Jackie Chan fan art by http://donvito62.deviantart.com/
ERIC TRAN
Jackie Chan’s Son
Imagine the yearbook photographers, mustached
with combs in their pockets, how they ‘mistake’
the boys for Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Christian Slater
if they were white. The yellow boys were always
Jackie Chan, Jet Li, whether we were Chinese or Korean
or embarrassed to be just the Asian kid. What made me
cringe so: that Jackie wasn’t Hollywood handsome, no
square jaw, not blonde hair but coal black like my dad?
How my friends only talked about his accent, his karate,
not how he always saved the world? Jackie’s son
was detained in Beijing for a wad of pot--I feel very
angry and very shocked, Jackie said, I’m heart broken.
Did any of us know he had a son or did we think
he was inert and stoic like in his movies? Surely no one
knew he was a singer, too. At one time I wouldn’t let my dad
play any song in the car that wasn’t Jackie in concert,
until I brought the tape for show and tell, when my friends
made faces, when I said, Please, turn it off. What did I know
of the shape of inheritance, warped like a worn-out record,
that Jackie’s son could share his bulb nose
but would never make a blockbuster, would never make
us smile. That I would never have my dad’s skin,
purest tan from working outside all day. No one knows
if Jackie’s son will ever apologize, but imagine father
and adult son reunited after years: could we see their edges
snap together like a puzzle or would we mistake them
for any two figures in the rain. Polite distance between
their shoulders, strangers waiting for the bus to come.
Jackie Chan’s Son
Imagine the yearbook photographers, mustached
with combs in their pockets, how they ‘mistake’
the boys for Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Christian Slater
if they were white. The yellow boys were always
Jackie Chan, Jet Li, whether we were Chinese or Korean
or embarrassed to be just the Asian kid. What made me
cringe so: that Jackie wasn’t Hollywood handsome, no
square jaw, not blonde hair but coal black like my dad?
How my friends only talked about his accent, his karate,
not how he always saved the world? Jackie’s son
was detained in Beijing for a wad of pot--I feel very
angry and very shocked, Jackie said, I’m heart broken.
Did any of us know he had a son or did we think
he was inert and stoic like in his movies? Surely no one
knew he was a singer, too. At one time I wouldn’t let my dad
play any song in the car that wasn’t Jackie in concert,
until I brought the tape for show and tell, when my friends
made faces, when I said, Please, turn it off. What did I know
of the shape of inheritance, warped like a worn-out record,
that Jackie’s son could share his bulb nose
but would never make a blockbuster, would never make
us smile. That I would never have my dad’s skin,
purest tan from working outside all day. No one knows
if Jackie’s son will ever apologize, but imagine father
and adult son reunited after years: could we see their edges
snap together like a puzzle or would we mistake them
for any two figures in the rain. Polite distance between
their shoulders, strangers waiting for the bus to come.
Eric Tran is a medical student at the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill and received his MFA from the University of North Carolina Wilmington. His essays and poems have appeared in the Indiana Review, Crab Orchard Review, and the Collagist.
