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July 29, 2005
What is it about sunrise that gives me the urge to drink whiskey and chop down my neighbors’ trees? It’s just something I have to do every morning — as if possessed by the angry ghost of an unemployed lumberjack. When I tire of chopping, usually around noon, I sleep until nightfall. Then I wake up, steal money from my little sister and gamble all night at the underground poker house down the street. When I owe the house $200, I leave and head for the bar. But I can’t drink without money, so I start dialing people who can spot me.
Today, upon hearing the jury’s verdict of “guilty” for drunken driving, I’ve come to the realization that my parents and those cockfighters were right: I am a degenerate. Worst of all, I’m a Korean degenerate. Asian Americans are not supposed to be dysfunctional. We’re kennel-trained to become successful and dodge taxes. If Asians were popcorn the Good Asians (lawyers, doctors, sushi chefs) would be the big, fluffy, savory pieces and I would be a half-popped, buttery excuse for a kernel at the bottom of the bag. Too much pressure. I wish I were Russian.
Every time I look at my Mongoloid face in the mirror I see failure. It’s not like I haven’t tried to be a Good Asian, it just happens that I always end up passed out on a haystack in the Fort Worth Stockyards. I know it’s important to surround yourself with upstanding friends, so several times I attempted to hang out with aspiring Good Asians. However, I discovered that they didn’t drink early enough, and they claimed that my occasional dry-heaving had no place in the library, so that was that. I blame my lifelong poor judgment (and my fugitive status in Tonga) on this constant uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach which I’ve had since I can remember. It’s a strange pulsating sensation of dread, self-loathing and giddiness. Much like the emotion a Komono Dragon would experience upon seeing a real Dragon. This feeling drove me mad and motivated all my thoughts and actions. I could never find my niche.
When I re-enrolled into high school after spontaneously dropping out for a month in the middle of sophomore year, my mother urged — no, begged on her knees for me to get my act together. Right at that moment I knew I wanted to be a gangster. Not one of those hardened, professional sociopaths but more like Lil’ Romeo, a happy-go-lucky, after-school hoodlum with a future — the kind that stops dancing and turns gangster when people are watching. If nothing else, joining a gang would give me instant homies and impress the chicas. But first I had to get “in.”
Naturally, I started attending the Dallas Korean Baptist Church every Sunday, hoping to mingle with the Drunken Chow Chows. The Chow Chows, an off-shoot of the notorious Des Moines Korean Mafia, was the biggest Asian gang in the metroplex. To throw off perpetual FBI investigations, they communicated with each other in an intricate code language of barks, whimpers and leg shakes. I observed them for a few weeks, secretly taking notes and studying their language. Finally, I mustered up enough courage to approach the gangleader, Willie Kim, a 30-year-old high school junior. As soon as the preacher finished his sermon, I walked up to Willie, barked twice, whimpered, shook my left leg, barked again then licked his nose.
When I regained consciousness in the emergency room I thought, “Damn, should’ve shook my right leg.” These upper middle-class gangster types are sticklers for procedure. A couple of weeks later, when I could see color again, I hobbled into church to give it another shot. But Willie approached me this time and said, “I thought you were dead. Whoa.” He was really impressed that I was still alive “We need guys like you,” he said. “Guys that can take a beating.” I then assured him that I was born to be pummeled. “My calling in life is to get smacked around and clotheslined.” I was “in.”
Finally I had found my niche, among felons, thieves and date-rapists. I had friends. YES!!!! I couldn’t wait to invite everyone over and show them my dad’s gun collection.
Jason Lim is a native Texan who’s had his share of delinquent experiences.
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