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There is a warrior in me, and it�s not a pretty sight.
Last night, Michelle, Tommy, Gene, and I made it out to a club/pool hall in Fairfax. Michelle�s friend and coworker was the DJ that evening, so we got in free. The dance floor was completely dead, other than a couple break dancers swirling all across the floor.
The four of us headed over to the bar and ordered drinks. A couple long ice teas later, Michelle and I were out on the dance floor. Since Michelle knows the DJ, I asked her to request hip hop for us. When it comes to dancing, I absolutely love hip hop. Trance and techno tend to get old after the first couple songs. But man, hip hop gets me moving. It was great to be on the dance floor again. It's been a long time.
Gene and Tommy hesitated joining us on the dance floor, but Michelle and I grabbed them by the arms and made them at least stand there along the wall. Eventually, they loosened up and joined us. Michelle and I got a kick out of seeing Gene swing his head from side to side. He is not the dancing type at all, but he seemed to be enjoying himself.
The night would have gone without a glitch had it not been for this drunk Hispanic who continued to deliberately bang into Gene and Tommy. He looked like he was a part of a gang. At one point, Tommy and the Hispanic thug stared at each other with intense glares and I was afraid a fight was about to break out. I couldn�t believe the nerve of this guy, trying to pick a fight with my friend but I�m glad nothing happened because I would have hated to get violent myself.
I�m not the type of girl who sits idly on the side when danger lurks. Yeah, I�m a sissy when it comes to needles and the sight of blood, but I can�t tolerate it when people mess with the individuals I care about. A verbal exchange broke out once when I was with a group of friends at a Korean restaurant a little over a year ago. A hefty drunk red-faced Korean guy who stood about 5�10� was apparently pissed that one of my guy friends had innocently glanced at his girlfriend. My friend was just surveying the crowd, but this punk mistook it for wandering lustful eyes. He came over to our table and gave my friend a piece of his mind. Words were exchanged and before I knew it, he was egging my friend to go outside to settle the matter.
I put my two cents in and clearly blurted out, �Grow up and go back to your table.�
He looked at me and said, �What bitch?�
I responded, �I�m sorry. Are you deaf? Would you like me to sign it for you?�
And the next thing I knew, a hand flew across my face. I�d never been slapped in the face before and it completely caught me off guard. I stood there stunned and in disbelief. Everyone immediately stood up on their feet, including his friends who held him back from my crowd and repeatedly apologized for him. They forced him back to his table, and he sat down putting his arm around his girlfriend. She looked over at me, and then looked away.
My friends were incredibly pissed off, but his friends came over, asked me if I was alright, and continued to apologize for him, saying he was drunk and didn�t know what he was doing. I told them all not to make anything of it. So my friends and I left, but I couldn�t help but wonder how a girl could go out with a guy who would hit a girl like that.
I ran into this same guy a few months later at the same restaurant, but he didn�t recognize me. Or if he did, he pretended not to. I suppose he was too drunk that evening to remember anything. But I don�t hold grudges. Bygones are bygones, and it was a stupid meaningless incident. But be forewarned: mess with the people I care about and you will have to deal with me.
I suppose I should be more passive and not condone such behavior, but I have very little tolerance and patience in instances like that.
And surprisingly enough, I suppose I get it from my father (it�s surprising if you know his profession). But back in his youthful days in Korea, he was quite a punk. In fact, he was the ring leader of his very own gang. And everyone in the village knew not to mess with him. He had a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and he was well-respected in the community. My mother and father love telling my siblings and I stories of my father�s �gang days�. My father always tells it with a big grin on his face, as though it were something to gloat about. My sister, brother, and I would laugh and offer the occasional, �oohs� and �ahhhs�. My father, the gangster. Who would have guessed?
When I was growing up, I got picked on a lot. I was always the new kid in the neighborhood, and a geeky one at that. It was easy to make fun of me with my hand-me down clothes and thick plastic-framed glasses. I was surprised I even had friends growing up. But that�s beside the point. I would come home often crying because the school bullies would always make fun of me and pull my hair or tug my shirt. And what made it worse was that they would pick on my little sister and brother as well. Because of these bullies, I absolutely dreaded going to school.
And when I told my parents about these incidents, the first words out of my father�s mouth were, �Fight back.�
What? Are you nuts?
I was a puny little girl with toothpicks for arms and legs and no friends to back me up. And certainly my tiny, scrawny siblings didn�t serve as substantial substitute back up for me either. And these school bullies were big mean boys who were at least a couple years older and a foot taller than me. I didn�t have a chance in the world. All I could do was endure it or outrun them.
But there was a breaking point and enough was enough. I was tired of running home as fast as my toothpick legs could manage, locking the door behind me, and running to my room. No more of this nonsense. I couldn't possibly keep running my entire life. So I took my father's words to heart. Fight back. When I was nine living in Baltimore, I heard the neighborhood bullies yelling through the fence of my backyard. I was so angry, I couldn�t take it any more. So I did the most unthinkable thing for a nine-year-old child (although these days it might not surprise people as much).
I went into the kitchen, opened the drawers, and grabbed the biggest butcher knife I could find (gosh, I sound like a psychotic kid turned serial killer, but I swear I was a normal kid). I went to the back door, opened it, and could see the kids standing there through the fence. I waved the knife up in the air and told them to leave me alone (I must have looked absolutely nuts to anyone who saw me). But the boys just continued to shout and call me names.
My grandmother lived with us at the time and watched us while my parents were at work. Apparently, she heard the ruckus from her bedroom and came down to see what was going on. She saw me waving the knife and grabbed it out of my hands and yelled at me. She yelled at the kids too but did so in Korean. She didn�t know a word of English.
Instead of comforting me, she reprimanded me for taking the knife and threatening the kids with it. I tried to explain to her that I was tired of those kids picking on me and my siblings, but it was futile. I think my poor grandmother had enough of these �violent� acts caring for my gangster father when he was growing up. But I begged her not to tell my parents. They would be outraged I did such a thing, because I'm sure it wasn't what my father meant by fighting back. My grandmother was a good woman. I promised never to do it again, and she promised not to tell them.
Fortunately, those kids didn�t get a chance to mess with us again. We eventually moved to South Dakota, and a whole new gang of bullies were to come. But by this time, I grew a tough shell and people didn�t mess with me as much.
I suppose flailing a knife in the air like a mad child at the age of nine has the ability of offering a false sense of empowerment.
I swear I pray every day that my poor kids won�t turn out like me.
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