1. An Encounter with Hunter
The night was hazy.
A thin mist hung over the streets of Manhattan, softening the neon lights into blurred halos. Music throbbed somewhere in the distance, mixed with laughter, engines, and the restless pulse of a city that refused to sleep.
On a narrow street just off Broadway, a group of young Black men stood in a loose circle, their posture relaxed but their eyes sharp—focused on a single figure at the center.
That figure was a Chinese man.
It was me.
The incident happened five years after I immigrated to the United States.
At the time, I made my living drawing portraits on the street.
In Times Square, disputes over territory and customers were part of the ecosystem. Artists claimed their spots, protected their clients, and learned quickly when to argue—and when not to.
I had always followed the rules.
Avoid confrontation.
Keep a low profile.
And most importantly—never reveal what I could actually do.
Yet within a single month, I broke that rule twice.
The first time was with Black men.
The second, with White men.
Ironically, neither involved my fellow Chinese street artists, who were usually my competitors.
It was late—technically early morning.
Manhattan, soaked in alcohol and electric light, was still alive, still celebrating.
A Chinese painter was arguing loudly with several young Black men. The voices were rising, sharp and heated, balanced on the edge of violence.
I had been walking past.
I stopped.
Then I stepped in.
Around us, other Chinese painters quietly slipped away. No one wanted to be caught in what was about to happen.
I moved between the two sides.
The dispute itself was simple.
One of the men refused to pay for his portrait, claiming it “didn’t look like him.” At the same time, he insisted he had “portrait rights,” and therefore deserved to keep the drawing for free.
Absurd—but not unusual.
There were no police nearby.
The men were drunk. Loud. Confident.
And there were several of them.
I asked my friend to hand me the framed portrait.
Holding it up with both hands, I faced them.
And I began to negotiate.
It was not an equal negotiation.
Several intoxicated young men—
against one unaccompanied stranger.
I raised one hand slightly, signaling for quiet.
They didn’t fully stop talking, but their attention shifted. That was enough.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I said.
They paused.
“I’ll wrestle one of you.”
A brief silence. Then a ripple of laughter.
“If I lose,” I continued, “you keep the portrait. No charge.”
The laughter grew louder.
“If I win—”
I didn’t get to finish.
They were already clapping, shouting, circling around me as if the confrontation had turned into entertainment.
Good.
That was exactly what I wanted.
They formed a ring.
I stood in the center, both hands still holding the portrait up.
A tall man stepped forward.
He wasn’t bulky, but he had long arms and an easy reach. He studied me carefully, moving in slow, cautious steps.
My posture confused him.
Both hands raised.
Holding a painting.
No guard.
No stance.
No intention to fight—at least, none that he could recognize.
That bothered him.
And when a man feels his pride questioned, he becomes predictable.
He stepped closer.
Reached out.
Hesitated.
Then reached again.
That was the moment.
I shifted my weight slightly and dropped my center of gravity.
My foot tapped lightly against his front ankle.
A reflex. He pulled it back.
And in that instant, his balance shifted to the other leg.
I struck that one.
Clean.
Precise.
No wasted movement.
He lost his footing immediately.
His body tilted—then dropped hard onto the pavement.
The fall wasn’t dangerous.
But it was humiliating.
By the time he hit the ground, I was already back in my original position.
Both hands raised.
Holding the portrait.
Perfectly still.
The laughter stopped.
Just like that.
Silence settled over the circle.
A few seconds passed.
Then, without a word, they dispersed.
That was my first physical confrontation in America.
Brief.
Controlled.
Efficient.
But it marked a turning point in my life.
Because someone had been watching.
His name was Mike Hunter.
The night was hazy.
A thin mist hung over the streets of Manhattan, softening the neon lights into blurred halos. Music throbbed somewhere in the distance, mixed with laughter, engines, and the restless pulse of a city that refused to sleep.
On a narrow street just off Broadway, a group of young Black men stood in a loose circle, their posture relaxed but their eyes sharp—focused on a single figure at the center.
That figure was a Chinese man.
It was me.
The incident happened five years after I immigrated to the United States.
At the time, I made my living drawing portraits on the street.
In Times Square, disputes over territory and customers were part of the ecosystem. Artists claimed their spots, protected their clients, and learned quickly when to argue—and when not to.
I had always followed the rules.
Avoid confrontation.
Keep a low profile.
And most importantly—never reveal what I could actually do.
Yet within a single month, I broke that rule twice.
The first time was with Black men.
The second, with White men.
Ironically, neither involved my fellow Chinese street artists, who were usually my competitors.
It was late—technically early morning.
Manhattan, soaked in alcohol and electric light, was still alive, still celebrating.
A Chinese painter was arguing loudly with several young Black men. The voices were rising, sharp and heated, balanced on the edge of violence.
I had been walking past.
I stopped.
Then I stepped in.
Around us, other Chinese painters quietly slipped away. No one wanted to be caught in what was about to happen.
I moved between the two sides.
The dispute itself was simple.
One of the men refused to pay for his portrait, claiming it “didn’t look like him.” At the same time, he insisted he had “portrait rights,” and therefore deserved to keep the drawing for free.
Absurd—but not unusual.
There were no police nearby.
The men were drunk. Loud. Confident.
And there were several of them.
I asked my friend to hand me the framed portrait.
Holding it up with both hands, I faced them.
And I began to negotiate.
It was not an equal negotiation.
Several intoxicated young men—
against one unaccompanied stranger.
I raised one hand slightly, signaling for quiet.
They didn’t fully stop talking, but their attention shifted. That was enough.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I said.
They paused.
“I’ll wrestle one of you.”
A brief silence. Then a ripple of laughter.
“If I lose,” I continued, “you keep the portrait. No charge.”
The laughter grew louder.
“If I win—”
I didn’t get to finish.
They were already clapping, shouting, circling around me as if the confrontation had turned into entertainment.
Good.
That was exactly what I wanted.
They formed a ring.
I stood in the center, both hands still holding the portrait up.
A tall man stepped forward.
He wasn’t bulky, but he had long arms and an easy reach. He studied me carefully, moving in slow, cautious steps.
My posture confused him.
Both hands raised.
Holding a painting.
No guard.
No stance.
No intention to fight—at least, none that he could recognize.
That bothered him.
And when a man feels his pride questioned, he becomes predictable.
He stepped closer.
Reached out.
Hesitated.
Then reached again.
That was the moment.
I shifted my weight slightly and dropped my center of gravity.
My foot tapped lightly against his front ankle.
A reflex. He pulled it back.
And in that instant, his balance shifted to the other leg.
I struck that one.
Clean.
Precise.
No wasted movement.
He lost his footing immediately.
His body tilted—then dropped hard onto the pavement.
The fall wasn’t dangerous.
But it was humiliating.
By the time he hit the ground, I was already back in my original position.
Both hands raised.
Holding the portrait.
Perfectly still.
The laughter stopped.
Just like that.
Silence settled over the circle.
A few seconds passed.
Then, without a word, they dispersed.
That was my first physical confrontation in America.
Brief.
Controlled.
Efficient.
But it marked a turning point in my life.
Because someone had been watching.
His name was Mike Hunter.
