by Eddie Huang
“Yeah! She told me my real great-grandparents are these white people named Adam and Eve!”
“Bullshit! But hey, Xiao Wen, be smart. Why you argue with her about that? You know they believe this stuff, just let them believe.”
“But she told me I was going to Hell if I didn’t believe and told me to ask God into my heart!”
“Ha, ha, yeah, she told me, too, think she do something sooo good to help you. Whatever. You know it’s lies, let those idiots believe. Just focus on real school. Don’t be stupid and fight them, you’ll lose.”
Mom was smart. I stopped questioning Ms. Truex about God—but lunch was still a problem. Every day, I got sent to school with Chinese lunch. Some days it was tomato and eggs over fried rice, others it was braised beef and carrots with Chinese broccoli, but every day it smelled like shit. I’d open up the Igloo lunchbox and a stale moist air would waft up with weak traces of soy sauce, peanut oil, and scallions. I didn’t care about the smell, since it was all I knew, but no one wanted to sit with the stinky kid. Even if they didn’t sit with me, they’d stand across the room pointing at me with their noses pinched, eyes pulled back, telling ching-chong jokes. It was embarrassing so I asked Mom to start packing me some white people food.
“What do white people bring to lunch?”
“Like sandwiches, chips, and juice boxes. Everyone likes Capri Sun, Mom!”
“Ohhh, the foil drink? That’s expensive!”
“Mom, it’s worth it! Everyone says it’s really good.”
“What’s wrong with your soy milk? You always like soy milk.”
“It’s different at school, people laugh at you! My stomach hurts when I eat ’cause I get mad.”
It was true, my stomach would cramp into angry knots when those kids clowned me. It got extra shitty when show-and-tell came around. My parents didn’t want to spend money on show-and-tell, so Mom’s idea was to bring something exotic for lunch and kill two birds with one stone. That day, I walked to the front of the room knowing I was about to give the wackest presentation any third grader had ever seen. I opened my lunchbox and took out a plastic container of seaweed salad.
“For show-and-tell today, I brought seaweed salad.”
“Eeeewww! What’s seaweed!”
“It’s like spinach but from the bottom of the ocean.”
“Gross! I would never eat that.”
“If it’s on the bottom that means sharks poop on it!”
“Sharks don’t poop on seaweed! It’s really good for you and tasty.”
“No, it’s not, you eat shark poop!”
The teacher jumped in to stop the other kids, but I had no comebacks. I just went back to my chair and ate my seaweed salad. My mom saw that the relentless food shaming was getting to me and gave in. I loved my mom. We didn’t have much back then, but she always did everything she could to get us what we wanted. I remember being at Chinese school hearing all the kids complain that their parents wouldn’t buy them toys, new clothes, or McDonald’s. Some kids really wanted to be white. I joined in and told jokes about my parents, but I knew they tried hard and that was enough for me. OK, I’d admit that it seemed a lot nicer to be white, but I liked my parents! I was OK without Ninja Turtles and McRibs; I just didn’t want any more stinky Chinese lunch. That night, instead of going to Dong-a Trading or Hong Kong Supermarket for groceries, she took me to Gooding’s and Publix. We walked the polished, halogen-lighted, air-conditioned aisles looking for lunch stuff. She really cared that I ate well and didn’t want to just pack me sandwiches and sugary drinks.
“I like this penguin, Mom!”
“Ha, ha, you always like penguins or pandas.”
“Yeah, they have cool colors and waddle around. They’re friendly.”
“OK, let’s see, what is in this meal? Chicken nuggets, peas, mashed potatoes. What is this called?”
“Kid Cuisine!”
After the nutritional information panel met with her approval, Mom loaded up the cart with Kid Cuisines and Juicy Juices.
The next day at school I couldn’t wait to break for lunch. There was a microwave oven in our classroom and every day a few kids would take their lunches and get in line. I proudly pulled out my Kid Cuisine, still cold in my hand, penguins grinning, and got in line. I was third in line so I wouldn’t have to wait too long.
There was one black kid in our class, Edgar. He had the same trouble I did: he was a loner without many friends. But he was Christian, so at least that was going for him. I was still the buffer between him and the bottom. He lined up behind me.
The two people in front of us were taking too long. Why were they taking so long? What are they doing up there? I stood waiting as our lunch period ticked away; I felt Edgar’s mouth-breathing ass creeping behind me. By the time I finally got up to the microwave, there were only fifteen or twenty minutes left for lunch. I was getting ready to pop open the oven door when Edgar grabbed me by my shirt and threw me to the ground.
“Chinks get to the back!”
I looked up from the ground, dumbfounded.
My dad had told me about the word, and what it meant, but you’re never ready for your first time. It just fucking happens. I waited for Ms. Truex to get involved but she just sat on her fat ass eating lunch like David Stern watching the Malice at the Palace.
Finally, something went off in me. I was nine years old, and I called ’nuff. I jumped up from the floor and went right at Edgar. The boy was bird-chested. I grabbed his arm and threw it in the microwave. With my other hand I grabbed the door and slammed it on his arm as hard as I could. I wanted to kill him. I don’t know if I broke his arm, but he slumped to the floor crying. I stood over him like Ali and wouldn’t back off. I went to kick him and that’s when Ms. Truex finally got involved. She shouted over to another one of the students, the kid named Cole.
“Cole! Help!”
“Yes, Ms. Truex!”
“Cole, you take Eddie to the principal’s office. Take Chris with you to be safe! I’ll take Edgar to the nurse.”
“He hit me first and called me a chink!”
“Eddie, you are in enough trouble! You go straight to the office with Cole and Chris.”
“Eddie, just go to the office, man …”
I walked down the hallway with Cole and Chris flanking me; I was shaking the whole time. I didn’t know why. I wasn’t scared of the principal or Edgar, but something was wrong. I was shaking like crazy and couldn’t even keep my hand still. We got to the principal and I started crying. Cole told him what happened and I was so shook I couldn’t speak. The principal took away my lunch, locked me in a walk-in closet, and wouldn’t even let me out to go to the bathroom. When my mom came to pick me up, they pried open the closet door to find a kid drenched in piss. Mom bugged the fuck out.
“You stupid ass! How do you do this to my son! He was hit first!”
“Mrs. Huang, your son was out of control today and severely injured another student.”
“He called him a chink! You think that’s OK? Words hurt, too. I hear you people say that words hurt like sticks! Look at him!”
My mom would always get sayings wrong, but they knew what she meant. I was never happier to see her. Every day I went to this bullshit school alone and no one ever had my back besides my mom. But despite her best efforts, I was never the same. She always talks about how I was a happy kid, deep-thinking, liked to read books, and didn’t bother with drama. Even when other kids in the neighborhood got caught up, I’d just shoot hoops, ride my bike, or listen to music. I tried to fit in and get along, but people weren’t havin’ it. Edgar forced me into my William Wallace moment. From that day forward, I promised that I would be the trouble in my life. I wouldn’t wait for people to pick on me or back me into a corner. Whether it was race, height, weight, or my personality that people didn’t like, it was now their fucking problem. If anyone said anything to me, I’d go back at them harder, and if that didn’t work, too bad for them: I’d catch them outside after school.
WHEN MY DAD got home, he took the whole family out for dinner as if he’d been waiting for this day. I couldn’t believe it. He was prepared. We all piled in his Lincoln Town Car and went for a ride over to Chinese Choo-Choo’s fast food on Orange Blossom Trail. My dad told me a story about when he was a bartender at my uncle’s restaurant. These customers ordered a martini straight up so he went to pick it up at the bar. There wasn’t a garnish on the drink, though, and he couldn’t remember whether it was supposed to get an olive or a cherry so he just put a cherry in, figuring it wasn’t a big deal. When he finally got to the table, these assholes clowned him for being an FOB, so he came back and threw olives on the table, but he never forgot it. We weren’t Americans like everyone else. We’d always be the other in this bullshit country. From that point on, he put me in kung fu classes, started sparring with me, and gave me a belt to wear to school. If anyone fucked with me, he said to use the belt. It was the most important thing my father ever gave me: A License to Ill. Things started to change.
When I played ball now, I emulated Charles Barkley. I was short, but I boxed people out, posted them on the block, and stuck my elbows out on pick-and-rolls. I went to five schools in seven years because I stayed in trouble: knocked a dude out in a parking lot, fought kids at the JCC playing ball, and hit a twenty-three-year-old dude at McDonald’s with a bat when he broke my friend’s hand in a fight.‖ Anyone who had something to say, I dealt with it. I was never proud of it. My psyche just clocked out that day and gave up. No more diplomacy. It’s not OK for people to say “Ching Chong Eddie Huang” or squint their eyes at me. It was the most important decision I made in my life. China went through the Cultural Revolution and a lot of bad decisions by Mao, but you know what? That man expelled the barbarians and so did I: everybody out.
One interesting thing happened that year. A man called Master Wu came to Orlando, Florida, as part of a global tour. He was a chi gong master who also practiced Taoist face reading. I didn’t understand the concepts, but he was revered. After Chinese school one night, the parents threw a big potluck dinner in his honor and everyone was invited. I remember wandering around with a party plate of food, huddling with Emery and Evan to avoid parents, when all of a sudden, he pointed toward me.
“This one! He has the face of an emperor! Ta hwai jwo gwan!” (He will be a public servant.)
I certainly didn’t look like an emperor with half-chewed Taiwanese mei fun hanging out the side of my mouth.
“Hi.”
“What is your name? Whose son is this?”
“Huang Xiao Ming. That’s my mom.”
I pointed toward my mom, and she’d never been that happy to claim me.
“He is my son!”
A few weeks later, Master Wu came to Atlantic Bay because he wanted to meet me. I’d never seen my parents that proud, and the best part was I didn’t have to do anything for this guy to pick me out of a crowd like I was Kung-Fu Panda. He read my palms, checked out my face, talked to me about chi, and declared I surely had the face of an emperor. I was confused, but Emery had a great time with it.
“Ohhhhh, my brudder the emperor! Please, Huang Di, give me Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for SNES!”
“You will have all the Ninja Turtle games, my brother! I also give you Tibet!”
“Ha, ha, yes, Tibet is mine!”
“Hey, Mom, don’t you think you should get us some more stuff? I’m going to be an emperor one day.”
“Oh, shut up.”
That year Louis Huang took the child emperor to his first NBA game. The Orlando Magic sucked. I thought their name was wack and there were mad cornballs on the team like Scott Skiles and Jeff Turner. They used to play this song on the radio making fun of the squad:
“Orlando Magic, they are so tragic, ooooohhhh watch out beware …”
But it was still fun to be at a game. My first game was Magic versus Warriors. The Warriors had Chris Mullin and Tim Hardaway and I loved Hardaway, but my dad was a sucker for the Magic. It was part of his “we’re Orlandoans” campaign. The rest of the family hated Orlando. It was full of ass-backward transplants, bad food, and doo-doo basketball players. It was everything that sucked about the South with none of the benefits. People drove ride-on lawn mowers through their neighborhoods wearing Home Depot hats, but you couldn’t find any decent barbecue within five counties. No Southern hospitality, just hot asphalt and suburban phoniness. All the ignorance, none of the sense.
We sat down for the game and every time Hardaway crossed someone over, fans would scream “double dribble” or something equally embarrassing. These fans had no basketball IQ; they didn’t know about that UTEP Two-Step. Hardaway was breakin’ fools off left and right; it was dope. But my dad insisted I cheer for the Magic. He came up with his own “cheer” and slick-talked me into doing it with him.
“Next time Chris Mullin gets the ball, yell, ‘al-co-holic’ and then stomp your feet.”
“What’s an alcoholic?”
“Chris Mullin is an alcoholic.”
“OK, cool!”
He had the whole section screaming “al-co-holic.” He was officially a brain-damaged Orlando resident, but at least he was having fun. My dad and I always watched Married with Children together and this was my Bud Bundy moment. Instead of beer and strippers, we had nachos and Run TMC. I really liked this Mullin guy: the man’s jumper was wet and he had a flat top like me. I thought to myself, “I wouldn’t mind being an alcoholic …”
When I changed schools the next year, to Park Maitland, another private school, this time ninety minutes from home, it was basketball that helped me make friends. A bunch of us collected basketball cards and read Sports Illustrated for Kids so we’d stay after school and trade cards and play ball. That year, the Magic were supposed to get the number-one pick and Shaq was coming out of LSU. We couldn’t wait. Every day, we sat around after school thinking about what would happen if Shaq came to Orlando.
“Dude, we could beat the Bulls!”
“We’ll never beat the Bulls!”
“We can beat anyone with Shaq! He breaks backboards, man!”
“We should get Shaq and then trade him for Charles Barkley. He’s even better than Jordan.”
“No way, man, Barkley stinks. He’s so fat!”
My best friend was Jeff Miller. We both read the Encyclopedia Brown books and made up fake crimes to solve at school. We all loved Kris Kross and Hammer so we tried to rap. But all roads led back to Shaq and we bugged when we found out he rapped, too. We were obsessed. Teachers would try to ask us questions about science or math and we would answer back with news about Shaq coming to Orlando. It was an exciting time.
One day, Jeff invited me over to his house for a sleepover. I had never been to one before, but I always saw other kids going home with their friends at car pool and I was curious. He told me he had a Super Nintendo and tons of board games. I couldn’t wait, because we didn’t have shit at my house. My brothers and I shared three comics, two dinosaurs, and one copy of Coming to America between the three of us. There was one blue dinosaur that Emery and I both liked, and this big shitty orange dinosaur that neither of us wanted to play with. My kindest act as a brother was to let Emery play with the blue one. That was the apex of my accomplishments as a good older brother. I mean, damn, I ate all the kid’s food, he should at least get the blue dinosaur.
Of course, I had to ask my mom for permission to go over to Jeff’s house.
“What do his parents do?”
“Doctors.”
“What kind?”
“Uhhh, anesthetic?”
“Anesthetic? I have not heard of this.”
“Yeah, Jeff says he gives shots to people so they fall asleep before surgery.”
“Hmm, let me call your aunt, she will know …”
After calling several of her sisters and friends, she figured it was a good job and approved.
“OK, you can go to Jeff’s house. Me and Dad will drive you Saturday. Good job. You
make a good friend.”
My mom was pretty proud of herself. Her plan to have me rub elbows with the children of rich kids was working. From a young age, Mom made sure I was aware of money and how important it was. Everything revolved around money for her. School was important, but it was only a means to some ends. If you asked her why we came to America, she’d tell you straight up: cold hard motherfucking cash. Why else? We didn’t like the food, people, culture, anything here. My dad “believed” in America, but my mom didn’t. She just wanted the eggs.a I wasn’t mad, though—I couldn’t wait to play Super Nintendo and watch wrestling with Jeff. Every Saturday, WWF came on TV and my favorite wrestler was this big greasy Latino dude named Razor Ramon, who threw toothpicks, kicked sand in people’s faces, and did the Razor’s Edge. He’d put someone on his shoulders like a reverse cowgirl (pause) and then slam them down on their backs for the pin. I liked Jake the Snake, too—I did his signature move, the DDT, on Emery all the time—but Razor Ramon was my favorite. As a bonus, Jeff said we could practice the Razor’s Edge on his little brother.
When the day finally came, my mom dropped me off.
“Hi! I’m Jessica. Are you Jeff’s mom?”
“Yes, I’m Mrs. Miller. And you must be Eddie! It’s so nice to meet you. Jeff talks about you every day.”
“Yeah, hey, Jeff.”
“Hey, man.”
“Well, Jeff, go on ahead and take Eddie upstairs; you boys can play video games.”
We were so excited we ran upstairs to play games, but I could hear my mom from downstairs.
“Thank you so much for having Eddie over! We brought this for you.”
My mom had brought a gift. She always brought gifts everywhere we went, usually some sort of dessert or a bottle of wine from the restaurant.
“Oh, thank you! Yes, we’re very happy to have him over.”
“He says your husband is a … uh, anesthetics?”
“Oh, you must mean anesthesiologist?”