They don’t know.
When they trampled me into the ground, I didn’t remember the pain. I remembered the sound of a shoe sole grinding against my knuckles. When they crushed my steamed bun, I didn’t remember the hunger. I remembered the light in Grandma’s eyes when she said, “I just want something warm to eat.”
They called me Whip, in the restroom, in the hallway, and in the silence as the teacher bent over to grade our homework.
My name isn’t Whip. It’s Ma Yu. Yu, as in rain.
My dad flipped through half a dictionary and carried two pounds of eggs to a fortune-teller just to find a name for me. He said water brought wealth and smooth sailing, and that I’d never stumble into a muddy ditch or suffer an untimely disaster.
When he died, he was still clutching the new pencil he’d bought for me.
I endured it for fourteen years. I endured it until they crushed my steamed bun, until they knocked over Grandma’s bowl of medicine, until they cornered me outside my home on New Year’s Eve.
That night, I opened the door with a beer bottle I’d spent the whole day sharpening clenched in my hand.
Later, someone asked me if I was afraid.
I was. But hatred weighed more than fear.
Whoever cuts off my path in life, I’ll break all four of their limbs. Whoever harms my family, I’ll make sure they never rise again.
The boy who crawled out of the mud will one day stand atop this city, stepping over his enemies’ bones.
When a carp’s scales are raised, it transforms into a dragon.
My name is Ma Yu.
