double-hand whipping, attacking, blocking, and hand switches taught me by Pinoy Punsalong at the Y. When I could not cope with life, I came here to punch the beams.
“Come,” he said, standing, and I followed him downstairs.
On a high shelf, surrounded by small cardboard boxes of wood screws and hinges, was his Colt super .38 automatic, two shelves above my
liang-jiang.
His old Army sweater strained as he reached. It was moth-eaten, stretched thin around his shoulders, the fragile fabric requiring him to don it as if it were made from the webs of spiders. His baldness had quickened, but he was trimly athletic, his posture exemplary; his handsome face had softened as the war years grew distant. I thought of asking him about West Point.
“Clean,” he said, handing the gun to me, watching as I disassembled and cleaned it with an old undershirt and an oiled gun cloth. I held the barrel to the light, checking for lint in the bore. I glanced at him quickly. He was lost in his thoughts. I knew that my
gahng
, my bond to him, had been a test for both of us. The purpose of the test and how I might pass it were never clear. Now this duty of son to father—the first of the
San-gahng
, the high Three Bonds identified by K’ung Fu-tzu—was changing, seemingly before the test had been administered. I was relieved in a way; I did not want the grade that K’uei-hsing—or Chu-i—would give me.
I cleaned the slide. I was leaving in the morning—to go to the one place on earth that seemed to embody all that he believed, all that he had hoped for in both of our lives. Now that I had obtained what he had always wanted, he seemed more withdrawn and secretive. Something was angering him. It had to be me.
He inspected the pieces. He nodded, and I began reassembly. What does the gun mean to him? Had he killed with it? When I was seven, and learning the basics of street fighting, I wanted to believe that he had killed. Now I was less sure.
My mouth fought itself. “Uh … so, uh, when you wore it—uh, you know, the gun—did you put a round … in the chamber with, you know, a full clip, or did you just, uh, load it with, you know, the magazine? Alone? So it had, you know, extra—an extra round?”
He came out of his thoughts. He rubbed his square jaw, and made a gesture with his hand: Finish your work.
When I finished, he inspected it, closing the action with a loud metallic snap. He slapped the empty magazine into the handle well. “You know how safety work,” he said.
“Yes, Dad.”
“Leave chamber empty. Child find, she can die,” he said.
“Yes, Dad.”
“During war, I keep extra round in chamber, under hammer. Extra clip, all places—in boots. Canteen carrier. Pockets, rucksack. Sergeant Kress, Infantry School, say, ‘Never no such thing, too much ammo.’ Now, no war. Leave empty.”
“Yes, Dad.” He carried extra clips for the gun, in the war, the way Teddy Roosevelt carried nineteen pairs of extra glasses up San Juan Hill. TR also had suffered from asthma. My mouth moved, looking for words, wanting to be the portal fora hundred questions while my mind clattered against itself. Maybe he would say more.
“Kai, this yours.” He pushed the heavy gun into my hand.
He cleared his throat. “Na-men give to me. I put letter for you, mail to her when you get there. In holster. Na-men will smile when she see West Point postmark on stamp. She will like letter from her old friend from China days, mailed by her only son.” Many Chinese confused the feminine third-person pronoun with the masculine; in Chinese there is no distinction. This difference had caused comic mayhem with Dad’s instructions when my sisters were part of the family. With Edna in the house, their visits were now infrequent.
“Na-men” was H. Norman Schwarzhedd, who had fought alongside my father during the Second World War. Na-men now wore the two stars of a major general, and commanded the Second U.S. Infantry along the DMZ in Korea.
“Come,” he said, standing, and I followed him downstairs.
On a high shelf, surrounded by small cardboard boxes of wood screws and hinges, was his Colt super .38 automatic, two shelves above my
liang-jiang.
His old Army sweater strained as he reached. It was moth-eaten, stretched thin around his shoulders, the fragile fabric requiring him to don it as if it were made from the webs of spiders. His baldness had quickened, but he was trimly athletic, his posture exemplary; his handsome face had softened as the war years grew distant. I thought of asking him about West Point.
“Clean,” he said, handing the gun to me, watching as I disassembled and cleaned it with an old undershirt and an oiled gun cloth. I held the barrel to the light, checking for lint in the bore. I glanced at him quickly. He was lost in his thoughts. I knew that my
gahng
, my bond to him, had been a test for both of us. The purpose of the test and how I might pass it were never clear. Now this duty of son to father—the first of the
San-gahng
, the high Three Bonds identified by K’ung Fu-tzu—was changing, seemingly before the test had been administered. I was relieved in a way; I did not want the grade that K’uei-hsing—or Chu-i—would give me.
I cleaned the slide. I was leaving in the morning—to go to the one place on earth that seemed to embody all that he believed, all that he had hoped for in both of our lives. Now that I had obtained what he had always wanted, he seemed more withdrawn and secretive. Something was angering him. It had to be me.
He inspected the pieces. He nodded, and I began reassembly. What does the gun mean to him? Had he killed with it? When I was seven, and learning the basics of street fighting, I wanted to believe that he had killed. Now I was less sure.
My mouth fought itself. “Uh … so, uh, when you wore it—uh, you know, the gun—did you put a round … in the chamber with, you know, a full clip, or did you just, uh, load it with, you know, the magazine? Alone? So it had, you know, extra—an extra round?”
He came out of his thoughts. He rubbed his square jaw, and made a gesture with his hand: Finish your work.
When I finished, he inspected it, closing the action with a loud metallic snap. He slapped the empty magazine into the handle well. “You know how safety work,” he said.
“Yes, Dad.”
“Leave chamber empty. Child find, she can die,” he said.
“Yes, Dad.”
“During war, I keep extra round in chamber, under hammer. Extra clip, all places—in boots. Canteen carrier. Pockets, rucksack. Sergeant Kress, Infantry School, say, ‘Never no such thing, too much ammo.’ Now, no war. Leave empty.”
“Yes, Dad.” He carried extra clips for the gun, in the war, the way Teddy Roosevelt carried nineteen pairs of extra glasses up San Juan Hill. TR also had suffered from asthma. My mouth moved, looking for words, wanting to be the portal fora hundred questions while my mind clattered against itself. Maybe he would say more.
“Kai, this yours.” He pushed the heavy gun into my hand.
He cleared his throat. “Na-men give to me. I put letter for you, mail to her when you get there. In holster. Na-men will smile when she see West Point postmark on stamp. She will like letter from her old friend from China days, mailed by her only son.” Many Chinese confused the feminine third-person pronoun with the masculine; in Chinese there is no distinction. This difference had caused comic mayhem with Dad’s instructions when my sisters were part of the family. With Edna in the house, their visits were now infrequent.
“Na-men” was H. Norman Schwarzhedd, who had fought alongside my father during the Second World War. Na-men now wore the two stars of a major general, and commanded the Second U.S. Infantry along the DMZ in Korea.
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