Become the Cup
James Morena
I wonder if my father tried harder than I give him credit for. We ignored each other for twenty years. We rarely talk now. But I found out that during those twenty years my white father phoned, monthly, my ex-wife’s brother for updates. Just last year he sent me a box full of my childhood memorabilia: cowboy boots, green plastic army men, awards, and medals. He calls every now and again. He travels from Tennessee to Oklahoma to visit my younger sister and asks her to invite me. Perhaps I am the problem. Perhaps it’s because of me that our relationship dangles by a thread.
When I was six years old, I loved Bruce Lee. I wanted to be a member of the Shaolin Temple. I kung fu chopped the air. I fly-kicked everything: rubber balls, flowers, bathroom curtains, my dog Snowball. I ran throughout the house shouting, “You have offended my family, and the Shaolin Temple.” I took off my shirt, touched my belly where there were imagined cuts, then licked the imagined blood from my little fingers before shouting, “Hiyaaaaaa.” My hands slicing and chopping. My feet kapowing and kabooming.
I wanted to be Bruce Lee because there were no Filipino superheroes on TV. I wanted to be Bruce Lee because he used badass nunchucks and long staffs, not stupid Filipino weapons like sticks and yoyos. The only Filipino warrior I knew of was Raja Lapu Lapu, the datu, the chief, who slaughtered Ferdinand Magellan, preventing him from actually circumnavigating the globe. But Raja Lapu Lapu had died in 1542. So Bruce Lee, also mixed race, was my dude. I watched his films on repeat: Enter the Dragon, Fist of Fury, Game of Death. For Christmas, I begged for Bruce Lee’s book: Tao of Jeet Kune Do.
“Please,” I said, “how’m I going to destroy my enemies?”
“What enemies?” my father said.
“The Qings of course,” I said. Then I chopped and kicked an imaginary foe.
That Christmas Tao of Jeet Kune Do lay under our tree. That winter Bruce Lee spent hours in my room teaching me his moves: Lop Sao Backfist, Stamp kick, and the One Inch Punch. He helped me empty my mind to be like water. I woke to Bruce Lee posters tacked over my bed. I drank tea. I ate five small meals a day.
That winter, Father too joined a karate class. He bought thin red pads for his forearms and shins. He wore a white gi with a white belt. And every Tuesday night I was allowed to stay up late because he promised to come home to show me his new moves.
“I already know that one,” I said one Tuesday.
“I just learned it,” he said.
“Bruce Lee taught that to me a long time ago.”
I stood with my arms swaying at my side, my stomach pooched.
“What about this move?” He performed a routine that consisted of an inward block, outward block, upper block, and lower block.
“I know those too,” I said, “watch.” I kicked and sliced and blocked and hiyaa’ed.
After a few more Tuesdays and a few more “Bruce Lee has already taught me that,” Father started to use his moves on me. He front-kicked my stomach.
“It looks like Bruce Lee didn’t teach you how to block that,” he said.
I laid on the floor gasping for air. Tears dripped from my eyes.
“Get up,” he said.
I stood up then again crumbled to the floor.
“Bruce Lee should’ve told you to watch out for my sidekick,” he said.
After a couple of months of karate school, I noticed that Father had bruises on his arms and legs and his rib cage. I noticed that it took him longer to stand up from his recliner. To walk to the kitchen or bedroom. To eat dinners. He, though, still came home and taught me that Bruce Lee hadn’t prepared me for his lunge-, reverse-, and jab-punch.
Father started to turn my superhero’s words against me, “Pain is weakness leaving your body,” he said in a whiny, mimicry tone as he towered over me after having elbowed my face. Sometimes when I laid there without tears in my eyes, he would stomp my leg or hip or back.
“When you feel pain, you know that you’re still alive,” he said, “and right now you know you’re alive.”
But each week I noticed that his chi kung, his internal force, his energy, had drained. His biceps were black and blue. One of his eyes looked puffy. He limped about the house. Then one autumn night - I want to believe - I ended his karate career. He threw a front kick that Bruce Lee - Do not be tense, just be ready - had prepared me for. Father’s signature move was the front kick. When his foot came up, I stepped back, swooshed my thin arm down to meet his ankle, and stopped his attack.
“Hiyaa,” I shouted as I moved.
His other foot came up and I again thwarted his attempts.
We stared into each other's eyes for a couple of seconds. I turned and ran to my room.
As I bound our steps, I shouted, “You have offended my family, and the Shaolin Temple.” Then I slammed the door and waited for my beating.
Father soon quit karate. He said that he felt like the sensei was bullying him, that he didn’t like paying someone to harm him. He still used his martial-arts training on me. His karate amalgamated into other forms of physical violence. He and I went blow for blow for years. I never thought about it before, but perhaps he was trying his best to be the superhero that I had wanted. Maybe he wanted me to admire him. To adore him. To love him. But I failed to do so. Perhaps it wasn’t my fault at all. Perhaps it was Bruce Lee who ruined it for us.
James Morena earned his MFA in Fiction at Mountain View Grand in Southern New Hampshire. His stories have been published in storySouth, Defunkt Magazine, Litro Magazine, The Citron Review, Pithead Chapel, Rio Grande Review, and others. You can interact with him on Instagram @james_morena.