
I heard the lyric "anger is a gift" from Rage Against The Machine's "Freedom" in the summer of 1993. Those words were a bull-headed push for a first-generation Asian-American teenager in a predominately white suburb, fueling the already-aggravated fire of my 15-year-old brain.
I'd grown up using anger as a tool to galvanize me whenever the odds were against my favor, whether the fight was in social circles, dating, or work. That same intensity made me want to punch the fucking fake teeth out of Mickey Rooney's racist caricature in Breakfast at Tiffany's and scream at all those sexless Asian nerds from 80s comedies to grow a goddamn spine.
Bruce Lee was the sole Asian hero for my entire childhood, as he probably was for any Asian-American kid in my generation. He defined perfection in physical form and fighting skill, along with his charisma and philosophy. By my early teens, I identified most with Bruce Lee's onscreen (and likely off-screen) anger. I had no intention of learning martial arts or becoming an actor, so Bruce became my Patron Saint of Furious Defiance.


