I wasn't a terrible kid. I was too scared of being bad and getting whipped like my brother. Sometimes when my dad was drunk and Victor got a B on his report card or something, out came the metal bar. Mom was either too busy at work or used to dad's temper to step in. After ten or so strokes, she'd say, "That's enough, he's had enough" and my dad would go off into his room. I don't remember exactly when, probably around 8th grade, but Victor stopped whimpering. He'd just take it. One time, he just sat in the corner of the kitchen, hugging his knees and not say anything. Green linoleum floors still depress me to this day. I wonder what he was thinking about during all those times. He must have thought of some place else like Hawaii or something – I would.
Oh, I got whipped too. But I don't remember for what -- usually for telling lies or wearing the wrong types of clothes or something like that. Dad just loved us in our preppy shirts tucked into khakis. I usually got the wooden stick and max five strokes. When I did do something stupid, like getting into fights, I didn't get it from the old man. No, I got sympathy instead. I was kind of a runt.
The first fight I got into was first grade. I really forgot the cause, but I remember the outcome: it was a draw. There was a white kid, I think. I didn't speak much English at the time. I could barely count to 10 in English (although I could add and subtract in Vietnamese). I just remember a slide and the jungle gym. The slide was also a fort – it was constructed with those round wooden pillars and underneath was sand. After running around scared witless through those dammed pillars, I finally stopped and confronted the guy. It's a blur really. Sometimes snatches of memories come into focus like a movie, and other times you don't know what's real and what's imagination. In this case, I'm sure that 1) he was bigger than me 2) he had other kids behind him and 3) I panicked.
My cousins had mentioned it casually one day. Or perhaps my aunt had told me. She always told me to stick up for myself when her kids beat up on me. Like one summer her fat son sat on top of me and split my forearm with a razor. He was always a bum like that. I did fart in his face as a prank, but he didn't find it so funny. Anyways, I guess they were bullied at school too so I did what they said they did -- I bent down, grabbed two fistfuls of sand and flung it at the guy's face.
To this day, I don't remember what happened after that. The recess bell rang, I suppose.. but I don't remember getting beat up that afternoon or the next day. I mean, getting beat up would be one of those memorable events, and since I haven't the faintest clue of what happened – and my parents have never spoken of it even – I'm not sure if any of that happened. I do remember the cloudy winter day and I do remember the playground and I think I do remember kicking sand in the guy's face. And running. I remember the running at recess – almost everyday. I remember being the scrawny refugee kid who probably smelled funny like fish sauce or something, who didn't know how to speak English, who probably was a bit rude and had a weird sense of humor, like farting on everyone.