Jackie Chan Adventures

In 2001, kids were a certain cruel.

Cruel like when kids went 1v3 on Counter Strike.

Cruel like when kids started calling Gilbert Mac “Jared” because his dad started working at the Subway after he lost his dot-com job.

Cruel like when kids catfished the exchange student Patel Bakshi on AIM and posted the pictures he emailed of himself on Angelfire with Dragon Ball Z gifs.

Cruel like when kids teased my little sister, Jackie Chan, because their name is Jackie Chan.

Of course, it’s not her fault that our parents named her Jackie Chan. To my parents, it wasn’t cruel.

“It’s psychology.” My dad explained to my principal at a meeting to discuss what to do about this bullying problem at our “bully-free” school. He tipped his white cowboy hat, something he started wearing in the states and never stopped wearing, even now. “When I studied psychology at the University of The Philippines, they said names make the man, ‘tang ina.”

“Bastos!” My mom snapped in the chair beside him. “Don’t cuss in front of the puti! Besides, you only took one Psychology class, and it was at KCM.”

“It’s all the same! Jackie Chan is Jackie Chan!”

My mother frowned and looked down at us with her green eyes. She always wore different colored contacts and to this day I still don’t know what the real color of her eyes are. “You just need to be strong! Like Jackie Chan, Jackie. Jackie Chan! That, and pray!”

In response, Jackie Chan drenched the arm of my favorite Laker jacket in tears.

To my parents, having a famous action star’s name was like a blessing or good luck. It was like anointing someone with holy water or giving them a super power like telekinesis or crazy martial arts skills. It wasn’t a name, it was a title. It wasn’t given, it was bestowed.

But, the cruel kids of 2001 didn’t see it as either a name or a title. It was a target. A big fat one. The kind that anyone could hit with a joke. Asian Jokes. Chinese-not-Filipino jokes. Reverse Dude-looks-like-a-lady jokes. Dick jokes. Gay jokes. Rumble-in-The-Bronx jokes. Even Bad-day-bad-bay-bad-day-Jackie-Chan-Adventures jokes, even though everyone loved the shit out of that show.

It got so bad that eventually Jackie Chan stayed home from school to avoid all the bullying the whole fall semester of ninth grade and did nothing but sustain themself on Pizza Pockets and burned Dreamcast games. The school administration was useless. My parents were hopeless. And myself, well I was just happy I wasn’t Jackie Chan.

Then, in December, at the start of winter break, the ads came in the mail. Right before dinner, my dad put it between my sister and I on the living room couch. 

“Look!” My dad said, his voice trailing behind him with another copy of the ad to show mom, “Jackie Chan’s coming to town. Merry Christmas!”

On the flyer, our local Warehouse advertised a meet-and-greet with Jackie Chan to promote the DVD and VHS release of Jackie Chan Adventures Season 1. Jackie Chan struck a pose with their signature blue sweater and khaki pants.  Meanwhile, our Jackie Chan tapped away on their dreamcast controller, guiding Sonic through gold rings that looped around a fictional San Francisco.  

“Hey, Jackie, check this out.”

I held it out but Jackie Chan didn’t look at it. “I know. I heard dad.”

“You wanna go?” I asked. Despite all that happened, we were all still big fans, including Jackie Chan.

Sonic glided on the screen.  His feet didn’t look like they even touched the ground. 

“If Jackie Chan’s going to be there, then I’ll be there.”

Despite saying that however, the day of the event, it was just my parents and I heading to the store. When I woke up that morning, Jackie Chan was gone.  I ran to the kitchen to tell my parents but, to my surprise, they weren’t worried at all.

“Don’t worry, anak. We’ll see Jackie Chan later at the event.” My dad said, flipping through a newspaper, his white cowboy hat the only thing showing. 

“But where did she go?”

“Aye,” My mom said and handed me a plate of eggs and rice. Her eyes were crimson today. “You know where Jackie Chan will be. They need to get ready.”

Confused, I sat down and stared blankly at my breakfast. Jackie Chan hadn’t left the house once since leaving school and now they were out and about on their own? The thought, for some reason, made me feel more envious than worried.

When we arrived at The Warehouse, the line was already around the corner. The buzz was in the air, and I could see the faces of kids from school, the same kids who had mocked Jackie for months. 

But today was different. Today, they all looked ready to shit themselves, trembling with their Jackie Chan posters, pogs, retractable-kung-fu-chop action figures. And yet, they were nervous for another reason. They all didn’t want the other to know they were a fan. They were wearing oversized Fubu hoodies, bucket hats, Thrifty sunglasses, anything to hide who you were.You couldn’t love Jackie and make fun of them at the same time, they thought. No, they couldn’t be found dead in line for this.

But, half an hour into the wait, something changed.

It didn’t take long to find out what.

At the front of the line, there were screams. I craned my neck, looking for any sign of Jackie Chan. And then, I saw her. 

She was standing at the front, staring at the event banner, looking—well, looking like the real Jackie Chan. Except, she wasn’t just standing there. She was surrounded by a group of kids. The same kids who had tormented her, the ones who had spread the "Jackie Chan" jokes at her expense. They were all there, huddled around her.

One of the worst of them, RJ McNeil, who made the most racist accents to mock her, was laughing nervously now, asking Jackie Chan how she did a particular move in Rush Hour. Another kid, Fallon Prat, who would toss crumpled up paper balls at her to see if she could deflect them, asked if she could teach him how to do a flip.

I didn’t get it. Jackie Chan didn’t just look like Jackie Chan, she was Jackie Chan. Her hair, her face, her build, her clothes, her confidence, it was all Jackie Chan’s. It was like the whole world had shifted, and, somehow, she was he and he was she. They were Jackie Chan.

I couldn’t help myself. I left my parents and stepped forward.

"Jackie?" I called out, half in disbelief.

She turned around slowly, eyes wide as if she hadn’t expected to see me, but then she smiled. It was an odd, calm smile, as if she had figured something out that none of us had. As if she knew all along this was going to happen to them eventually. 

“Yeah?” she said, as cool as she was in Rumble In The Bronx when she wished she and some thugs could have tea together one day after beating them all up.

“Uh... You’re—how—what's going on?” I stammered, still trying to make sense of all this.

“Oh, nothing,” she replied with a casual shrug. “These guys, they’re just asking me stuff. They want to be like me, I guess.”

I blinked, stunned by her voice, her perfect Chinese accent. “But they were just—”

“I know, right?” She smiled again, this time with a little more knowing. It was the same confident smile I saw whenever he had his back to the wall in the movies, whenever she beat a hard stage of her game. 

I glanced back at the group of kids, RJ, Fallon, and the others, now hanging on Jackie’s every word. They were asking about her films, her stunts, even her charity work. Jackie was answering each question with a kind of ease I had never seen her use before.

“How did you do this?” I whispered, more to myself than her. “You... you just showed up as Jackie Chan and now they’re treating you like you’re the Jackie Chan?”

She gave me an amused look. “Yeah. Maybe sometimes you just gotta be who people expect you to be. Not in a bad way, but, you know. I am the Jackie Chan, after all.”

"Hey, Jackie," RJ interrupted, his voice cracking a little. "How do you feel about the new movie? You think it’ll be as good as Drunken Master?"

Jackie laughed. “I’m always excited for the next one.”

I couldn’t believe it. The kids who had made her life hell were now starstruck, eager for advice. Maybe they didn’t mean it. Maybe they were just playing along to save face. But the fact remained—Jackie Chan had become a kind of idol for them.

I turned away for a moment to process it all when our parents finally made their way beside me.

“See, anak,” our dad said, pushing his cowboy hat up with a finger, his voice low, almost smug. “You were worried, but Jackie Chan can handle it.”

Our mom rubbed my shoulders.  I couldn’t see her eyes but I could tell they were glowing. “That’s why she’s Jackie Chan.”

I looked at my sister again. She was laughing with the kids, talking about another brave stunt she’d done in the movies. It wasn’t the Jackie I’d known for years, the quiet, sad Jackie who sat in her room avoiding the bullies. This was someone different. And, for once, she wasn’t the joke. She was my sister, Jackie Chan.