My self-perception soon became my preoccupation. I was the new alien in Arizona. The Chinaman. The Kink. The easy and cheap laugh for people I didn’t know. And I was only in elementary school.
I’d left Narnia behind in Maryland. The world as a place of wonder and endless possibility became a dangerous place of shame and marginalization.
Soon I became more absorbed toward my physical appearance. My creative energy shifted toward proving to people that I was important. My thirst to explore the world turned into a preoccupation with trying to be accepted by others.
This Nature Boy had entered another part of the jungle he hadn’t known existed. The easiest way to make yourself feel better is to put someone else down. It’s survival of the fittest. It’s primal to size people up and draw conclusions. Am I safe? Are they safe? Will they eat my lunch? Can I eat theirs? My childhood imagination of a Disney-like world shifted toward a stark reality of vividly seeing critics and competitors. I learned how to be sharp with my tongue and beat them to the verbal punch.
The house had burned down that year, but so had the innocence of childhood. Yet something even worse began to grow inside me. It was a quiet compliance to the bullying around me. This became clear when a large kid in my neighborhood started mocking my mom.
Ramone, the neighborhood bully, looked and sounded like a grown man even though he was only ten years old. He was the type of kid who needed to start shaving in the fourth grade. He towered over all of us in our elementary school. He was bigger than many of the adult teachers. I heard him making comments not only about me but also about my mom.
“Does she even know English? Why didn’t she just stay in her own country?”
My little elementary school self envisioned standing up to Ramone like Bruce Lee in Fists of Fury. Bruce Lee was growing in popularity at the time. He tried to do feature films in the United States, but studios rejected him. He decided to go to Hong Kong, where his career took off. Bruce Lee became my generation’s hero who helped fight back against Americans’ racist attitudes toward Asians. We were characterized as docile, weak, malnourished, asexual, emasculated Asian men. If you were an Asian woman, you were usually sexualized, considered exotic, or demeaned. Most of us were just trying to “assimilate.” To become absorbed into the great white matrix.
Many people, not just white people, struggled with accepting the uniquenesses of Asians—or anyone who was not like them. Being an “other” in America was something the Black community had dealt with for centuries, and the growing group of “yellows” and “Orientals” also experienced racism, stereotyping, and marginalization. This was hardly new for Asians in America. Asians had been used and abused to build the railroads in America. They were the victims of hate crimes and discrimination. Whole families with children were sent to internment camps during World War II, where during that period of forced encampment they lost homes, businesses, farms and other properties, and jobs. There are records validating the abuse, trafficking, and even slavery of Asians in America. But as our numbers grew, so, too, did the comments, slurs, and overt racism, along with the calls to assimilate.
Bruce Lee, however, wasn’t having it. He was the embodiment of an attractive, muscular, strong Asian hero with a no-nonsense attitude toward people who looked down on Asians. In the midst of this assimilation focus was someone who embraced his unique identity. Bruce Lee didn’t want to assimilate. He integrated yet stayed true to himself.
For young Asian kids who didn’t see anyone like them on television or in starring roles at the theater, Bruce Lee was iconic. He offered hope for a rising group of Asians who felt out of place in America. He embodied the opposite of how I felt as a child in Arizona. He was strong, confident, calm, and cool. He wouldn’t walk away from the racism he faced. He challenged it and overcame it.
I loved to imagine standing before Ramone and facing him like Bruce Lee. Before Ramone moved, I would launch a simple kick to his chest and leave an imprint of my sneaker on his shirt while he flew straight through a window. But as much as I dreamed of standing up to Ramone, the reality was that I was afraid of him. I’d seen him fight at school; the guy was brutal. Regrettably, I never challenged him, not even when he brazenly mocked my mom directly to my face. I cowered in fear.
There are moments in life when you wish you spoke up. I was silent with Ramone that day but that embarrassing moment prepared me for a group of people who would teach me how to fight.
CHAPTER FOUR Fists of Fury
The biggest adjustment we made after moving to Arizona wasn’t transitioning into a new house. It came when we began to attend church for the first time. Uncle Lloyd’s hope all along had been to bring us to his local church, where he served as a part-time pastor. We never went to church before we moved to Arizona, so I knew nothing about God or Jesus or Muhammad or Buddha. If anything, my family was agnostic. My parents felt a bit obligated to go to Uncle Lloyd’s church since we were staying at their house. Religion wasn’t a part of our life, but it was about to become one. A very significant part.
On the first Sunday we visited, I spotted a sign that read “City Baptist Church: an Independent, Militant, Fundamentalist Baptist Church.” City Baptist and other churches like it were known as the “Fighting Fundamentalists.” I was too young to understand what these adjectives meant, but that branding was all over the church. I figured that if the people at Uncle Lloyd’s church were anything like Uncle Lloyd and his family, it couldn’t be all that bad. Maybe weird, but I figured they were the salt of the earth, good-natured, transplanted Midwesterners and East Coast people. When you go to a church that describes itself in this way, it should tell you a lot, but we were fresh from the East Coast and simply trying to make friends and adapt to our new desert environment. Besides, these were Uncle Lloyd’s friends.
Uncle Lloyd introduced our whole family to his Christian subculture of mostly blue-collar hardcore fundamentalist believers. It was its own world within the real world. A physical prelude to the metaverse. This was a religious alternative reality that felt familiar and safe because Uncle Lloyd was one of the leaders. The members of the church made us feel welcome. Not only did they see us, but we even had some insider favor because we knew Uncle Lloyd. City Church was helpful in getting our family connected to the area. The people made it feel like home. They were warm and accepting. The racist overtones I felt in the new public school were less common at this church.
When we moved into our new house, we thought we were living the dream: we had the kidney-shaped pool, new cars, and a beautifully furnished home. The young people of our church loved coming to our house to swim and eat our barbecued chicken, hot dogs, and hamburgers. We were considered cool and rich by the congregants who knew us. For the first time, I felt people envy my situation.
Mom quickly became well loved and popular at the salon nearby. She became the one making it financially rain for the owner of the salon. Mom would wake up around 5 a.m. and come back home between 5 and 6 p.m. She was always hustling. She didn’t have time to prepare meals, so she bought us TV dinners in shiny aluminum trays. If we were lucky, she’d bring home a bucket of KFC with all the sides of mashed potatoes, cole slaw, and biscuits.
We loved our new house, but we ended up finding a home at our church. We were genuinely excited about going to the services. For a family that had been primarily left to ourselves in Maryland, entering this new church community was exciting. My hardworking parents started hosting pool parties and gatherings at our house on weekends. Many of the others in this church community also considered themselves outsiders. They believed they were a minority group of people taking a “narrow” road that others in the world wouldn’t take. They were willing to suffer ridicule and abuse for their beliefs. Their mission was to be holy and separate from the world. Their passion was to see people saved from their sins and to help others know about the way to get to heaven. My dad and mom, who had always enjoyed a good party, had to reorient themselves to this new standard. My dad was directed to give up cigarettes if he was going to try to follow Jesus and abstain from “worldly” things. It was a cultural shift, but they had already made major adjustments as an interracial and intercultural couple. They knew how to adapt. We never saw them struggle with new settings or people. They could be the life of the party or let others shine. Dad’s only struggle with the rules in this church was the no smoking thing. Dad would secretly go to the alley behind our home to smoke. We knew where he hid his cigarettes. They were on this high shelf in the bathroom he thought we couldn’t reach. It was one of his few vices that we were aware of.
We soon got used to spending our whole Sundays at church. There were Sunday school classes before or after the services. Seeing “school” in the church bulletin was enough to give me hives. Why would any kid want to do “school” again on a Sunday? And then sitting through long services where they played an organ and sang old songs you’d never heard before? Add a speaker reading the Bible in what sounded like another language and who tells you if you don’t know Jesus, you’re going to hell? It definitely took some getting used to.
But my parents got “saved” (meaning that they were rescued from hell) and so did us kids. In fact, I got saved quite a few times. I was wearing the carpet out, walking up and down the aisles of the church whenever a speaker said we needed to come forward to accept Jesus so we wouldn’t go to hell. I felt embarrassed to keep taking the speakers up on their invitation, but my shame didn’t seem like too much to bear compared to spending an eternity in hell.
As a fourth grader, I’d run forward during the invitation after the pastor had given his message. I could feel the flames of hell torching my derriere. Every invitation was a chance to either become saved or rededicate my life to Jesus. Occasionally, they would invite us to serve God with our whole lives by choosing to become a missionary or pastor. That was the Holy Grail. Those who accepted this call were all in. Usually, an old hymn like “Just as I Am” was played multiple times. You would usually have a good five to ten minutes to respond. Every Sunday this would happen, in the morning and in the evening. Sometimes these come-to-Jesus moments happened in Sunday School, too, and anytime we had revival meetings.
“Let’s sing one more stanza,” the pastor would say. “Maybe there’s one more soul that’s ready to come.” “If you have any shadow of a doubt you’re not a Christian, you come now.” That phrase, ‘shadow of a doubt,’ got me every time. I had doubts all the time.
Sure, maybe this was just a ploy to give people more time to come up for the altar call. But time after time, I’d feel compelled to go up before the last stanza was sung. The speakers were so passionate and emotional that I couldn’t help but be swayed—or more accurately, terrified. I probably walked forward or said the same prayer in my seat at least a hundred times during these invitations. I wasn’t convinced my soul was saved.
We were also introduced to revival meetings. Revivals were special meetings held on Sundays and throughout the week. Visiting evangelists came with captivating, polished, well-rehearsed, riveting, and dramatic messages. Our church said we couldn’t go watch Hollywood movies because of their “worldly” influence on us, so this was the next best thing. We’d cry and we’d laugh. Give money and make decisions to do more and be better. These meetings would fuel the growth of our new family church. They were Sunday services on Red Bull. We were encouraged to bring our friends so that they, too, wouldn’t go to hell. Who needed televisions and theaters? We had all the drama we needed in church. The messages were usually very theatrical and entertaining. You’d cry and laugh the whole time.
Revival meetings could be from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. every night of the week during certain seasons of the year. The service began with a kind welcome to everyone, then a few hymns. Special music followed, by either a group or an individual. Then different evangelists came in and talked about hell or the sins that we had been committing, like pride, anger, fighting, and thinking too many lustful thoughts. They also worked to convince us that we were living in the last days before Jesus would return to judge the world. The speakers prophetically declared an apocalyptic nightmare for most people after Jesus returned. But if you were a Christian, you had a golden ticket out. You would be taken up to heaven in an event called “the Rapture.” A Star Trek–like event where millions of people would be beamed up into the presence of God. You didn’t want to be left behind for what came after the Rapture—it would basically be endless torture. If you got left behind, hell on earth was awaiting you.
During one of the nighttime revivals, the special music was performed by The Inspirations. They were a group of young women with long, iron-curled hair that was feathered back and hair-sprayed meticulously into place. They wore long dresses they had sewn themselves, because that way they could be sure to stay within the standard of the appropriate length of skirts not dependent on “worldly” clothing designers. No skirts could rise above the knees. My sister, Chong, joined the group. Four white girls and Chong, who was the only Korean young woman in the church until one of the members of the church adopted two Korean girls. On this night they sang a song called “I Wish We’d All Been Ready.” Another name for it could have been “Night Terrors.” If you didn’t have a night terror before, just listen to this song one time. The backdrop is guns, wars, and people getting trampled on the floor wishing they had said yes to Jesus when they had an opportunity. And then the constant refrain:
There’s no time to change your mind,
the Son has come
[dramatic pause]
and you’ve been left behind.
They sing this in perfect harmony, with perfect smiles, not at all concerned.
This song would give me nightmares for years.
Am I really going to be raptured?
What about my family and friends?
And how about the people who don’t believe like us?
Are we living in the end times?
And to be honest, I didn’t want Jesus to return quite yet. I wanted to get married and have kids first. And I wanted to have sex before Jesus came back. But I couldn’t say that out loud, because I was taught that marriage and sex are nothing in comparison to being with Jesus.
That’s a hard sell to a teenager. Sunday school teachers would say that marriage doesn’t compare. I would think, Easy for you to say, bro, since you’re already married.
