Content Warning: This story contains depictions of and discusses the following sensitive topics: racism, spousal and child abuse.

16. RACIAL RESTRICTIONS. No property in said Addition shall at any time be sold, conveyed, rented or leased in whole or in part to any person or persons not of the White or Caucasian race. No person other than one of the White or Caucasian race shall be permitted to occupy any property in said Addition or portion thereof or building thereon except a domestic servant actually employed by a person of the White or Caucasian race where the latter is an occupant of such property.
    
    – Racial Covenant on Leases, outlawed by the Fair Housing Act of 1968 

Washington, DC – 1967 

He was just a kid.

Barely seven years old. Laying. Underneath an oak dining table. Or maybe pine. Bamboo even. He had pivoted one of the chairs on its rounded peg leg, like the hinge of a door. Crawled into the space opened there and lay on his back. Two socked feet extending back out behind him, splayed across the green carpet with its pale orchid design, like an anchor. Surrounded by the woven wicker chairs and dark wood, protected, he reached one hand upwards and traced the letters of his own initials carved into the underside of the table. How it got there, he couldn’t remember. A pen probably, when he was younger, scared, escaping, just like today. W.C.W. carved deep for no one but himself. 

William Changming Wong. A name that was wrong every step of the way. The mouths of his peers twisting William into Billy, Willy, Little Willy, Little Billy’s got a tiny willy. That ruthless pack of hyenas nipping at anything that looked different, smelled different, moved different. He was all three. Changming was meant to mean sunlight or prosperity, freedom, his mother said. You are my light. You will bring light to others. That was her promise, more of a dream really, but he hid the name behind an initial, an abbreviation. William C. Wong. His single eyelids and straight black hair cut into a bowl, his thick glasses like Coca Cola bottles stitched together with thin flexible wire didn’t need any more attention. A name like a label: not from here. Wong like dong, like ching chong china man. What he would give to have Kato’s black mask, his leather chauffeur’s cap, his flying sidekick, his spin wheel kick, his fearlessness. Bruce Lee. Now that was a name. Strong, proud, American. One inch punch to back it up.

His father was yelling in Mandarin today. William should have seen it coming. The only option, really. He recognized it in his mother’s regard the moment she held his face, twisting his cheeks from side to side. She had pressed ice to William’s swollen eye, wrapped in the rough linen of a dishtowel. I’ll tell your father, she had said, her voice shaky. You go into your room when he comes home, and I’ll tell him. William had done exactly that, crawled into his bedroom as soon as his father’s Buick rolled into the driveway. Moved lightly up the stairs, using his socks like Kato’s black dress shoes (how did he do that?), light of foot. William hid behind the bedroom door when his father came inside, the screen door slapping behind him, the heavy lid of the glass decanter dropping on the stone table right afterwards. Gin was his father’s drink of choice, taken straight, no ice. Once, after school while his mother laid on the couch asleep, William had taken that same glass lid off, placed it gently next to the painted lamp, shoved his little nose into the tall bottle, balancing on the tips of his toes, his hands clinging to the edge of the bar. The vapors burned William’s eyes. Attacked the insides of his throat. Full on assault. He rubbed his face, shook his head. The scent that remained lodged in his nose for the remainder of the night made William think of the spicy szechuan peppers his father loved at the single Chinese restaurant in town. Little explosions that burned away all feeling.

The yelling started a few minutes later. 

She let him get a few too deep. His mother thought the liquor might calm his father down. Why she thought that would be the case today when all the other days warned otherwise, William didn’t know. Maybe she just wanted something to blame for her husband’s temper. Some way to explain the volcanic eruption that leapt from his lips. It was true that drinking did make him kinder sometimes, more talkative. Especially when mixed with the pills. Like when he pulled William into his office, lifting William onto a high backed chair in the corner to sit across from him. Between them, William’s father placed the sixty four black and white squares of a chess board, carved green and white jade figures. They played together for hours that night. His father explained in his best English that knights move in L’s (though that word tumbled from his tongue like a fallen vase), Queens were the most powerful pieces on the board, but it was the pawn, the lowly pawn, that determined the winner of a game of chess more than anything. Structure, patience, foresight. There was dignity in the pawn, honor in small improvements. Dignity in that room as well, William could sense it even if he was only a little boy. He listened to his father intently. Watched him sip from his warm glass of gin. Memorized the pieces in front of them. Remained in his father’s office even after his mother interrupted with sweet chrysanthemum tea. It was getting late, but still William’s father held him there, offering raised eyebrows each time William lifted a chess piece, deciding where to place it, trying to remember which way he was allowed to move. 

Other nights, William’s father didn’t need the gin at all to call William into the den where their small television projected the grainy image of black and white rockets launching into a cloudless sky. William’s father stood in the middle of the room with his hands folded behind his back, his eyes glued forward. William sat on the couch, his feet tucked underneath his own body criss-cross style, his own eyes glued to the back of his father’s head who turned periodically to explain what they were seeing. The funny sounding politician was our president announcing the nation’s commitment to the moon. That was John Glenn of the Friendship Seven, orbiting the Earth. Not the first man to do it, but the first American (that mattered, somehow). Orbiting meant circling, way up high, higher than the sky, beyond the sky. That was the Gemini 6A, the best rocket to ever be invented, the first major advancement to leapfrog us towards the Russians. Unprecedented navigation, his father explained. Precision maneuvering that gave astronauts enough control to rendezvous with another spacecraft, paving the way for more complicated missions later that decade. Soon, he promised William. Soon we’ll be walking up there, all the way on the moon. Do you believe that? 

William’s father bought a new color television set home the next weekend just to prove how soon soon would be. He unwrapped the plastic as William nearly bounced through the walls nearby. The rockets were black and white and silver (William had never been able to see that color before). The launching pad was orange. The thrusters red and angry. The Green Hornet starring Bruce Lee as Kato beamed in vibrant blues and pinks, greens and purples. William filled in his coloring book to match. Kato’s skin was always the brightest yellow, William made sure of that. Now, the television was mostly filled with men in suits, blue, and gray, and black. They talked in circles about what went wrong. What could have been different. His father didn’t call William into the den anymore, didn’t twist in place to see if his son was following along. Not that the fire that killed the astronauts would have been anything to see, even if it was televised. Like all good tragedies, the Apollo 1 disaster burned behind a locked door. 

It was her fault.

That’s what he was yelling about. William understood his father’s Mandarin as a bird understands the backfiring of a truck. It was his mother’s fault that William was picked on in school, that he was undersized for his grade (how a 2nd grader can be undersized William didn’t know). Her fault that William’s English sounded forced and imperfect, if not obviously Chinese, an easy target in William’s all-white elementary school (the best in the county!). She spoke too much Mandarin at home. They’d been in this country for nearly a decade, it was about goddamn time she learned English properly. 

The irony was lost on William’s father that his own English tripped over the L in properly, and that the choppy melody of his sentences sounded more like the Chinese violin played at Sunday church sermons than it did the voice of a good American son. But William’s father was right, she admitted—had to admit. His words were now so loud it shook the walls of the house, rattling the table above William’s head where he had crawled as soon as the argument began, hoping in some way that his proximity would protect his mother from his father’s quaking voice, his large hands. William wished once again to have Kato’s martial arts ability, his sleeve darts, his long powerful body that he could place between that voice and his mother’s thin frame, a human shield, a protector, even a sidekick. At seven years old, the helplessness William felt bubbling in his gut had not yet boiled into the syrup that would soon fill his veins, clench his fists, explode his father’s jaw. That would all happen later, when William had a name for that syrup (blame) and a fist large enough to matter (to hurt). For now, he waited on his belly with his face pressed into the thick green carpet, the table and chairs surrounding him, a fortress, hoping for the noise to quiet down, for his mother to circle out of the office unharmed, for Kato to come bouncing back on the new TV later that night, always in danger but never damaged.

That year, 1967, all of the country seemed to be waiting as well, a welcomed lull from the pummeling headlines. Kennedy was dead, the dogs had been released in Selma; Cuba and Russia and their missiles (in space and on boats in the Atlantic) had been returned to the dark corners of the globe from whence they came. For a moment, it appeared that the newspapers had taken a break, tired from all the doomsaying, their printers low on ink. As it would turn out, however, the lull was more like a nuclear explosion. The mushroom cloud had already rolled into the sky, turning in on itself. The sound just hadn’t reached them yet. 

Within the year, Ali would be in jail for refusing to fight the VietCong (he had no quarrel with them yellow men), King would be shot dead at his motel on his way to get ice (as William’s mother would explain it), a second Kennedy would be slain on the gray tiles of a hotel kitchen, and the war would be brought home in the form of lottery cards that determined whether American teens would die in far away jungles for a war no one could seem to justify. William listened to these updates spill from his father’s television set, the news broadcasts still obsessed with the Apollo fire, as if figuring out how something so promising could go so wrong would make everything else in the world alright. In the den as in the nation, Astronaut Roger Chaffee’s muffled last words echoed out, “We’ve got a bad fire, here—let’s get out. We’re burning up.” We’re burning up.

From under the table, William imagined the scene unfolding behind the closed office door. His father, stately and intellectual—a rocket scientist for the Aerospace Corporation—sat behind his broad wooden desk. His mother, young and beautiful—still full of the energy that had driven her to picket the war as a student at Wellesley—paced back and forth, pleading with her husband for patience and calm, to please be reasonable. But years of being stuck as a middle manager underneath the leadership of a white man whose academic pedigree paled in comparison to his own Caltech PhD had poisoned Mr. Wong’s constitution. America was not a place of reason. It was not a place of fairness and equality. It was a place with rules, written and unwritten. Like how a Chinese man who could not contribute to conversations about national football and baseball leagues could not be counted on to lead an advanced engineering team. Or how the bookishness and thoughtfulness that was once so lauded by tutors and professors would be seen as lacking leadership qualities or arrogance (the bamboo ceiling having not yet been named, but certainly already felt in the aching inadequacy lodged within Mr. Wong’s chest).

It wasn’t that Mrs. Wong supported fighting in the schoolyard—she didn’t—but neither did she support the quiet acceptance of injustice. Were it not for her pregnancy with William at the age of twenty-two, Mrs. Wong would have been in Selma with the Reverend King or in the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, pressing her palms into Robert Kennedy’s bleeding gut or else steering him towards the presidency later that year, a key member of his staff. Seeing as William was born (unfortunate for Mr. Kennedy), Mrs. Wong’s career hiatus stretched from a short one year break after graduation into a tedious seven year clash with housewife boredom. She had intended to move to New York after school. To join the growing movement of artists and activists there that railed against convention, authoritarianism, inequality. Instead, she ended up touring suburban ranches with a growing belly, asking her husband why they couldn’t live in the city (too far from work), her real estate agent why they could not live in Bethesda or Pleasant View (only a tight lipped smile in response). 

Mrs. Wong’s own personal revolution would begin with finding a home whose deed did not include exclusionary language for those who were not White or Caucasian, still legally enforceable until the Fair Housing Act in 1968. And then with the Federal Housing Authority itself and their racist lenders trying to protect property values along color lines. Though yellow fit somewhere between black and white on that particular spectrum, society’s allegiances were clear. Us or them. Them more often than not. Especially with napalm. Especially with helicopters and M16’s. Especially in villages and towns forced to integrate under the threat of National Guards looking to blow off steam with a people who were not center stage, who did not fight back when bricks were sent through their kitchen windows, Go Home Jap, VC Scum, Chink traitor.

William knew the family lore. He had heard all the stories meant to distract and sanctify the tensions of their home. Both sides of the Wong couple had come from good upright Chinese lineages. His father from a powerful agricultural dynasty whose vast acreage had been transformed into a rubber empire that fed the insatiable appetite of the automobile supply chain devouring the globe. And hers, descendents of some high members of the Qing Court who managed to turn their illustrious family name and international connections into a booming import-export business based in Hong Kong. Both families had successfully navigated the tumultuous first half of the 20th century relatively unscathed, positioning themselves as international ambassadors and shepherds of China’s growing economy. It was only because of that pesky country boy, Mao Zedong, that either family would look to American shores. It’s not that the Communists were wrong per say—everyone’s hearts broke for the rural villagers who endured famine after famine due to the exploitation of greedy landowners (no one the Wongs knew, of course)—the communists were just rushing. Bad timing. The Wong ancestors urged moderation and patience. Allow the republic time to grow, to earn its place in the global economy, to rebound from years of domination by foreign nations. 

History would not agree. 

Mr. and Mrs. Wong arrived to America on planes (not boats), in ties and high heels (not rags). Students carrying the expectations of parents hoping to launch new branches of their family trees, branches that would bear blue fruit with golden eagles printed on their face. They had seen the black and white pictures of former estates, servants long released, porcelain urns and jade statues, but their journey was one of exploration, not return. They bore the pressure of family history, reaped little of its rewards. 

William was more of a hope than a decision. White picket fence, Buick, tee-ball. Publically, he would be the face of their assimilation. He brought home slang words and Batman comic books, red haired friends who said his house smelled funny. He hid his rice bowl meals inside a metal Aladdin-brand lunch box, ate with a fork and knife at the long rectangular tables of his elementary school. He was a good student and quick learner in the classroom and on the playground. But he could not help the sound of his own English, muddled with the throaty song of his mother’s Mandarin, nor could he hide the calligraphy he doodled on the edges of his notebooks, his mother’s weekend lesson spilling from one classroom to another. The other children noticed, reflections of their parents. They practiced their curses and slurs in higher octaves, parroted anger for Supreme Court decisions about mixing races, Supreme Court Justices who should know their place (what place was that, according to elementary school students?). The older boys used recess to vent frustrations, pressure built behind the closed doors of angry homes, expelled from father’s mouths, too fast, why now? The irony of history landed on William’s eye, a soft fist whose growth plates had not yet settled.  

“It’s not his fault,” Mrs. Wong pleaded. Her voice barely escaping the closed door of the office where she had ushered her husband, hoping to shield William from another type of assault.

“No, it’s yours!” Mr. Wong bellowed, this time in English. 

And that was the end of it. William imagined his mother’s hurt expression, her large blinking eyes, the blush of her cheeks deepening into burgundy. He awaited the sound of flesh on flesh, that unmistakable note completely unlike the classical music that accompanied Kato’s beatdowns, the comic book whams and bams that distracted from the sonorous violence of a real slap, the throaty thud of a real punch. So fixed was he on identifying that particular sound, William didn’t hear the office door closing softly, the scampering of slippers across the hardwood floor, the sniffling that approached from behind. It wasn’t until William felt himself dragged from his hiding spot underneath the table, his shirt pulled to his neck by the friction of the carpet, fingers attacking his exposed armpits and chin, that he realized his mother was okay. More than okay, she was tickling him. Vibrating William’s body with laughter, blurring his vision, making it impossible to inspect her face for bruises, her wrists for marks. William only noticed the streaked mascara that poured down her cheeks like melted glaciers at dinner later that night. She pulled her hair back into a bun as if the valleys of her face would not scar William’s memory. Or maybe that was exactly the point. A resistance and a warning.

His father said the burgers were excellent. They weren’t. His mother did use American cheese though, yellow potato buns, even served a green bean casserole on the side that William poked at with a scowl. But the spices were all Chinese. Cumin and five spice, hoisin for moisture. His father didn’t know the difference. William didn’t betray his mother. Dessert was red Jell-O (American as it comes) served with mandarin orange slices floating in the middle (not so much). But by then the gin had done its job, and soon afterwards Mr. Wong retreated to his office to doze on the couch or to read his books, William didn’t care to learn which.

At 7:30 pm, ABC blared the Al Hirt knockoff of Flight of the Bumblebee that signified the beginning of twenty three minutes of silence within the Wong household. Silence except for the occasional gasp from William as the Black Beauty rolled into trouble, as Kato spun, jumped, and punched his way to justice, the chuckle that escaped Mrs. Wong’s lips in response to her son’s inadvertent jerking as he watched Bruce Lee’s Kung Fu. In the office, Mr. Wong snored, his concoction of pills and booze finally removing him from the house he wished was bigger, the couch he wished was softer, the family he wished was whiter. For William, the weekend was beginning, which meant that he would have two days of respite from recess, two days to heal his bruised eye. Two days in which no one would call him names. No one would pull the corners of their eye lids, sneering in his direction. No one would laugh when it was his turn to read out loud. Across the Pacific in Vietnam, yellow bodies melted under napalm. Buses were flipped across the southern United States. Fire hoses bruised brown bodies. Men burned behind locked doors as the nation looked on. And Lee Jun-fan changed his name to Bruce. But William didn’t know all of that—didn’t need to just yet (it could wait a little longer). Instead, he smiled as his favorite superhero, Kato, encouraged the Green Hornet.

“You know, you’re quite capable of defending yourself, sir.”