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“My child, your mom and dad, were not welcome in New York. When they arrived there, people threatened your father with exile.”
“Why?” I asked. I wanted to know everything.
“See, kiddo, people just couldn’t accept your dad and mom being together. They came from totally different backgrounds. He begged everyone to understand, to see the love he had for your mom. But, nope, they wouldn’t have any of it. They decided they had to teach your dad a lesson, make sure he knew not to cross them. And to make sure everyone else got the message too, they took your mom away.”
I sat watching An gung, the way his face strained as he spoke, the pain in his expression. Visions flashed through my mind of what I remembered of that night. The fear. The horror. Those memories have burned into the skin beneath my eyelids, and I can never unsee them.
An gung spoke openly that day, and it only added to the festering hatred and anger that was already growing inside me.
They used my mother as a lesson for my father, and they used my father as a lesson for anyone who wanted to disobey them.
As the men barged in and snatched me away, I caught sight of my dad just once more after that. They made it crystal clear, even to a kid like me, that New York was off-limits. “You’re to be back with your own in Hong Kong,” they said. That last time I saw Dad? We were in some dingy warehouse close to the airport. Suddenly, he burst into the room. His face was all beaten up, pain twisting his features. He yelled out for me, “Sweetheart!” Tears streamed down his face as they yanked him away, shoving him back into whatever hole they’d kept him in.
Then it was my turn to be hauled off. I was thrown into a car, dumped in the back seat, and then the door slammed shut, trapping me inside.
That was the last time, the very last. Deep down, I’ve always known they killed him, all because he dared to love the “wrong” person. And every day since that day, I have been planning my revenge.
Even as a child, a baby, really, I knew I would avenge my parents for what they did to them. I knew that one day, I would hunt them down and find out what happened. I have so much hatred festering inside me it hinders my ability to focus on much else.
My mother's father (ah gung in Cantonese) Muchen, took me back to Hong Kong and became my guardian. I became a ward of the mafia.
They kept me in secret at first, fearing that I would meet the same fate as my parents. I was not pure. I was tainted with my father's genes. I was half of my mother’s world and half of my father’s world, and my father’s world was not welcome. Over time, things changed, and I was accepted into the family. I struggled with my identity and being different. My caramel skin is not as light as my family’s, and my eyes are round and wide. My lips are plump, and the fullness of them contrasts against the beauty of my Asian cousins.
I used to wish I looked normal. I used to wish I looked like everyone else so that people would stop staring at me. As I got older, I became stronger. I realized that being normal wasoverrated.An gung would tell me there is great beauty in being different, and I believed it.
While I still don’t think of myself as beautiful, I'm proud of my father’s features. I don’t wear them in fear anymore. I'm proud of the love they shared, and I have developed a deep, burning hatred and anger toward the people who took it from them.
The people who took them from me.
All I have left of my parents now is a photo. They took the photo a few days before leaving Hong Kong to celebrate their pregnancy with me. They looked happy and hopeful, never expect the ill future awaits them.
I keep that photo in my purse, and I stare at it often. I wonder what stories my mother would have told me as I grew older. What advice she would have shared with me - about boys, about love, about life and the lessons she had learned.
I wonder if my father would have taught me to drive. If he would have taught me how to defend myself and be strong. He was a boxer; he loved the sport. So, when I was old enough, I took up kickboxing. It was one way I honored him.
My mother was graceful. I struggle to honor her by being the same way as I think I'm clumsy. I try, though.
I wish I had known them. I wish that, even now, as an adult, I could sit outside in the garden with them and tell them about my day. They would ask me how I did with my studies at university,and they would know what my favorite food was. They would cook it for me on my birthday, and we would sit together on an enormous sofa in the evenings and watch movies until late into the night. My mother and I would plant flowers in her garden. She loved to grow things. An gung told me this as he has told me many things about her - but they are just stories from his perspective. I want toknowher. I want to touch her warm skin and lean against her shoulder while she reads me bedtime stories.
Normal things.
Normal things that I never did with them and never will.
Someone made choices all those years ago that changed the course of my life so drastically that I'llnever be that happy, carefree child ever again. I’ll never grow up as I was meant to be. I'm me now, a very different version of who I was supposed to be.
The people who made those choices changed me, and in doing so, they cursed themselves.
I'll never stop hunting for them. I'll never stop until I make them feel the wrath of the pain they have caused me and I punish them for what they took from me.
2
Antonio
Idrop the dumbbellonto the gym floor with a thud and stare at my reflection in the mirror on the wall. Sweat is pouring down my body, my toned muscles are shining. I brush wet hair strands back away from my eyes.
I grab my towel and wipe across my brow. I have three more sets, and then I can start my cool down.
Tilting the water bottle over my mouth, I splash ice-cold liquid down my throat.
