shouting and screaming and the students kept laughing and teasing. It was like a circus where everybody was a clown. Even the girls cursed like mean old bitches at boys who didn’t know to stay out of their corner.
By the second class, I was able to answer 80 percent of the math questions, and by the third, the class had found a new star. At the end of the day, the big guy with the nasty cut, who was known as “the King,” walked over and patted my shoulder, announcing, “From now on, ya can sit next to me and do my homework whenever I feel like it.”
I was flattered by the intimacy and readily agreed. It wasn’t as if I had any choice. The boy was a head taller than me and was surrounded by all his lieutenants, each more devilish than the other. They seemed to be the class Mafia. I later came to know that he had been in the same grade for the last three years and that his father, whom he often used as a shield, was a high-ranking officer in the Chinese navy, captain of a huge ship that cruised the Pacific, guarding against a Taiwanese invasion. He carried a gun around Yellow Stone, even on home visits.
That night, lying in bed, I was convinced that I couldn’t have found a more nurturing environment to revive my student career. My classmates were animals, but they couldn’t care less where I had come from. They respected me.
Our school was like any town. It had its fancy parts and seedy corners. Our side of the playground was the Wild West, complete with hooligans and hustlers, where the law was written by the biggest fists and guys such as the King moved around with supple, pantherlike ease,calling the shots. It was a world away from the intellectual ivory tower of group one. The windows on our side had broken glass that had remained unrepaired for years, weeds that had long since strangled all the flowers, and mud that pooled at the classroom door as though nature had favored the other side by tilting the surface of the earth a little and letting us have the soupy muck when it rained. Nonetheless, I was proud to walk on this frontier. To me, this was a place to begin, not end. Among these tough but simpler kids, I had space to breathe. All my new friends in school had to help their families on the farm as soon as they got home. They were kids from distant villages without a school of their own and had to walk an hour each way to come to Yellow Stone.
It was here that I learned to hit people with my fists for the first time. One day, as I sat at my desk doing homework, my neighbor, Yian, the fat, ugly boy, ran by and snatched my rubber ball. I chased him around the classroom, demanding he give it back to me. He teased me by sticking the ball up his crotch. All the boys laughed while the girls turned their faces away in disgust. I jumped at him, but missed. He suddenly stopped. “Fight me, fight me,” he taunted. His fat face turned into a meatball as he pushed his chubby chest against mine. The close body contact made me nervous and angry, but I was too afraid to punch him. I had never done it before. His nose kept coming closer and closer. He started pushing me.
“Fight him or I’m not speaking to you,” the King said in my ear.
I closed my eyes to calm myself and tried to smother my fear of getting thrown out again. I had to do it. I swung my arm back and smashed my fist into his face. It felt good. He fell and rolled a few yards into a corner. I cracked my knuckles and bent down, waiting for him. As soon as he found his feet, he charged like a buffalo. I dodged to one side and he banged his head against a desk and fell again. I turned and kicked him on the backside. The crowd cheered excitedly. By then, all the fear was gone. I just wanted to keep hitting and hitting him until it was officially over.
He suddenly stood up, raised his arms, and said, “You won, all right. You can have your ball back.” Then he laughed and dusted off his clothes.
I was left hanging and felt cheated. I wanted to
By the second class, I was able to answer 80 percent of the math questions, and by the third, the class had found a new star. At the end of the day, the big guy with the nasty cut, who was known as “the King,” walked over and patted my shoulder, announcing, “From now on, ya can sit next to me and do my homework whenever I feel like it.”
I was flattered by the intimacy and readily agreed. It wasn’t as if I had any choice. The boy was a head taller than me and was surrounded by all his lieutenants, each more devilish than the other. They seemed to be the class Mafia. I later came to know that he had been in the same grade for the last three years and that his father, whom he often used as a shield, was a high-ranking officer in the Chinese navy, captain of a huge ship that cruised the Pacific, guarding against a Taiwanese invasion. He carried a gun around Yellow Stone, even on home visits.
That night, lying in bed, I was convinced that I couldn’t have found a more nurturing environment to revive my student career. My classmates were animals, but they couldn’t care less where I had come from. They respected me.
Our school was like any town. It had its fancy parts and seedy corners. Our side of the playground was the Wild West, complete with hooligans and hustlers, where the law was written by the biggest fists and guys such as the King moved around with supple, pantherlike ease,calling the shots. It was a world away from the intellectual ivory tower of group one. The windows on our side had broken glass that had remained unrepaired for years, weeds that had long since strangled all the flowers, and mud that pooled at the classroom door as though nature had favored the other side by tilting the surface of the earth a little and letting us have the soupy muck when it rained. Nonetheless, I was proud to walk on this frontier. To me, this was a place to begin, not end. Among these tough but simpler kids, I had space to breathe. All my new friends in school had to help their families on the farm as soon as they got home. They were kids from distant villages without a school of their own and had to walk an hour each way to come to Yellow Stone.
It was here that I learned to hit people with my fists for the first time. One day, as I sat at my desk doing homework, my neighbor, Yian, the fat, ugly boy, ran by and snatched my rubber ball. I chased him around the classroom, demanding he give it back to me. He teased me by sticking the ball up his crotch. All the boys laughed while the girls turned their faces away in disgust. I jumped at him, but missed. He suddenly stopped. “Fight me, fight me,” he taunted. His fat face turned into a meatball as he pushed his chubby chest against mine. The close body contact made me nervous and angry, but I was too afraid to punch him. I had never done it before. His nose kept coming closer and closer. He started pushing me.
“Fight him or I’m not speaking to you,” the King said in my ear.
I closed my eyes to calm myself and tried to smother my fear of getting thrown out again. I had to do it. I swung my arm back and smashed my fist into his face. It felt good. He fell and rolled a few yards into a corner. I cracked my knuckles and bent down, waiting for him. As soon as he found his feet, he charged like a buffalo. I dodged to one side and he banged his head against a desk and fell again. I turned and kicked him on the backside. The crowd cheered excitedly. By then, all the fear was gone. I just wanted to keep hitting and hitting him until it was officially over.
He suddenly stood up, raised his arms, and said, “You won, all right. You can have your ball back.” Then he laughed and dusted off his clothes.
I was left hanging and felt cheated. I wanted to
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