How to Get Angry
My Becker family was a prestigious military lineage. Dad was the second son in that family. He could've just followed the path of a soldier. But Dad chose to discharge instead. And then Mom got pregnant with Harin. I could only guess that it was thanks to Harin that he quit the army. Dad, whose Korean was still pretty rough back then, spoke in English.
"My son! Have you thought about it?"
"About what?"
"Coming to America with me."
"...?"
I couldn't even remember what happened today. A guy who couldn't recall what he ate for dinner a week ago sure as hell wouldn't remember something from decades past. But I had a pretty good idea what I'd chosen in response to Dad's question. I probably said I wanted to stay in Korea. I'd gone through elementary, middle, and high school here, after all.
If I had to guess why Dad was heading to America, maybe it was to earn his jiu-jitsu black belt. He was ex-military, but he'd run a jiu-jitsu gym in Korea.
"What do you say? Wanna come to America with Dad for just two years?"
Mom glanced at me, her face saying she respected whatever I chose. She was clearly curious about my exact answer.
"You feeling lonely, Dad?"
"Of course~! How could I go to America without my sunshine?"
This wasn't the image of Dad I knew. He was always so stoic; we barely even talked. But the Dad right now was a far cry from the one in my memories.
"Then let's go together."
"!!! For real!?"
I hadn't expected such an over-the-top reaction. He scooped me up, hugged me tight, and let out this booming laugh.
"Whoa-ha! Hahaha!"
That's when Mom smirked and poked my cheek.
"Beom-ho, just yesterday you were saying you didn't wanna break up with Noona Min-seo."
The name rang a bell, but I had no clue who Min-seo was. Couldn't picture her face at all.
"So you're picking Dad over your girlfriend?"
She must've been my girlfriend back then. Since I didn't remember her anyway, I nodded at Dad. If there was a reason I'd regressed, I figured I knew it now. This choice would set me on a different starting line from before.
Time passed, and I got ready to head to America with Dad. Mom warned me not to cry about missing her once we got there. The old me might've bawled, sure... but a 40-year-old mind in this body crying for Mommy? That'd be a sight.
She looked a little hurt watching me nod confidently. I'd thought she was so tough and cool, but right now, she seemed kinda cute and clingy.
And just like that, I took Dad's hand and headed to America.
"Dad. Don't forget our promise."
"You wanna do boxing?"
"Yeah."
"Alright. In two years, we'll become men."
"Got it."
Dad grinned warmly and bumped his fist against mine. I clinked my tiny little fist back.
My paternal relatives lived in San Francisco. And the school I'd attend was a prestigious white academy. The adults didn't seem to grasp race issues yet. Sending an Asian kid to a white elite school was a huge problem from the jump. I figured the school wouldn't allow it, but Grandpa's influence must've pulled strings.
Riding with Dad, the familiar sight of Grandpa's mansion came into view. I'd lived there while adapting to America. We parked in the familiar spot, passed through the door with its familiar smell, and headed to the living room. I greeted Grandpa, Great Uncle Big, and Great Uncle Small.
"Leon, it's been too long!"
"Hi~"
"That baby's already this big!? Look at those hands—perfect for a soldier!"
I chuckled and hugged the family. Great Aunt Big and Grandma adored me too. Dad settled in casually but turned down the beer Great Uncle Big offered.
"Sorry. Gotta train."
"Oh, right, the jiu-jitsu black belt thing?"
"Yeah."
"The master from Brazil, the Gracie family guy from Fremont, right?"
Dad nodded politely as they chatted. With the big age gap, he was always respectful to Great Uncle Big. The master who'd give Dad his black belt was a jiu-jitsu legend. Famous for not even giving them to his own sons easily, but Dad would be the first. He'd seize it with overwhelming talent. After that, the master blew up overseas, with people coming to learn from Dad.
The next day, I finally handled school registration. Mom saw the two-year stay as good practice so I wouldn't forget English. Whether a 7-year-old would adapt American-style didn't seem to worry her much. She'd raised me tough as nails from the start. Harin got coddled even as an adult... Mom gave me challenges and her pretty things.
Sons and daughters—totally different approaches.
Time flew. Dad drove me to school, and I entered my assigned class with the teacher for introductions.
"He's Chinese!"
"Not yellow though?"
"Nah, look close—he is yellow."
Who're you calling yellow? These kids with darker, redder skin than mine. What a special welcome from the first meeting. Made my next two years sound promising.
Luckily, the teacher was sane, gasping at the kids' chatter and issuing warnings. This school in San Francisco's upper-class area had zero Asians. Not even one Black kid. What were they thinking sending a 7-year-old here...? But knowing Grandpa, he was aware. Maybe testing my personality and adaptability. Dad left parenting to Mom, but Grandpa always put us through trials. It was his hobby.
"Ptoo!"
Thwack.
Something hit the back of my head. Startled, I felt around. A spit-soaked tissue projectile. The big kid behind me had a straw in his mouth—he'd loaded it and spat it at me.
First time for everything. I'd always been huge from birth, and even now, my head towered over these kids. Heavyweight frame that needed cutting already. Beyond "ex-Asian," I was "ex-human."
I picked up the tissue from my head and raised my hand.
"Teacher."
"Yes? What is it?"
"Kid behind me spat a tissue."
"...!"
The teacher rushed over, scolded the kid behind me, and kicked him out. Whispers around us called me a snitch. That's why Chinese are dirty and sneaky—super fresh take.
From "Jap spy" and "monkey" to "cheesecake" and "yellowy," I racked up nicknames in just 30 minutes.
Not mad enough to snap, though. Kids seeing a different race for the first time would be curious.
I answered the teacher's questions well, playing the model student. A 7-year-old in America? Basics are basics. They prioritized play over study young, drilling manners like morality teachers in Korea.
I planned to behave.
"Ptoo!"
Thwack.
New teacher comes in, and the kid behind me—Stefan—spits another tissue at my head. Second time. I raised my hand, told the teacher he'd done it last period too.
"Stefan! What're you doing to your classmate!?"
"What's wrong with driving out a Chinese kid!?"
"What!? I'll call your parents."
"My dad would say I did good! Why're you taking the Chinese side!? You commie too!?"
Damn... Little Stefan here had rock-solid beliefs for a kid. Self-formed ego already—gonna be somebody big.
"You're done. I'll tell your parents everything—out!!!"
The teacher yelled, and the boy flinched, sniffling as he left. On the way, he smacked the back of my head in rage.
"Stefaan!!!"
The teacher's bellow made him pull an innocent face. Hilarious. Sniffling one second, then back to bullying without correction.
Was it 'cause I looked Asian? Thought it'd fizzle after a couple times, but it was getting excessive. What could I do? Adult in the room had to endure.
Stefan starts, others join: kicking chairs, poking me all class.
"Do kung fu! Kung fu!"
Thud! Thud!
They looked cute if I ignored it, but my forehead was heating up—this was subtly infuriating. Endless energy, no breaks, poking nonstop. Even this body with a 40-year-old mind had limits.
"Cut it out."
"Kekeke, cut it out? Scared~?"
Turned front, kids laughing in my face.
"Ptoo."
Something sticky and wet hit my head. No way—I wiped it. Phlegm.
Tiny thing harboring venom inside... Explains the attitude.
"Huh? Heh-heh."
I raised my hand, eyeing the fat middle-aged science teacher. He looked annoyed.
"Teacher? Kid behind spitting on me."
"Boys don't tattle to teachers about that."
"Huh?"
Don't tattle, huh. Previous teachers handled it, but this one was hands-off.
"Teacher's on our side? What now~?"
Thud!
"Ptoo! No teacher to save you—whatcha gonna do?"
Stefan spat phlegm on my head again, kicked my chair. Brain rattling—limit reached.
I never got mad at others. Never let stress build till rage. Never boasted confidence. Korea values humility.
But this thrill? Never felt it before. Was this how Fab Aldo felt against Travers? Spicy.
I pulled tissue, wiped the phlegm-hand. Wiped my head, slicked back Great Aunt's perfectly combed hair, and stood.
"Show kung fu~!"
"Kung fu! Kung fu!"
"Little Jackie Chan!"
Kids cheered as I rose. Good vibes. Like fans hyped for me.
"Suuuuck...."
I inhaled deep, using cool air from the AC to cool my overheating brain, even a little.