Reflections on growing up

My mother told me that when I was in elementary school and we still lived in Queens, one day I ran home from school because all these kids were chasing me and making fun of me being Chinese. She said I ran into the apartment, grabbed a baseball bat and before she could say something, ran back out.

I don’t remember this happening, but I do remember many times where I fought kids who made fun of my Chinese ancestry. I had one consistent tormentor, Anthony. He was a kid from a neighbor’s family whom I had fought many times and he would still call me, “chink” even though he knew if he did, I would be waiting outside for him after school. The word “chink” would summon a rage so white hot that sometimes I would attack the other kid right there in class.

In fourth grade a friend taught me how to uppercut and the next time Anthony and I fought, I landed a couple of uppercuts right away. I could see he was very surprised by this change and also hurt. He clearly didn’t want to fight anymore. My friend was very excited, jumping up and down and telling me to hit him again, which I did. Anthony stopped fighting back and tried to leave but other kids blocked him since they were really into seeing someone getting beat up. I remember feeling sick to my stomach but I kept hitting him until a grown up broke up the circle of kids surrounding us and Anthony ran away.

This experience changed the equation and Anthony did not want to fight or call me names anymore. There was a cruelty in my heart though and rather than letting it go, I would follow him home from school while hitting and kicking him. This happened regularly until his older brother started to walk him home. I remember still following them trying to get at Anthony until his brother firmly pushed me away.

Victim/aggressor, how quickly that equation changes. From being hurt and wounded to hurting and wounding someone else. The line was so thin as to be imperceptible and unnoticed when I crossed it.

In high school a white friend got into a fight with a football jock over a girl. The jock had many of his buddies there and for some reason I went up to Chris, the biggest guy there and hit him. Probably because of his total surprise, I came off pretty well against a much bigger opponent. Some bystanders broke up the fights. Afterward though he was incensed and wanted to fight again. We were supposed to go outside to fight but he jumped me from behind, threw me down the stairs and then gave me a good beating. A teacher who saw what happened took his time stopping the pummeling and the school suspended me for a week while Chris got off with a warning. I was a troublemaker and hung out with a trouble making crowd. I had the feeling the school authorities were glad to see me get what they felt I had coming.

Afterward much of the football team would pick on me, taunting me with racial slurs and hitting me. Once about 15 of them hunted me in the halls since none of my friends were in school that day. I ran and eventually went home rather than face them. I remember the word “chink” would feel like a whiplash across my back.

Now when I do metta meditation, I cannot feel anything when I remember these people. No compassion, no loving kindness, no forgiveness.

Later in college when I was a different person, someone from my high school and only peripherally related to these football players showed up at a party. I saw him and without thinking I immediately threw him on the floor. Then I started stomping on him until I was pulled off. The rage was intense and so was the pleasure I felt as he collapsed and curled in a fetal ball. I followed him out into the night telling him to get a knife, get a bat, get a gun, anything but I was going to kill him. Later friends told me he hid in someone’s room until dawn and then left. I never explained to my friends what had set me off.