My father died of heart failure the same Chinese New Year girls began to draw my eye instead of ire. I wasn\u2019t present for his death but figured it even since he wasn\u2019t present for my life.<\/p>\n
We all lived in Kowloon, but we no longer lived together, though mom claimed that the case even when we did. When he roamed within the same walls instead of a few kilometers away, he worked for people who only spoke to him in snaps. One snap for tea. Three to open the door, five to get out and close it behind him. He never looked at his superiors because his eyes were always closed as he smiled and bowed until they passed. They never looked at him because they were superior.<\/p>\n
He smiled so much at work his face molded into a frown at home. He never talked to us when he spoke aloud, and never spoke aloud when he talked to us. Orders were given with grunts and snaps. If we ever caught his eye, we had gotten in his way.<\/p>\n
Nights, he\u2019d drink bottles of baijiu, then snap his fingers for his jacket. Slam furniture, slam doors as he left amidst my mother\u2019s pleas to not. He\u2019d return the next morning smelling nothing like her fragrance and carrying a bottle of Dynasty XO a few sips shy of dry. Mother would weep in pain, then rage as she\u2019d scream that he\u2019s nothing but a disgraceful eunuch. I always tried to look away before she hit the wall, and I always failed to plug my ears before she hit the tile. Then all was silence and sobs as we waited for his snore.<\/p>\n
The end began with what I didn\u2019t know was his way of bonding. Drunk, he told me the proudest moment of his life was as a boy he\u2019d smelled Bruce Lee in person. He\u2019d had the opportunity to shake his hand, but when the star approached, he could only smile and bow, his eyes clenched in what would be his greatest ability. \u201cThe scent of cologne was so strong,\u201d he said, eyes closed to stanch the welling. \u201cIt was the smell of a great man.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then he left without a grunt or snap and never returned. It took forever to clear his stench from our home and hearts.<\/p>\n
The last time I saw him alive was a Sunday morning Mom and I had yum tsa in Tsim Sha Tsui. Afterward, we walked the Avenue of Stars, and I saw him standing in the shadow of Bruce Lee\u2019s statue. Staring out at the junks crossing Victoria Harbor, the South China Sea like dragon scales in the chop. I yelled his name several times, but he closed his eyes and lowered his head, then faced the statue and walked away.<\/p>\n
Heart failure was listed as the COD my mother said, because \u201cfailure\u201d was insufficient on a death certificate. At his wake, a family wearing white cried. Mom and I wore red and did not.<\/p>\n
In Chinese tradition, if a son is not present at his father\u2019s death, he must crawl toward the coffin wailing for penance. With Taoist chants around me, I lowered to palms and kneecaps and crawled toward the man who\u2019d always ran away from me. Every millimeter neared left more of him behind. Clenching my eyes, I wept with laughter at the proudest moment of my life. The scent of formaldehyde was so strong. It was the smell of a failed man.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is to give light must endure burning.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n
–Viktor Frankl<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n
My daddy loved to box, and he loved to drink, but his true love was boxing while drinking. He hung an 80-lb. Everlast heavy bag in Mom\u2019s parking space in the garage. A speed bag platform near the water heater closet. Anytime he was home, he\u2019d take a bottle of popskull rye out, wrap his fists in tattered hand wraps, and bomb away until he and the booze were gone. The house shuddered under the machinegun bursts of leather on wood from the \u201ccrazy\u201d bag. You\u2019d hear each swat of knuckle on canvas as the punching bag lifted and dropped heavy on its chain. The rafters groaned and dust sifted down. Inside, dishes rattled in the cabinets, and pictures cocked on their nails or dropped altogether.<\/p>\n
As the night wore on, Mom and I would jump whenever he began yelling at everyone in the garage even though he was alone. Then he\u2019d come in glazed in sweat and smelling of wintergreen liniment. Knuckles bleeding through the wraps, he\u2019d ramble on about his days as a member of \u201cthe fancy\u201d when he was a middleweight in the Marine Corps. Eyes glossing with tears, he\u2019d slur poetic about his amateur record of 48-3-1 before he lost a leg from the shin down in Fallujah.<\/p>\n
When he got beyond smashed, he\u2019d often take a punch-drunk fighter\u2019s stance, and that meant to stop playing or eating or homework and meet him in his imaginary ring. He\u2019d bob and weave, hooking a palm to my ribs. Feint and jab, smacking me across the cheek. Once I won by knockout though I never threw a punch. He just stumbled, fell, and began to snore. Most times it ended with me slumped fetal in a corner, covering my head so he couldn\u2019t find an opening to land a shot or see my tears. Then he\u2019d get bored, shake his head. \u201cDaughter\u2019s turning into a goddamn pussy,\u201d he\u2019d tell mom, then limp wall-to-wall down the hall.<\/p>\n
One night, I eased out to the shadows in the garage as he drove dents into the heavy bag. The smell of whiskey and resin, sweat and motor oil. On the wall behind him written in his blood: PAIN IS FOR NOW. PRIDE IS FOREVER.<\/p>\n
He stopped. “What.\u201d<\/p>\n
With no voice I said: \u201cWould you teach me?\u201d<\/p>\n
He grabbed his bottle and bubbled it. \u201cYou,\u201d he said, staring me down as if trying to mold me into someone else. Someone worthy. \u201cYou willing to die?\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t understand the question, let alone how to answer.<\/p>\n
He snorted derision. \u201cWhat makes a fighter\u2019s not his will to live,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s if he\u2019s willing to die.\u201d He took a long snap off the bottle. \u201cYou willing to do that?\u201d<\/p>\n
I hooked a curl behind my ear. \u201cHow do I know?\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked past my head, through the wall in place and time. \u201cGuy named Ronnie Jenkins showed me,\u201d he said. \u201cCalled him \u2018Rabbit Punch\u2019 Ronnie cause he always threw rabbit punches.\u201d<\/p>\n
I tried to hide the dumb in my brain but the dumb on my face betrayed me.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s where an opponent hits the back of the head in a clench,\u201d he said. \u201cMedulla oblongata.\u201d He reached and pressed the base of my skull, almost tipping me headlong. \u201cWhere important motoric and brain functions cluster.\u201d He smiled. \u201cThey\u2019re illegal cause it\u2019s a dangerous way to get put to sleep.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe did that to you?\u201d<\/p>\n
His smile widened. \u201cI drop him twice the first two rounds, he catches me with a solid rabbit punch in the third,\u201d he said. \u201cTime the smelling salts woke me up, folks were already heading to chow.\u201d He hooked a heavy shot into the bag. \u201cCaught up with him down the road, though.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou get him good?\u201d I said with too much excitement.<\/p>\n
\u201cNope,\u201d he said, shooting me a stink eye of disappointment. \u201cI wanted to learn how to die so I asked him to do it again.\u201d He slid his eyes from me back to the fancy, a kid and a leg ago. \u201cThat\u2019s how you know.\u201d He blinked back, telling me fighters have to step beyond the edge. Be willing to drink palmfuls of Hades. \u201cYou heard me right,\u201d he said, finishing his bottle. \u201cPalmfuls.\u201d He lowered to my eyes. \u201cSo again,\u201d he said. \u201cYou willing?\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded.<\/p>\n
He repeated the question louder.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes sir!\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded and unraveled his hand wraps. Began winding them through my fingers in a figure eight.<\/p>\n
My arms were limp strings, my insides helium balloons. \u201cWhat\u2019d it feel like?\u201d I asked, then wished I hadn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019d what feel like?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLearning to die by getting knocked out.\u201d<\/p>\n
My daddy smiled and knuckled a bloody streak down my cheek, and I\u2019ve never loved him more. He looked proud that I was his prot\u00e9g\u00e9, his fighter. His daughter.<\/p>\n
\u201cLower your head,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll show you.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Taking a Bullet<\/h5>\n
I remember the day of the school shooting because I was not there. Well, I\u00a0was, but when the gunfire erupted during morning recess from the woods near the playground, I was in the counselor\u2019s office for my daily session to deal with my mom\u2019s recent suicide.<\/p>\n
I liked the counselor, and I liked her office. I\u2019d sit on a worn couch holding a plush bear big as me or bigger while the counselor inquired about my dad\u2019s lingering resentment. I called him Mr. Grumpy because he was always frowning. The bear, not my dad, though thinking back the name fit him too. I\u2019d stare at my reflection in the bear\u2019s marble eyes with the therapist asking if I believe her death was my fault. My reflection sometimes nodded. Other times it shrugged.<\/p>\n
But that day, I was plugging the stuffing back inside the holes riddling Mr. Grumpy\u2019s fur while telling her how dad and I had gone around the house collecting everything she\u2019d left behind. From all her belongings to the stray black hairs in the couch cushions. Her pictures to errant fingernail parings still chipped with\u00a0cherry red\u00a0polish. We vacuumed, dusted, swept, and mopped up her shed dead skin, then opened every window to air out her scent. Everything gathered was burned in a firepit. We sold her car.<\/p>\n
That\u2019s when the counselor jumped and sat straight in her chair at the faint shots popping like firecrackers. Then the piercing screams. Then the sirens.<\/p>\n
That night at home the rumors poured in, first in totals: how many dead, the number wounded. Then came the names of the victims and perpetrators. And it hit me those names were people, and those people were my teachers and classmates. Some of them friends, both shot and shooting. Before my mom and the counseling sessions, I was on that playground with them at recess.<\/p>\n
Eating SpaghettiOs at the dinner table, I said, \u201cDaddy?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf I was outside today, would I have got shot too?\u201d<\/p>\n
He drained his whiskey to the ice. \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he said. \u201cEither way you dodged a bullet.\u201d His raw eyes washed out with drink and pain, he said, \u201cBut we\u2019re all of us dodging them every day, they\u2019re just invisible.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cInvisible?\u201d<\/p>\n
He poured another drink. \u201cThey zip right by our heads day and night,\u201d he said. \u201cWe never know they\u2019re there.\u201d<\/p>\n
I tried to see this in my mind. \u201cWho\u2019s shooting at us?\u201d I asked, and he told me God.<\/p>\n
\u201cOne day you turn here and live, somebody else turns there, and.\u201d He downed the drink in a single breath. \u201cThey\u2019re grub for grubworms.\u201d He stood and walked to the sink. \u201cSame store you shopped Monday night gets leveled by a tornado Tuesday morning,\u201d he said, staring out the window wreathed in a hemlock of frost. \u201cA person gets shot, surgeon tells them another quarter-inch to the right or left they\u2019d be goners.\u201d Scattered snowflakes began to appear from the black, melting on his silhouette reflected in the pebble grain glass. \u201cAny given second,\u201d he said, \u201cwe\u2019re all just a quarter-inch away from tragedy.\u201d<\/p>\n
By the voice I\u2019d come to know by heart, I knew he was crying. But I just smiled and ate my supper, thinking maybe what mom did wasn\u2019t because of me, it was for me. That it was all on purpose, so I\u2019d have to see the counselor and hug Mr. Grumpy at that time, on that day. Maybe she shoved me out of the line of fire and took the bullet instead. Ended her to continue me, dodging another day the unseen shots zipping by, popping invisible divots in the ground around me.<\/p>\n
It took time after the massacre, but the school began to heal. So did I, though Dad was not so lucky. He\u2019d been gut-shot by what I didn\u2019t know was an invisible stray the night he found her, and whiskey took him a few years later. In the hospital, I held his purple hand as he twitched and bled out from the wound. \u201cBright side is, I finally got some of the cover at night,\u201d he whispered, and closed his eyes. Another casualty of war on survival.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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