks story to me.

“I will drive the chi tz, the car, and run over her,” she said.I nodded.That idea made sense.We respected driving as others regarded natural catastrophes.

Edna figured she could not afford to call Janie’s bluff.After all, what if she meant it? So I became the sole target of corporal punishment.I was beginning to see a global purpose to Edna’s plan.Beat him on inside, whip him on the outside, and pretty soon he’ll cooperate and tell us everything.You know, spill the beans.

I just couldn’t figure out what the information was.

Edna stormed me with words—an incessant, articulate torrent of elevated vocabulary uttered with careful diction and unmistakable menace.My ears began to ring in response to her anger.I did not understand her,and she could barely tolerate me.

But her true weapons were emotional.Oh， Kai， did you not pick up your room？ Fine.See this model airplane？ Crunch！ It was a balsa Curtis P-40 Tomahawk[46]， carefully completed just a few days before.Is this your creamed corn unfinished on the plate？ Very well， no dinner tomorrow， and I will take your firetruck away.Take that look off you face！ Slap！ Crunch！to the firetruck， and Smash！ again as it resists her stomps.Whap， I told you to keep your elbow from the table.I gave you three minutes to be in the bathroom and you have taken four.Kick.You did not move your bowels at 7：30 as I instructed.How else can you become regular？ Kick.Oh， you did not go to sleep as directed， at eight？ Slap.Very well.You may not speak to Jane for one day.Your clothes look terrible， almost as bad as you， be that possible.I don’t care how it happened.Don’t make that face！ Slap！

I watched her destroy my toys, numb in the face of loss and helpless in the tide of history.

Janie stood up to Edna, and was rewarded with progressively worsening life conditions.

“Edna, would I be able to invite Donna Riley over?” she asked.Janie did not look at our stepmother, controlling her face.

“Please address me, Jane, as ‘Stepmother Edna.’”

“Stepmother Edna.Can Donna Riley visit?”

“When?” asked Edna.

“Whenever.This weekend?”

“No,” said Stepmother Edna.

“Some other time, then?”

Edna did not answer.

Edna provided me two gifts.The first was respite from peanuts.Mother’s conditioning had worked； when I ate them， I became violently ill.Edna hated acceding to my weaknesses， but she hated the consequences of forcing her way with peanuts.The other gift was allowing me to keep my blankie， the one positive fugitive from the law of averages and an enduring survivor from the forces of assimilation.[47] I looked at my blankie with hope； if it could survive， then so might I.

30

Fire

My father rose with the dawn， bounding out of bed with instant energy.He knocked on my door and I struggled out the tub[48]， running to my room with my icons to dress completely before returning to the bathroom.

It was one of Edna’s rules.Father， son， That Girl， and the Bathroom Minuet.[49] I wait for Father.I cannot leave the room to use the bathroom until I am completely dressed.

“Young men cannot show their bodies before ladies,” she said.

Jane must wait until I am done before she can use it.She’s a pretty teenager with long and complicated, time-consuming hair.I’m a skinny rail who has no use for a mirror I cannot see.But Edna has ordained me with bathroom priority because it is something Jane wants and something about which I am indifferent.

Jane had made our father’s lunch the night before.I ate tze, a Songhai rice porridge, while he read The Chronicle.Edna was still in bed, the only way we could manage to have Chinese food.

When Father, smartly dressed in one of his two suits, left with his lunch, Jane appeared, finished the tze and washed away the evidence.She left for Roosevelt and I prepared for Fremont.I wore my thickest clothing and tied my new laces very tight.

“Never let yur laces break inna middle of a bout,” said Mr.Barraza.“Embarrassin as hell, yur shoe comin off.”

If I survive the day, I thought, I will show Jane my picture of Mommy.It was a big incentive, for I knew that Jane would love it and feel the love of our mother, just by looking at the memory of her face.I made my bed and left it under my pillow, facedown.I tightened the black electrical tape with my game plan around my left wrist.

“Kai,” whispered Jane.“Good luck!”

I looked at her quizzically.

“You talk in your sleep,” she said.“I can’t believe that you’re sleeping in the tub.”

School took forever.Two-two-one， I said to myself， holding the jar of oil.It was in a Dundee Marmalade crockery jar[50].Some kids wanted to taste it.It’s nothing， I said.They persisted.I opened it and told them it was Chinese food， the statement not contradicted in their minds by the noxious metallic aromas.They made faces as they surrendered their interests in culinary cosmopolitanism.I was developing a sense of humor.

“Why chicken cross road？[51]” I asked.

“Aw, China Boy.We heard dat one!”

I asked Blade Brown, who sat next to me and could read the far wall clock, to tell me when it was 3:05.I then asked Mrs.Halloran if I could use the bathroom, and she said of course, and that I Do Not Have To Come Back.

I stood in the playground， near the hopscotch grids[52]， far from the tether poles， with my jar at my feet.I was breathing very fast， bouncing on my feet， stretching my calves.Quads for flight， calves for fight.[53] I blew air out like Mr.Barraza in the weightroom.

I rolled my shoulders, popping my elbows in practice jabs and hooks.I didn’t stretch my high-rising right cross; it felt tight and coiled, ready in a nervy, tingling way, saved for Willie as a special gift from my teachers.

I remembered the things Hector told me.

The west sun was behind me， and would be in his face.I loosened my shirt collar and retied my shoes， a hundred times.I thought about the way he hit little kids.Mr.Lewis， Mr.Barraza， and Mr.Punsalong didn’t like that.Mr.Pueblo thought it stank.Me too.I set my face to angry.I pissed！ I said to myself.I stood tall， rolled my shoulders back like Toussaint.I thought about rolling up my sleeves， decided against it.One more layer of protection.I said my Litany of Big Willie， as Hector and Mr.Punsalong had taught me[54]：

“I know I ‘flaid, ‘fraid.I know I feeling, velee very, big-time.Big Willie very big strong boy.I know my heart jump.I sweat, got no spit.I keep breathe, always keep breathe.Don rike hit, brud, blood.I hate boy who take my crows, clothes, my shoes, my Keds.Spit on me.Ain’t cool.Not fair!

“So， Y.M.C.A.boxer keeps stance.Head down， left up， shuffle，combo， all time， big-time.[55] I hit with chi， from gut.Hurt him， big-time.Do one time， onry one time.I spen’ everyting.Leave nothin.Do or die.No rematch wif pig.No， sir.Ain’t cool.He a chump.Think Toos.Think Mighty Mouse.Think Burt Rancaster.Hit google like train kick cow.” I thought of Barraza， Lewis， and Punsalong.Mr.Miller.Tío Hector.I closed my eyes， keeping them inside me， in the place where my mother lay shimmering as a cool but enduring memory.The pantheon for my try and my trial was complete.[56]

The 3:10 bell rings and slowly, as an amoebic mass, the kids emerge.Big Willie is easy to see—a big head above the crowd of children.As he comes closer, he slaps another sixth-grader on the arm and points at me.

The blood roars in my ears as if I have already been hit.My heart is tripping wildly.My stomach churns in a sour, acidic compression of anxiety and raw fear.I unhinge the wire lock on the jar with frightful,fumbling fingers, almost dropping it, and I realized that I am whimpering like a baby rat.

Willie walks directly for me and the glare of the sun; his head seems immense.When he steps on my shadow I express-shuffle up—advancing fast with my guard up—and tip the jar over his shoes.Nothing happens.Then the dark gunk burbles out, spilling on his shoes.

“What da fuck？” he says and jumps back， banging into other kids，knocking them down like tenpins.One PF Flyer hightop looks like it came from the La Brea tarpits.[57] The other is splotched.Some of the stuff， a blackish slimey sludge that smells like wet bitter ore drawn from the subcore of the earth， is on his jeans.

Willie’s face is captured by disbelief.Intellectual dissonance rules his mind, his concerns about being first to grab french fries at the Eatery suspended for the moment.He was about to laugh about my funny shuffling approach to him and then all this shit lands on his Flyers.

Someone takes the jar from my hand.It is Toussaint.

“Jee-e-zuz Lord!” he exclaims in four syllables.He is staring goggle-eyed at Willie.“Duke ‘em!” he hisses, and shakes my arm.I am looking at Willie’s surprised face, enjoying his confusion.“China!” he cries.Toos hits me, hard, on the arm, awakening me.

“Oww!” I cry.Then I remember.“Uh, yo’ shoes.Ugly?!” I say, loud as I can.I sound like a mouse, my voice lost in the crowd, my mind swollen with the effort to maintain mental focus and control over my skyrocketing emotions.“Dey ugly?” I shout.

I go into the stance, and Big Willie looks as large as a building over my fists.He is larger than the body bag.My brain is tripping at light speed,calling up the fifteen parts of my body and organizing my training for the bout.My adrenaline is pumping hard.

Top of the Morning， Young Gentlemen， announcing the bout for the mind， body， spirit， and future of China Boy Kai Ting， the superlight featherweight in the blue jeans on the hopscotch corner， who is going to touch gloves with a welterweight， the boy as big as all outdoors， Big Willie Mack， wearing tractor crankcase oil， ugly Flyers， and an expression that makes China Boy’s gonads feel like returning to base.[58]

My body’s in the right attitude and I have my feet, my profile.Willie is trying to produce profanities, but he is still stuck with the enormity, the stupidity of what I have done to his sneakers.He keeps looking at them and at me, trying to add it up.His mind clears.

“You-you fuckin-fuckin muthafuckin muthafucka!” he screams.The words mean nothing to me, but I know he is being neither friendly nor imaginative.I flinch.

I guess that he was thinking about Lucky and our Christmas fight,about having pulverized me on New Year’s Day, and about the number of people now around us.Big Willie did not fight for crowd approval.He fought for the pleasure of taking things that were not his.The Car Barn in early evening was his venue.Not high afternoon in the Fremont schoolyard.The pupils are out, with teachers in the mob.I can’t tell who they are.They create a natural ring for us.

No one had stood up to Willie for a couple years.

I squint and in my mind I hear the echoes of my four guiding fathers[59]，their advice melding： all I have to do is hurt him， to give， not receive.Spend it all， leave nothing.Don be afraid yo’ own sangre， chico，you got lots.Two-two-one.It’s gonna hurt like leeches on your dick， but when it’s over， you are a free man.

My shoes are tight, his prized sneakers have tractor grutch on them, I am thinking, and he is having trouble getting his curses out.The spirits are with me.My ears tingle as I yearn to hear Mr.Barraza’s voice in my corner.I feel him in my hands.

Make your move, Master Willie.I not running.

Willie shouts， which makes me flinch from my laces to my tonsils[60]，but I keep my guard up.His right hand moves for me， and I hesitate.It is coming slowly I think I have somehow inhaled too many fumes from the Double Olive Bar[61].He has a huge fist， and I watch it come near as hobos see trains approach from the smoky distance.Do it！

I shuffle fast， but stiffly， inside him， willing myself， forcing myself， to close with him， to approach his hulking menace.Lifting my left foot and pumping my right to jam me inside his punch， I keep my left high and my head low， protecting the left side of my head and face.I bring my right cross up with all my back and my hips.[62] I know it is a great punch before it reaches his throat.When I make contact with his neck， I still have most of the power waiting in my shoulder and upper arm， and I let it all go and punch through with everything in me.I grunt as I smack it in.I feel the long contact with the details of his Adam’s apple against my knuckles.The force from my legs and back transfer into his throat.He makes a gargling noise like Evil trying to inhale a hot dog inside the wrapper.Then Willie’s right hand hits my left guard， in the center of the bone in my upper arm，where the deltoid meets the biceps and the triceps.[63] I go numb， knowing I am in trouble.

“Ahhhh!” I moan.

I shuffle back for time and space， stop， will myself to move in， lunge and throw my right cross again for the same spot， his throat， punching it solidly.It is like hitting the body bag because he has not moved laterally[64]，and my wrists have the shock that comes from little kids laying fists into the huge one-hundred-pound sack.I feel the black electrical tape supporting the circumference of my wrist as the other hand bangs into him.His arms come up.

Now I really shuffle back, feeling his clinch, and jab my left toward his eye.It does not get there.My left arm, deadened from his big fist,disobeys the command to strike, and it leaves my shoulder slowly, without power, fizzling and missing his face.Everything is still moving in slow motion, and the pain in my arm is acute.I feel as if I have just been inoculated by a telephone pole.

Remember, says Mr.Punsalong’s voice, pain, it not for you, let it pass t’rue, don hol’ on to pain.Pain in your arm, not your pain.Give back.Shake it out.I shook my arms.

Big Willie is not together.[65] Coughing， his legs spastic.The fingers of his right hand splayed， searching for a grip while he holds his jumping throat in his left.I have never hit another kid so well， so true to original aim.Of course， I have never fought the broad side of a barn before，either.[66]

I keep my guard and move in， humping my shoulders， offering fakes，circling left， throwing numbed and decorous jabs[67].Then I use the jab as a parrying foil[68] and with my right I get some hits on his arms， his hands， his shoulders， stopping when he lands hot spiking punches on my left.

I go right, away from his punishing blows, sucking air, feeling something building inside my body.

Fighting is funny.Not funny like Danny Kaye and Lucille Ball， but funny as Aristophanes， as the Periclean Greeks， would have it.[69]

If a kid starts a fight by pushing, pushing will be returned.If it starts with kicking, kicking is the theme.That is why one should never bring a knife to a gunfight, a worm should not challenge Godzilla, and a chump should never box a boxer.

Willie， the mugging artist， is trying to box.He looks at my stance and guard and imitates it， but it is monkey-see， monkey-do[70].

I lower my guard， he lowers his， and I step in and punch him hard with my right， crossing into his nose， crossing into his damaged throat，putting my back into it， delivering it smartly with chi from my center.Right hook temple， left jab face， left jab face， right hook temple， and left hook temple， now my best punch.[71] The nerves in my left arm are back.Punch through！ I cry.Find the lanes！ Deliver！

Willie tries to defend himself.He tries to hit me.He telegraphs his right， he sends warnings about his left.He has no fakes， no counterpunches and is moving like molasses in January.[72] I have time to brush my teeth and fold clean towels between hammering him.I am now doing target selection， like Mr.Lewis in his silks， beating on the bag.I dance around him.

My crosses splash on his nose and face.The first right hook gets good solid temple， enough to really zap my fist with a series of internal electrical misfirings， and the jabs connect on his face and chin.[73] I know I am hitting him solidly because my hands and wrists hurt and ache as the skin comes off.I want to look at them but do not.

I concentrate on keeping my numb fists tight, resisting the muscles’desire to relax and open, to release the small pains.

The second right hook misses because my fist isn’t up to another contact， and I flinch before it crashes into his hard， almost-adult head.The left hook gets him below his floating ribs[74] and I can tell by his whimper that this is where he will hurt as much as anywhere， maybe even more than in the throat.I hate peanuts； Willie hates being hit in his flanks.

I bang them as hard as I can with sharp hammers and diggers[75]，making the sounds of a small child-machine at work， mewing with my effort， taking smashing knocks on my shoulders and arms that rob me of feeling and strength.He succeeds in deflecting me from his ribs， and I hook into his face.

His nose is bleeding from both nostrils and he gags with pain.Confused about having the China Boy hurt him， about the Sweet Science of the Duke[76]， he struggles to not cry and forgets to curse.

He drops his arms, spent, finished, his tears leaking.I know how they feel on bruised cheeks.Hot, without salve in them.I see the unbelievable as he stumbles away from me, out of the relative clarity of my vision.

[…]

“It over, Big Willie,” I tried to say.“No more bully?” I added.

“Bully?” he said, dully, suddenly belching a thick spittle of blood on his own shirt, struggling to rise, mindlessly pressing is entire body weight on my bruised hand to sit up.Then he bent from the waist, blinking as gunk from a forehead cut went into his eyes and he noisily retched onto the hopscotch boundaries, holding his gut, rubbing his sides while he whimpered, fighting to get up while he twistingly dumped brown vomit on the schoolyard.Pork ‘n’ beans.

“Ooooh, dat’s gross!” cried some of the little kids in high musical Munchkin voices.

Willie got up, and sat down.He waited a moment, and shakily stood,wiping his face with his trembling right arm.

Toussaint stepped over to him.

“He mean, no mo’ bully asshole boolshit on da block, Willie Mack,no mo’ takin udder kids’ clothes an shoes and quarters, and standin on dere faces at da Car Barn, talkin’ big ‘bout Fist City,” cried Toos.

“Yeah, dat’s right!” screamed a hundred short, shoeless, underdressed,empty-pocketed children.

Willie shook his big head.

“Fuck you, LaRue.”

Toos closed his fists.I tried to move, but my joints were locked.My hands would not close, and fear ran through me slowly, like the tingling of a sleeping foot.I had no fight left.

“Shee-it,” said Big Willie.

Then he laughed, hollowly.

“Da’s cool.No mo’, not today,” said Willie.He started to wobble, his knees failing.Mr.Isington helped him and looked into his eyes, searching for shrinking pupils.

Willie took shuddering breaths and kept wiping his face and coming up with fresh blood, and he looked at it in a strange, befuddled way, trying to figure out how all that red had gotten on him.It was dark on his shirt and pants.It painted the yard.Both of us were spitting, as if we had both ingested raw lop chong pork sausages, or peanuts.

I was looking at my bleeding knuckles and skinned hands when my right eye closed.I had never felt freer.I had a red cape on, a small mouse with a big chest flying through the clouds.

The shock of fighting Big Willie set in.I started to cry, my shoulders jerking, tears leaking from my eyes and running down my cheeks.I bent over, locking my arms onto my legs again, trembling, leaking fluids onto the pavement.

“Tsou gou wan bad dan，”[77] I muttered wetly.I shook my aching head and smiled awkwardly with the wonder of it， my swollen mouth down-turning when I thought of the fight.It was confusing， but wonderful.Liberation was sweet.I had just gotten an “A” in life.It ranked up there with having an open-meal ticket at the Crystal Palace Market[78].In the vegetable section.

I felt no shame in the tears.I needed to give something, to shed something, to balance the blood I had spilled, the karma of my water for his blood.I wept as I thought of Mr.Barraza’s tears for his boy, the goodness of his spirit and the hardness of his life, merging with the solitude of the men of the chess association, of my Uncle Shim.I saw myself as Mother might see me, cringing with her horror for the bloodied,physical condition of her Only Son, the unmusical, nonscholarly, brutish sport which her offspring had adopted as a way of life.

Oh, Mah-mee, oh, Mah-mee, I cried, crying for all of us, the forever dead, the lost, the injured, the pained, the recovering.

“Bravo， chico， you meanass streetfighta！[79]” shouted Hector Pueblo from far away， from the fence.I looked up， smiling blindly at his voice.

“Gracias, Tío Hector,” I tried to call, but only a whisper came out.Oh, Coach—Fathers.Thank you, Fathers.But I couldn’t speak.

Willie was standing, rubbing his gut, still spitting blood on the yard.

“China Boy,” he wheezed, “where da fuck you learn ta box like dat?”He spoke thickly, slowly, his own spit and blood and swollen lips fighting him.

I tried to clear my throat to speak.

Toussaint put his hands on Willis Mack’s heaving chest.He was reaching up to do it.

“You, Big Willie,” said Toussaint, giggling his silly high spastic donkey laugh.

“Fist City， ‘member？ Ya’ll invited him ta Fist City！ Ya’ll taught ‘em.An’ I wouldn’ be callin him no China Boy no mo， if’n I be you.He ain’t fo’ yo’ pickin-on no mo’.”[80]

31

Epilogue

I looked at the door that had once been my portal to safety.I trembled as the world seemed to slow, its many choices narrowing.

My face and arms were still wet from Momma LaRue’s cleaning me.“Good Lord, Good Lord,” she had said, clucking her tongue while she swabbed and swabbed, searching for the cuts.

“China done pound Big Willie, Momma,” Toos had said.

“He did? My, my, I’m happy to hear that.But—hold still, now chile while I pull this skin tag off.I surely don’t feel like clapping han’s and singin ‘Hallelujah.’ I think a finger’s busted.Kai, your stepma not gonna colly your clothes lookin like this.”

I looked down at my clothes and agreed; my garb did not look good.I took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.My doorbell.The doorbell that had once called up the small little chime god for my mother.“I know,” I said, “I ‘fraid.I know I fear, very, big-time.Big Willie very big strong boy…”

Edna looked down at me.“Oh my God,” she said.

I squared my shoulders and puffed out my chest.“I done poun’ Big Willie,” I said with great clarity.

“I don’t care what you have done.It is not dinnertime, and you have no business ringing this bell.”

“I want go inside,” I said.“I want drink water.”

“Why, you little—,” said Edna, raising her hand.

I brought my guard up while presenting my profile， my head down.There was no ache， only the comfort of a familiar stance， the security of the now-routine geometry of arms presented for defense[81].One finger stuck out of my right fist， like a small flag.

“You—you would raise your fist—to—to your mother?” she cried.

I kept my guard up.“You not my Mah-mee!” I said.“I ain’t fo’ yo’pickin-on, no mo’!”