Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  After leaving Chili broken and bloodied on the floor, I turned and engaged another African, but, realizing their advantage was gone, he turned and ran. Huero pounded another into the ground, and as I looked around, most of the fighting had stopped, except Monster, who was in a frenzy.

  One African lay at his feet and he had another one by the throat and was stabbing him repeatedly. He had taken the piece from one of them and was making them pay for their mistake of following a flawed leader into battle. The viciousness of his movements was incredible to watch. He reminded me of a dancer, and my admiration for him grew. He was a gladiator, a warrior, a man who backed up his words with action.

  When it was all over, which took less than a minute, more than thirteen of their ranks were taken to the hospital with serious wounds. Only three of us had fallen, and of those, only one was serious. Chango, from Los Angeles, soon recovered from the many stab wounds he received during the fight.

  The bulls took a number of us to the hole, but somehow Huero, Monster, Richard, and I escaped that fate. We returned to the unit and then to our cell. We were quiet until Monster and Huero smiled and nodded at me.

  “Carnal, that’s what I’m talking about. The way you took care of your business is the way it’s supposed to be done,” Monster told me.

  “Órale, what’s up with the boomerang? That fuckin’ tray hit that fuckin’ nigger and opened him up. That puto never expected that,” Huero said, and laughed.

  They continued to talk about what had happened and I mostly listened. When everyone was getting ready for bed, I went to Monster, who was sitting in the dayroom drinking a cup of coffee, and sat down.

  “You did good, ese,” Monster said to me.

  I nodded. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” I asked Monster.

  “You noticed, huh? Yeah, you’re not the only one who’s trained in the arts. I never competed like you, but I took lessons for about two years, and what I learned I practiced every day until I mastered it. I had to quit the lessons because we couldn’t afford it, but I had plenty of crash dummies to practice on,” Monster responded.

  “Yeah, but what I saw in that chow hall was poetry and destruction rolled into one,” I said.

  He studied me for a moment.

  Only you noticed that. In all my years of war, only you have seen it for more than just me being a good fighter,” Monster responded.

  “I recognize in you something that lives inside of me as well—rage.”

  Monster again looked at me for a long moment. “I can’t help it. I hate niggers. When I was coming up in the system, one of them fuckin’ Africans always tried to take what was mine. So my hatred has grown and I love it. I love the fear in their eyes when they see this Mexican coming to get them. I want to be their boogey man.”

  He was solid. He knew who he was and, more importantly, he accepted himself.

  “Gracias for having my back,” I said.

  “I would follow you into any battle, ese,” Monster replied and shook my hand. He looked at me with those eyes, his gaze met mine, and he said, “I knew I was right about you. Ever wonder who would win between us?”

  I stared at him and then we both started laughing.

  He was right. I asked myself that same question after seeing him destroy those two men.

  Chapter 9

  Childhood, 1975–1976

  The summer before my seventh grade year, my mother convinced my father that both my sister and I would not be attending Sparks Junior High School. Instead, she would find a better school, one that didn’t have gangs, so I could concentrate on studying. That seemed like a good idea on the surface, but as usual my mother ignored the obvious. The gangs and bullies were not my biggest problem. I had a huge disadvantage because I couldn’t concentrate. My mind seemed to be in constant motion. I had ADHD, made worse by my emotional state and by my home life.

  My parents continued to fight. My father drank and continued abusing my mother, and in turn she abused both me and my sister emotionally. She also began to dominate and control us physically. When she became upset or frustrated, she yelled, threw things, and worked herself into a frenzy, hitting us with whatever she could pick up. She sometimes broke down and cried uncontrollably, then just as quickly seemed fine again. All of it confused both my sister and me. We couldn’t make sense of our mother’s behavior.

  By the end of summer, my mother announced she had found the school we would attend. It was a private school in West Covina, California, named Immanuel First Lutheran. No gang members went there, so my mother expected I would become a straight-A student. Most importantly, her children would attend private school, which was a huge boost to her ego.

  My home life became a living hell. My anxiety, isolation, and resentment grew each day. Neighbors and family friends began to notice. The private school was my mother’s desperate attempt to keep up the appearance that everything was fine and that we had money. To my mother, the appearance of success would keep the outside world from becoming aware of what really happened inside our home. My father also ignored the obvious and agreed to pay for our school. Somehow, both my sister and I were excited about getting away from those who knew us and starting with a clean slate. We thought none of our baggage would follow us since the school was far from our home.

  I anticipated how great it would be at the new school. There would be friends who would like me, who would include me in their games, and call my house. I even imagined I would be popular.

  That summer, I got away from the house as much as possible. I didn’t want to deal with all the problems there. Early each morning, by 4:45 a.m., I woke, fed, and watered my animals, then my father gave me a ride to the bus stop. From there I’d catch two buses to Huntington Beach. I’d surf until around 9:45 a.m., then catch the bus back and arrive home around 12:30 p.m. I’d eat, and then pull out my skateboard or BMX bike, and I was gone again. I’d return at 4:00 p.m., in time to get ready to leave for my martial arts training. My sister and I both rode our bikes to the sessions at the studio, where I’d train until 7:00 p.m.

  When I arrived home, I’d eat and go to bed. This was my schedule the entire summer. I was never home during the week except to sleep. It angered my mother because all the time spent in the sun darkened my skin more than usual. She believed darker skin equaled lower social status. To change this, she put lemon juice on my skin and peroxide in my shampoo to lighten my skin and hair. Pictures from that time show our hair was a shade of red/brown. Of course, my mother told anyone who would listen that our hair was naturally that color because of our German and Spanish bloodline. In her world, it made us superior. My mother was fixated on ensuring everyone believed her version of reality.

  Friday nights were either heaven or hell for me. The good times were when my father had something planned for us, and we’d be off. As long as my parents were apart, my father was fine. My mother, on the other hand, got worse as time went by, whether my father was around or not.

  I showed an interest in working with my hands at age twelve. My father was an artist—a sculptor—and I’d watched him work with stone, titanium, glass, wood, and marble. Even when he worked through the entire night, I didn’t want to leave his side, and sometimes I’d fall asleep there at his feet.

  The passion my father demonstrated through his work allowed me to see a side of him no one else knew. He loved his work—not just the finished piece, but also the process of exercising his skill and vision.

  I absorbed everything he did with his art, how he touched the materials, and his familiarity with the shape as he created it. A few times he even took me to his job and showed me how to run a mill and lathe. We’d spend hours talking about shapes, and how numbers correlated with different geometric forms. The forms spoke to me in a language of their own. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was seeing the world differently than most people, just as my father had. By placing shapes in a certain order, I could set a series of numbers to work toward a solution.

  T
he first day of seventh grade started out great. I was excited to be going to a new school. Every year since I could remember, I feared going to school. Would someone try to take something I had? Would last year’s bullies still be there? Would I have to fight to make it through the day?

  All those concerns were absent as my mother drove my sister and me to our new school. As soon as we arrived, I noticed there were no gang members anywhere.

  All of the kids were white. Relieved, I got out of the car, kissed my mother goodbye, and my sister and I ran to the playground. As soon as we got there, the bell rang and a teacher named Mr. Shultz instructed us where to go. Since my sister was in the sixth grade and I was in seventh, we were in different classes and homerooms. My first class was history. I followed the other kids who I heard talking about being in the seventh grade. I hadn’t spoken to anyone yet. I waited to see where everyone sat, and then I picked a desk with a couple of empty ones close to it. I didn’t want to make waves. I just wanted to fit in.

  I sat down and looked around. The classroom appeared like any other. The second bell rang, a signal that all students must be in class, and the room began to fill up. All the desks filled and kids began to talk about their summers.

  Listening to how they spent the summer, I realized many of the kids knew each other and had spent part of the summer hanging around together. I listened and smiled as the boy who sat in the desk right behind mine told the other boys sitting nearby about his summer at the Colorado River, and all the hot older girls he kissed. He bragged about the girls letting him feel them up and described how a fourteen-year-old girl had pulled out his dick and said she couldn’t believe how big it was. When he noticed me listening, he stopped talking to look at me.

  He said, “Turn around, wetback. I wasn’t talking to you. If I want my grass cut, I’ll call your dad.”

  The words stung. Everyone heard what he said. How could I respond? The boys in his group all laughed and repeated the word—wetback.

  I turned around and faced the front, embarrassed and hurt. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. Everything I imagined a new school would offer, and the possibility of fitting in, dissolved in that moment. Nothing had changed. I was still different, still singled out, and still picked on. I didn’t hear a single thing the teacher said during the class.

  I was brought back to reality when, just as the class ended, the boy who had called me wetback flicked my ear with his finger. It stung and I jolted to my feet and faced him.

  Everyone looked at me, including the teacher, and the boy yelled, “Mr. Shultz, the Mexican gang member wants to beat me up. Please tell him to stop.”

  I’d reacted to the idiot, which made me the bad guy.

  “Sit down, William. Here now, you kids cut the foolishness. It’s the first day of a long school year. I expect you to behave or you’ll soon meet my paddle,” Mr. Shultz said.

  I sat down, but I was shaking with hurt and anger. The bell rang and everyone rushed out of the class.

  “Donald, William, please come to my desk,” said Mr. Shultz.

  When we did, he asked, “What’s the problem?”

  I didn’t say anything. I learned early to keep my mouth shut and deal with it later.

  “Mr. Shultz, I was just sitting there listening to you when I turned the page of my book and he jumped up ready to fight. I don’t know what his problem is. Maybe he doesn’t like us,” Donald responded.

  “Well William, do you have anything to say?”

  I said nothing.

  “Donald, I suppose both William and I are crazy, because I’m sure the reason his ear is red has nothing to do with you hitting it, does it? It’s the first day of school and you will keep your hands to yourself or I’ll be introducing you to my best friend,” Mr. Shultz told him.

  He pulled out a two-foot-long paddle. The handle was round with tape around it and the business end had holes drilled in it to reduce wind resistance.

  “How do you like it? I just made it and I’m dying to use it on someone’s behind. Are you interested in breaking it in, Mr. Hamilton?”

  “No, Mr. Shultz. I understand,” said Donald.

  I still hadn’t said a word.

  “Get to your next class before you’re late,” ordered Mr. Shultz.

  I followed Donald to the next class, and unfortunately I had to sit next to him.

  The whole time I re-played what happened over and over in my head, not paying attention to the teacher, the class, or anyone.

  The bell rang and the next class was recess. I went to the bench next to the pull-up bars. Many of the kids were in line to buy food or something to drink. I hadn’t brought money, so I sat and watched. The whole time I felt left out and hurt. When my sister saw me sitting there, she ran up to me and sat down.

  “Hi, Billy. This school is so cool, I love it,” she said.

  My eyes began to water.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I told her what happened.

  “Oh no, not again. Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, I just don’t know why he called me that. I hate it here,” I said. My sister hugged me and then went to play and talk to her new friends. She always fit in and always had friends. She was lucky and I was grateful she didn’t have to deal with what I had to. Better me than her. She was my little sister, and with all the problems we had at home she deserved to have a little happiness.

  I noticed Donald and his friends standing in line to buy something. He laughed and played around, and enjoyed all the benefits of being accepted for who he was. I noticed there were no Hispanics anywhere except my sister and me, and she was a lot lighter-skinned than I was.

  Then I saw a tall black kid walking up to the food line. He was taller and more muscular than everyone else. Donald and his friends immediately started talking to him and I could tell, although they all seemed friendly, they feared him. They were friends only because it was in Donald’s best interest.

  I took note of that, and I’ve never forgotten it. It doesn’t matter if you’re black, white, brown, yellow, or red, beautiful or ugly, if you’re feared you will be respected, and being respected ultimately leads to acceptance.

  The Hapkido studio was the only place I found acceptance and safety. Master Yim believed in me and my skill as a fighter and made me the youngest member of the Hapkido Fighting Team. However, other parts of my life were affecting my study and practice of the martial arts, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Master Yim believed that through meditation and visualization one can attain all that one truly needs. He knew about the abuse I received because I showed up with black eyes and bruises. He never asked me about it, but he knew.

  One day he saw me alone in the back of the studio practicing my kicks. He asked me in to his office, and after sitting there for a few moments without saying a word he finally spoke. “Boy, did you know that through meditation you can change the future?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I can see the rage that lives inside of you. I can see it in your moves, in your eyes. I’d like to teach you how to control it and use it to make you better, faster, and stronger. If you fail to control it, some day it will control and destroy you.”

  My rage was a constant companion since early childhood. I was so comfortable with it I considered it to be almost like a friend. It was never far away and always available to fill the emptiness inside me after pushing away the hurt inflicted by others. It is the only constant I’ve ever known.

  “I don’t want my rage to go away. It gives me power to fight against the people who want to hurt me,” I said.

  “Meditation will not make it go away. It will allow you to control and use it better. You will learn to be its master. If you decide to learn, come here every day an hour early. I will leave a key to the studio next door for you. From now on, this will be your hallowed ground.”

  The following day, I went to the Korean store beside the studio to pick up the key. Despite many years of training at the studio, I had never gone insid
e the store. I stood just inside the door and noticed all the wonderful things they had on display. The Korean girl behind the counter had large almond-shaped eyes and long straight hair. She came out from behind the small counter and said in a heavily accented voice, “You Bill? Master Yim say you come for key.”

  I nodded and she placed a key in my hand.

  “You want look around?”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I explored the store. It wasn’t very big but had everything from herbal tea to clothes, including martial arts uniforms which looked much better than the one I wore.

  The girl saw me looking at the uniform and said, “You like? That fighter uniform. Master Yim say you fighter.”

  “It’s better than the one I have. I like it.”

  Just then she brushed past me to take the uniform off the hanger so I could look, and when her skin touched mine I looked at her more closely and noticed how young she was—not over fourteen. What really got my attention was how beautiful she was. She smiled at me and her teeth were perfect. Her scent was unique and attractive. I was intoxicated in her presence.

  “My name Michiko. I see you every day when come for key.”

  “I’m William. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I didn’t want to leave. Michiko was beautiful and I wanted to continue talking to her. She also seemed nice and didn’t make fun of my appearance or laugh at me.

  The studio was different early in the day. There was no smell of sweat, no yelling, and no training.

  Leaving the lights off, I began to stretch and then went through my fighting forms. While doing them, I closed off the world. The only thing that existed was war. I battled my enemies, and sometimes the enemy wore my face. It’s still this way for me, all these years later.

  During one of those forms I noticed Master Yim standing a few feet from me. I stopped. I hadn’t heard him come in.