Snow
1
1
The first time I see snow is in Winnepeg, Canada. It is winter, a season I know nothing about yet. It’s our second night here. Last night, we arrived and aside from the cold, I saw very little because it was dark and we were tired.
Tonight, I am standing behind the window in a long pink gingham skirt over a pair of long pants. I don’t own the skirt, nor the long pants, nor the button down shirt. The lady who owns this house must have given it to me.
She is an old lady who gets money from the British government to take in refugees like us. Maybe the clothes are part of the bargain. Or maybe they once belonged to other refugees before us. Or maybe she is being kind.
I’m seven, so none of those things occur to me.
As I look at my reflection in the window and the background of snow falling outside, I think of nothing but my pink gingham skirt, how much I love it. That’s why I’m wearing it – I wear it over all my clothes because it’s the first and prettiest thing I own. I don’t touch it because I’m afraid I would wear it out with my hands. So I just stand behind the window, looking at my reflection and at the snow.
Before that, I lived in a place without snow. It was a wooded shanty place in Hong Kong where people who snuck out of China could live. The houses were wood with tin roofs and dirt floors. (Later, I would learn that those were called ‘squatters villages’ and after a series of riots and fires, the British government razed them all and moved the residents to government projects.) The houses were really small rooms enough for a wooden plank for a bed. My parents and all of us – we slept on that plank together.
It was a lovely place with all sorts of edible leaves. Which I ate because I was hungry all the time. It was always warm and we went around all day wearing nothing but shorts and undershirts and plastic slippers.
It was an easy place for me to live because I was too young to know about how poor we were. Being hungry was not something to avoid. But my parents, of course, knew the danger. We were sick with tuberculosis and intestinal worms.
My parents applied for refugee status in Hong Kong and we were sent to Winnipeg, to this house where we would live until my father found work. In the meantime, he and my mother would go to school at night to learn English.
But there is another boarder, who is not Chinese and not a refugee. He lives in the cellar. We don’t know anything about him except he has been drunk since this morning, when we met him.
Behind me, my brother and sister, 4 and 3 years old, are sitting on top of the stairs to the cellar watching the old drunk boarder slice the neck of a chicken. He squeezes the body of the chicken over a metal pail between his legs, pulling on the head with his left hand to extend the neck. With his right hand, he cuts a gash across the neck and lets the blood pour into the pail.
The chicken is limp. He looks up and grins. They come to stand next to me and watch the snow. It’s their first time too.
She is an old lady who gets money from the British government to take in refugees like us. Maybe the clothes are part of the bargain. Or maybe they once belonged to other refugees before us. Or maybe she is being kind.
I’m seven, so none of those things occur to me.
As I look at my reflection in the window and the background of snow falling outside, I think of nothing but my pink gingham skirt, how much I love it. That’s why I’m wearing it – I wear it over all my clothes because it’s the first and prettiest thing I own. I don’t touch it because I’m afraid I would wear it out with my hands. So I just stand behind the window, looking at my reflection and at the snow.
Before that, I lived in a place without snow. It was a wooded shanty place in Hong Kong where people who snuck out of China could live. The houses were wood with tin roofs and dirt floors. (Later, I would learn that those were called ‘squatters villages’ and after a series of riots and fires, the British government razed them all and moved the residents to government projects.) The houses were really small rooms enough for a wooden plank for a bed. My parents and all of us – we slept on that plank together.
It was a lovely place with all sorts of edible leaves. Which I ate because I was hungry all the time. It was always warm and we went around all day wearing nothing but shorts and undershirts and plastic slippers.
It was an easy place for me to live because I was too young to know about how poor we were. Being hungry was not something to avoid. But my parents, of course, knew the danger. We were sick with tuberculosis and intestinal worms.
My parents applied for refugee status in Hong Kong and we were sent to Winnipeg, to this house where we would live until my father found work. In the meantime, he and my mother would go to school at night to learn English.
But there is another boarder, who is not Chinese and not a refugee. He lives in the cellar. We don’t know anything about him except he has been drunk since this morning, when we met him.
Behind me, my brother and sister, 4 and 3 years old, are sitting on top of the stairs to the cellar watching the old drunk boarder slice the neck of a chicken. He squeezes the body of the chicken over a metal pail between his legs, pulling on the head with his left hand to extend the neck. With his right hand, he cuts a gash across the neck and lets the blood pour into the pail.
The chicken is limp. He looks up and grins. They come to stand next to me and watch the snow. It’s their first time too.
2
On Ludlow Street, on the Lower East Side, in New York City, my brother, sister and I walk between Broome and Delancey. We are 9, 6 and 5 years old.
It’s our first Christmas week in New York and we have no school. Our parents are working, so we wander outside in the snowy, silent streets. We look in closed shop windows at the stocking displays. We stop and look for a long time in a window where boxes of Christmas cards are laid across the shelves. There are single cards next to the boxes that are placed upright. We look at one card that is edged in red, the scene is a horse and carriage on its way through the snow to a house rimmed by firs. There is a sliver of smoke fading from the top of a chimney. The two front windows glow with gentle light. Across the card is something written in silver script. I don’t know what it says because I have not yet learned English.
We stand on there for a long time, staring and staring at the beautiful snow on the Christmas card.
It’s our first Christmas week in New York and we have no school. Our parents are working, so we wander outside in the snowy, silent streets. We look in closed shop windows at the stocking displays. We stop and look for a long time in a window where boxes of Christmas cards are laid across the shelves. There are single cards next to the boxes that are placed upright. We look at one card that is edged in red, the scene is a horse and carriage on its way through the snow to a house rimmed by firs. There is a sliver of smoke fading from the top of a chimney. The two front windows glow with gentle light. Across the card is something written in silver script. I don’t know what it says because I have not yet learned English.
We stand on there for a long time, staring and staring at the beautiful snow on the Christmas card.
3
In Music Palace, the movie theatre on the Bowery, my sister and I sit in the front row as we watch the actress slowly come out of her trance. The movie is called Scenes from the North. I have not yet seen Dr. Zhivago so I can’t know how much alike it is.
Later, I would know.
But now, I am spellbound by the beautiful actress in her fur hat sitting at the railroad station. She is seeing off the man she loves. But she is remembering the times they had and the love they share. The movie shows all those times. They hold hands. They run happily and the wind lifts the ends of her long hair under her fur hat. But later, the man does something wrong, so he has to be sent to Siberia or someplace equally cold and punishing . I am too young to know about the crime he has committed. I just know they are about to be separated forever. The sun on snow sharpens the picture to a point where I feel her despair and the sorrow of departure.
Suddenly, she snaps out of her reveries and realizes the train is moving with her lover in it. She runs and runs through the snow in her white fur hat and long fur coat, reaching out her hand to the man who is also reaching out his hand through the window.
They almost touch but don’t. And the train moves faster and faster away.
She is alone, looking at the puff of smoke, standing in the snow.
Later, I would know.
But now, I am spellbound by the beautiful actress in her fur hat sitting at the railroad station. She is seeing off the man she loves. But she is remembering the times they had and the love they share. The movie shows all those times. They hold hands. They run happily and the wind lifts the ends of her long hair under her fur hat. But later, the man does something wrong, so he has to be sent to Siberia or someplace equally cold and punishing . I am too young to know about the crime he has committed. I just know they are about to be separated forever. The sun on snow sharpens the picture to a point where I feel her despair and the sorrow of departure.
Suddenly, she snaps out of her reveries and realizes the train is moving with her lover in it. She runs and runs through the snow in her white fur hat and long fur coat, reaching out her hand to the man who is also reaching out his hand through the window.
They almost touch but don’t. And the train moves faster and faster away.
She is alone, looking at the puff of smoke, standing in the snow.
Names
1
1
Shortly after I was born, I became so ill that my mother wouldn’t give me a name until she was sure I would live.
The way she told it, she had to carry me and walk about four hours to the doctor nearest the village. She was hesitant to go because if I died on the way, it would be a waste of the day and she would have to carry a dead child or bury me on the roadside. But she decided to go anyway.
When she got there, the doctor couldn’t tell her what was wrong with me and couldn’t say if I would live. On the thought that she might have to make a choice of carrying me, dead, back another four hours or to bury me wherever I happened to die, she stopped by a temple on the road and prayed to Guan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy, to save me.
The bargain was that if I lived, my mother would name me after the Goddess, and the Goddess would be my protector throughout my life. So when she came home and I was still alive, she and the old ladies in the village proceeded with the ‘cup’ ritual to give me a name.
The ‘cup’ was really a large wooden spoon used as a proxy for the answer of the gods. You would ask a yes or no question, and then hit the handle of the cup, which would jump into the air. If it landed with the opening facing up, that would be a yes. If it landed bottoms up, that would be a no. When the gods say yes, the answer must be confirmed by hitting the cup three times, in case it was an accident, or maybe the gods changed their minds. The cup must face up all three times for the answer to be true.
That morning, my mother and the women decided that the first word of my name would be Guan, for the Goddess. The second word was up to my mother or the suggestions by the women. It had to go with Guan for harmony of meaning as well as sound.
The first suggestion was ‘Hee,’ which meant happiness, and it was the second word of my grandmother’s name. But the gods said no.
They went through several more words. Each time the answer was no. Finally, the gods said ‘yes’ to Hua, which was a common name that meant bright, resplendent, or Chinese (as in Hua Ren: Chinese person). The word is so prevalent that half the stores in New York Chinatown includes the word Hua. It’s included in the names of restaurants, newspapers, supermarkets. It’s really hard to miss.
The cup landed up three times. So my mother was sure. And I became Guan Hua.
It is written like this: 觀華
In Cantonese, it is pronounced Goon Wah.
On my papers, it was Koon Wah, which was what I was called until the 7th grade.
The way she told it, she had to carry me and walk about four hours to the doctor nearest the village. She was hesitant to go because if I died on the way, it would be a waste of the day and she would have to carry a dead child or bury me on the roadside. But she decided to go anyway.
When she got there, the doctor couldn’t tell her what was wrong with me and couldn’t say if I would live. On the thought that she might have to make a choice of carrying me, dead, back another four hours or to bury me wherever I happened to die, she stopped by a temple on the road and prayed to Guan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy, to save me.
The bargain was that if I lived, my mother would name me after the Goddess, and the Goddess would be my protector throughout my life. So when she came home and I was still alive, she and the old ladies in the village proceeded with the ‘cup’ ritual to give me a name.
The ‘cup’ was really a large wooden spoon used as a proxy for the answer of the gods. You would ask a yes or no question, and then hit the handle of the cup, which would jump into the air. If it landed with the opening facing up, that would be a yes. If it landed bottoms up, that would be a no. When the gods say yes, the answer must be confirmed by hitting the cup three times, in case it was an accident, or maybe the gods changed their minds. The cup must face up all three times for the answer to be true.
That morning, my mother and the women decided that the first word of my name would be Guan, for the Goddess. The second word was up to my mother or the suggestions by the women. It had to go with Guan for harmony of meaning as well as sound.
The first suggestion was ‘Hee,’ which meant happiness, and it was the second word of my grandmother’s name. But the gods said no.
They went through several more words. Each time the answer was no. Finally, the gods said ‘yes’ to Hua, which was a common name that meant bright, resplendent, or Chinese (as in Hua Ren: Chinese person). The word is so prevalent that half the stores in New York Chinatown includes the word Hua. It’s included in the names of restaurants, newspapers, supermarkets. It’s really hard to miss.
The cup landed up three times. So my mother was sure. And I became Guan Hua.
It is written like this: 觀華
In Cantonese, it is pronounced Goon Wah.
On my papers, it was Koon Wah, which was what I was called until the 7th grade.
2
It was common for non-Chinese students to humiliate Chinese students by mocking the Chinese language, so wherever I go, Black kids, Hispanic kids, White kids would say ching chong wing wong or some hybrid of these sounds. Often, they would test out other sounds, make a contest of it. The Chinese kids had to learn to ignore it, keep walking.
I didn’t know if I was the only one who felt that sense of shame whenever the non-Chinese kids called out those sounds. We never talked about it. We pretended it didn’t exist.
In my case, my last name was often mocked as well, but the mockery was rooted in English rather than Chinese. My last name Sit often became Shit. My best friend at the time, May Go was included when we walked together. The chant was you may go and shit.
Maybe because Miss O’Brien, my 7th grade teacher, wanted to help relieve me of some of that shame. Maybe because she was trying to preserve some hegemonic chauvinism. One day, she told me that I needed an American name, and that I should go home and think of one that I liked and come back to her about it.
I wasn’t sure how the name Patricia came to me, but the next day I brought the name up to Miss O’Brien, and she tried it out.
Patty Sit? No.
I didn’t care very much for it either but I didn’t know another name to take.
The two other Chinese girls in my class were Christina and May. May’s full name was May Ling Go. Miss O’Brien didn’t bother with May maybe because May was close enough to an Anglicized name as long as she didn’t say ‘Ling,’ which Miss O’Brien never did.
The other name that I considered briefly was Elizabeth after Elizabeth Taylor, whose pictures were often in the Chinese movies fan magazine because the Hong Kong Starlets were compared to her. I thought it was a nice name but too long for my mother to pronounce. I did not yet know names like Sophia, Audrey, Vivien.
My other friend who I knew in elementary school and went to a different Junior High was named Debbie. She had a sister named Doris. I didn’t want to name myself after Debbie, but I thought about the name Doris for a little while before I gave up the idea. Truth was, I didn’t know other names except for those that were already owned by other people. And I knew that I had to come up with a name that no one I knew had for fear of being a ‘copy cat, ‘ a phrase whose meaning I’d learned recently.
That week, some distant relatives from California sent presents to me and my siblings. My sister and I got two dolls in two separate boxes. At random, my sister picked the doll with the green dress, and I had the doll with the white dress. The name Joanna was written across the box.
The next day, I proposed the name Joanna to Miss O’Brien. She was happy with it, but she liked Joanne better. She called me Joanne from that day on.
For years, that was my name until I replaced the ‘e’ with the ‘a’ when I went to graduate school. Maybe I wanted to go back to the original name, even though there was nothing original about it.
After a few days, we hammered two nails, one on top of the other, into the wall next to the window in the bedroom and hung the dolls up by the back of their dresses. They stayed there until we moved to Brooklyn five years later.
I didn’t know if I was the only one who felt that sense of shame whenever the non-Chinese kids called out those sounds. We never talked about it. We pretended it didn’t exist.
In my case, my last name was often mocked as well, but the mockery was rooted in English rather than Chinese. My last name Sit often became Shit. My best friend at the time, May Go was included when we walked together. The chant was you may go and shit.
Maybe because Miss O’Brien, my 7th grade teacher, wanted to help relieve me of some of that shame. Maybe because she was trying to preserve some hegemonic chauvinism. One day, she told me that I needed an American name, and that I should go home and think of one that I liked and come back to her about it.
I wasn’t sure how the name Patricia came to me, but the next day I brought the name up to Miss O’Brien, and she tried it out.
Patty Sit? No.
I didn’t care very much for it either but I didn’t know another name to take.
The two other Chinese girls in my class were Christina and May. May’s full name was May Ling Go. Miss O’Brien didn’t bother with May maybe because May was close enough to an Anglicized name as long as she didn’t say ‘Ling,’ which Miss O’Brien never did.
The other name that I considered briefly was Elizabeth after Elizabeth Taylor, whose pictures were often in the Chinese movies fan magazine because the Hong Kong Starlets were compared to her. I thought it was a nice name but too long for my mother to pronounce. I did not yet know names like Sophia, Audrey, Vivien.
My other friend who I knew in elementary school and went to a different Junior High was named Debbie. She had a sister named Doris. I didn’t want to name myself after Debbie, but I thought about the name Doris for a little while before I gave up the idea. Truth was, I didn’t know other names except for those that were already owned by other people. And I knew that I had to come up with a name that no one I knew had for fear of being a ‘copy cat, ‘ a phrase whose meaning I’d learned recently.
That week, some distant relatives from California sent presents to me and my siblings. My sister and I got two dolls in two separate boxes. At random, my sister picked the doll with the green dress, and I had the doll with the white dress. The name Joanna was written across the box.
The next day, I proposed the name Joanna to Miss O’Brien. She was happy with it, but she liked Joanne better. She called me Joanne from that day on.
For years, that was my name until I replaced the ‘e’ with the ‘a’ when I went to graduate school. Maybe I wanted to go back to the original name, even though there was nothing original about it.
After a few days, we hammered two nails, one on top of the other, into the wall next to the window in the bedroom and hung the dolls up by the back of their dresses. They stayed there until we moved to Brooklyn five years later.
3
The first summer we came to New York, the social worker arranged for us to go to day camp at Henry Street Settlement House. I was in the older group that got on a bus every morning and went to a place where there were trees and a swimming pool. My brother and sister, because they were too young that first year, stayed in the building. I would collect them and bring them home when I came back on the bus in the afternoon. My sister would cry every morning when she got there.
That summer, my brother’s name was Kim Man and my sister’s name was Yuk Har. Kim Man meant sword literature, and Yuk Har meant Jade Mist. I hated my name because it was a boy’s name. I loved my sister’s name because it was a girl’s name. I wanted to be named after flowers, or plants, or parts of nature. My name was none of those things. It was an idea.
But I also hated my sister’s name in English. It sounded ugly. One morning, I told the camp counselors that my brother’s name was Robert and my sister’s name was Debbie. I said this in front of my brother and sister so they would know what I was doing.
After that, the counselors called them by their American names.
That summer, my brother’s name was Kim Man and my sister’s name was Yuk Har. Kim Man meant sword literature, and Yuk Har meant Jade Mist. I hated my name because it was a boy’s name. I loved my sister’s name because it was a girl’s name. I wanted to be named after flowers, or plants, or parts of nature. My name was none of those things. It was an idea.
But I also hated my sister’s name in English. It sounded ugly. One morning, I told the camp counselors that my brother’s name was Robert and my sister’s name was Debbie. I said this in front of my brother and sister so they would know what I was doing.
After that, the counselors called them by their American names.
Water
1
1
I am floating on my back on the water. It is a Tuesday and we are in Coney Island. This summer, we go to Coney Island every Tuesday unless it rains because Tuesday is my father’s day off from the restaurant.
Sometimes if my parents had money, they would take us to the Flume and we would ride four or five times. Today we are staying on the beach.
I love the water. At camp the summer before, I learned to dive into the pool by playing a game where the counselors would throw coins in the pool and we would have to dive in to get it. I learned to open my eyes in the water and swim around looking for nickels and pennies.
The water in Coney Island is salty, so I have to submerge myself very quickly, with my eyes open to get used to the sting. Then I could see under water, even though sometimes it’s murky and I have to be careful.
I have to be careful not to go too far, to the place where the ghosts might drag me under. My mother says that the ghosts of people who drowned there are waiting for replacements, that they are waiting to be free of the water. If a ghost pulled us under, we would drown, be trapped in the water and have to wait for someone else we can pull under to take our place.
My arms and legs are spread out, and my body dips and rises to the swells of the current. I think, as I float, how peaceful it would be to be a ghost in the water.
Sometimes if my parents had money, they would take us to the Flume and we would ride four or five times. Today we are staying on the beach.
I love the water. At camp the summer before, I learned to dive into the pool by playing a game where the counselors would throw coins in the pool and we would have to dive in to get it. I learned to open my eyes in the water and swim around looking for nickels and pennies.
The water in Coney Island is salty, so I have to submerge myself very quickly, with my eyes open to get used to the sting. Then I could see under water, even though sometimes it’s murky and I have to be careful.
I have to be careful not to go too far, to the place where the ghosts might drag me under. My mother says that the ghosts of people who drowned there are waiting for replacements, that they are waiting to be free of the water. If a ghost pulled us under, we would drown, be trapped in the water and have to wait for someone else we can pull under to take our place.
My arms and legs are spread out, and my body dips and rises to the swells of the current. I think, as I float, how peaceful it would be to be a ghost in the water.
2
We are at the bus depot somewhere in Ontario, Canada. We have been living in the house in Winnipeg for close to a year.
Now, we are looking for a Grey Hound bus to take us to Niagara Falls.
The bus depot is busy, crowded with people getting on and off. My father tells me to find the Grey Hound bus. He says to look for a bus with a dog on the side.
My coat is red. I have no gloves.
I walk around the depot for a while, first looking for the dog on the side of buses. When I see one, I look for a long time at the dog. It is a picture of the dog running. By the time I find my family, my father is panicking. He scolds me harshly for taking so long. I tell him where I saw the bus, and we get on the bus.
I don’t know how my father would know the right bus to take, but we get to the Niagara Falls in the late afternoon.
At Niagara Falls, we walk and walk, looking at the Falls from many different angles. The crowd starts to thin out around evening. By ten at night, there is no one there but the five of us.
My father is carrying my brother. My mother is carrying my sister. She points to the traffic light inside the top of the bridge and says, when the light turns red, that means cars don’t move so we can go, and takes my hand.
I keep looking at the red light as we walk across the bridge. My mother says that we have to be quiet. We are very quiet.
Except I’m laughing. Not loud, but I can’t stop even though my mother desperately slaps the back of my head for making noise. There is nothing funny. But I’m laughing. I don’t know why I can’t stop.
Now, we are looking for a Grey Hound bus to take us to Niagara Falls.
The bus depot is busy, crowded with people getting on and off. My father tells me to find the Grey Hound bus. He says to look for a bus with a dog on the side.
My coat is red. I have no gloves.
I walk around the depot for a while, first looking for the dog on the side of buses. When I see one, I look for a long time at the dog. It is a picture of the dog running. By the time I find my family, my father is panicking. He scolds me harshly for taking so long. I tell him where I saw the bus, and we get on the bus.
I don’t know how my father would know the right bus to take, but we get to the Niagara Falls in the late afternoon.
At Niagara Falls, we walk and walk, looking at the Falls from many different angles. The crowd starts to thin out around evening. By ten at night, there is no one there but the five of us.
My father is carrying my brother. My mother is carrying my sister. She points to the traffic light inside the top of the bridge and says, when the light turns red, that means cars don’t move so we can go, and takes my hand.
I keep looking at the red light as we walk across the bridge. My mother says that we have to be quiet. We are very quiet.
Except I’m laughing. Not loud, but I can’t stop even though my mother desperately slaps the back of my head for making noise. There is nothing funny. But I’m laughing. I don’t know why I can’t stop.
3
My father left China before I was born.
The village was on a beach on the South China Sea and the villagers were fishermen. They lived on clams, porgy, oysters, conch, seaweed; sometimes, men would be bitten by sharks.
Hong Kong was visible across the water. Because the men in the village were sea people, many of them could swim across. It was illegal, but many of the men did it anyway.
My father was one of them who swam out of mainland China.
And I did not meet my father until I was two, when my mother came looking for him. She paid a man with a boat to bring us across. She didn’t know how to swim because as a girl, she was not allowed to be in the water. Also, she had me.
The village was on a beach on the South China Sea and the villagers were fishermen. They lived on clams, porgy, oysters, conch, seaweed; sometimes, men would be bitten by sharks.
Hong Kong was visible across the water. Because the men in the village were sea people, many of them could swim across. It was illegal, but many of the men did it anyway.
My father was one of them who swam out of mainland China.
And I did not meet my father until I was two, when my mother came looking for him. She paid a man with a boat to bring us across. She didn’t know how to swim because as a girl, she was not allowed to be in the water. Also, she had me.
4
On weekends in the summer, the sunken concrete basketball court in Seward Park would be filled with water for the neighborhood recreation. We didn’t even need bathing suits to go, so my siblings and I would just strip down into our underwear and go in.
The court was shallow so the water went up to our mid calves when it was filled. It didn’t matter, though, because it was cool and there was no worry of drowning, so we were allowed to walk there and go in by ourselves.
That the water was dirty because there was no sanitary control over what people did in there also didn’t matter. Anyway, there was nothing to compare it to. I knew the water in Coney Island. I knew the pool at camp. It was all the same.
I would crawl around on my hands and knees so I can submerge as much of my body as I can in the water. Mostly, we would just sit and splash around. Afterwards, we would walk home, letting our underwear dry on the way.
One Saturday, I got home before my clothes were completely dried, so I waited to put on my dress. I had only one pink cotton shift that I wore sparingly because it was my only dress. While waiting, I walked across the hall to my friend Mary’s house. She and her family were Maltese and lived in the two apartments on the other side of the floor. Each apartment had two rooms, so essentially she lived in a four room apartment with her parents and five siblings.
I often walked over and hung around there because they had a TV that had its own shelf. Our TV was on a chair, and when we ate, we moved the TV to the floor. Also, their TV was always on. That day, I walked over to Mary’s to watch TV in my damp underwear.
As I stood watching TV with Mary and her twin older brothers, I looked down at my torn undershirt. No one was paying attention to me. They were used to me being there in my underwear and thought nothing of it. That afternoon, though, I realized suddenly how naked I was, and without saying anything to Mary, I walked back across the hall to home. It was the last time I ever walked around outside in my underwear.
The court was shallow so the water went up to our mid calves when it was filled. It didn’t matter, though, because it was cool and there was no worry of drowning, so we were allowed to walk there and go in by ourselves.
That the water was dirty because there was no sanitary control over what people did in there also didn’t matter. Anyway, there was nothing to compare it to. I knew the water in Coney Island. I knew the pool at camp. It was all the same.
I would crawl around on my hands and knees so I can submerge as much of my body as I can in the water. Mostly, we would just sit and splash around. Afterwards, we would walk home, letting our underwear dry on the way.
One Saturday, I got home before my clothes were completely dried, so I waited to put on my dress. I had only one pink cotton shift that I wore sparingly because it was my only dress. While waiting, I walked across the hall to my friend Mary’s house. She and her family were Maltese and lived in the two apartments on the other side of the floor. Each apartment had two rooms, so essentially she lived in a four room apartment with her parents and five siblings.
I often walked over and hung around there because they had a TV that had its own shelf. Our TV was on a chair, and when we ate, we moved the TV to the floor. Also, their TV was always on. That day, I walked over to Mary’s to watch TV in my damp underwear.
As I stood watching TV with Mary and her twin older brothers, I looked down at my torn undershirt. No one was paying attention to me. They were used to me being there in my underwear and thought nothing of it. That afternoon, though, I realized suddenly how naked I was, and without saying anything to Mary, I walked back across the hall to home. It was the last time I ever walked around outside in my underwear.
Fathers
1
1
My mother’s father left China when she was five. He had been the adopted son of a wealthy family. But he didn’t have an arranged marriage like most men, so he married my grandmother, who was a maid in his house. Because this was seen as a bad choice, and because his adopted mother died, the step-mother disinherited him. So like most men in those days, he left to make a living so that he could send money home to support his family. The way he got to New York was uncertain, and if there were any money he sent during my mother’s adolescent, it was intercepted by her step-grandmother, then interrupted by the war with Japan, and later the internal war between Chiang Kai-Shek and Mao Tse-Tung.
Eventually, she did get the money he sent. By then, he was working in a noodle factory in New York Chinatown. At that time, you could go back and forth between Guandong and Hong Kong. He would send the money to Hong Kong, and my mother would go to Hong Kong to get it.
Eventually, she did get the money he sent. By then, he was working in a noodle factory in New York Chinatown. At that time, you could go back and forth between Guandong and Hong Kong. He would send the money to Hong Kong, and my mother would go to Hong Kong to get it.
2
It’s not hard to imagine my grandfather’s surprise when my mother, who was 30 years old at the time, showed up with my father and her three children at his door on Eldridge Street in New York at two in the morning.
We had taken a taxi from Buffalo, New York, after we crossed the bridge over Niagara Falls, to 88 Eldridge Street. My father had $200 and a slip of paper with my grandfather’s address on it. The $200 my father gave to the taxi driver proved not to be enough because two days later, two men from immigration came to the apartment and took my father away.
My brother and I clung to my father’s legs and wouldn’t let him go. He finally had to assure us that when he came back, he would buy each of us a Coca-Cola. And like magic, we stopped crying and let him go.
He did come back a few days later, but he forgot the Coke.
We had taken a taxi from Buffalo, New York, after we crossed the bridge over Niagara Falls, to 88 Eldridge Street. My father had $200 and a slip of paper with my grandfather’s address on it. The $200 my father gave to the taxi driver proved not to be enough because two days later, two men from immigration came to the apartment and took my father away.
My brother and I clung to my father’s legs and wouldn’t let him go. He finally had to assure us that when he came back, he would buy each of us a Coca-Cola. And like magic, we stopped crying and let him go.
He did come back a few days later, but he forgot the Coke.
3
My father’s father was an opium addict. He was from a wealthy family, and like most children in wealthy families, their marriages were arranged before they turned 10. He was betrothed to a girl he hated.
It was said that my grandfather was extremely handsome and an excellent artist who, when he ran out of money and was too ashamed to ask his family for it, would sell brush paintings to pay for opium.
Once my father was born, my grandfather was satisfied that he had fulfilled his duty of providing a male heir to the family. He started to disappear for longer and longer periods of time. When he did come home, he would avoid his wife and just visit his own father and my father. Finally, when my father was about seven, he disappeared for good.
It became common knowledge among the people in the village that his father, like a lot of men from the village, was making his living working on cargo ships that traveled to and from the ports of Southeast Asia. It was also common knowledge that he had married another woman in Singapore and that they had two children.
Years later, when my father was working on the cargo ships and had a stopover in Singapore, he looked for his father’s other family because it was Chinese New Year and he wanted to spend it with family. But when he got to the address, which a family friend had given him, he was told that they had just moved.
My grandfather showed up the last time in the squatters village. He had come to see my father and his second family. Like his father, my father also had an arranged marriage, and like his father, my father also fulfilled his duty and married. My father had two children with his first wife. Then when my mother was pregnant with me, he came to Hong Kong.
At the time of my grandfather’s visit, my brother and sister were three and two. My father was away working on the ship, so my grandfather stayed for a little while and went back to the ship. That was the last time my mother saw him. Not long after, he became ill on the ship and when he died, they buried him at sea.
It was said that my grandfather was extremely handsome and an excellent artist who, when he ran out of money and was too ashamed to ask his family for it, would sell brush paintings to pay for opium.
Once my father was born, my grandfather was satisfied that he had fulfilled his duty of providing a male heir to the family. He started to disappear for longer and longer periods of time. When he did come home, he would avoid his wife and just visit his own father and my father. Finally, when my father was about seven, he disappeared for good.
It became common knowledge among the people in the village that his father, like a lot of men from the village, was making his living working on cargo ships that traveled to and from the ports of Southeast Asia. It was also common knowledge that he had married another woman in Singapore and that they had two children.
Years later, when my father was working on the cargo ships and had a stopover in Singapore, he looked for his father’s other family because it was Chinese New Year and he wanted to spend it with family. But when he got to the address, which a family friend had given him, he was told that they had just moved.
My grandfather showed up the last time in the squatters village. He had come to see my father and his second family. Like his father, my father also had an arranged marriage, and like his father, my father also fulfilled his duty and married. My father had two children with his first wife. Then when my mother was pregnant with me, he came to Hong Kong.
At the time of my grandfather’s visit, my brother and sister were three and two. My father was away working on the ship, so my grandfather stayed for a little while and went back to the ship. That was the last time my mother saw him. Not long after, he became ill on the ship and when he died, they buried him at sea.
Joanna Sit was born in China and grew up in New York City, where she lives with her husband and daughter. She studied poetry with Allen Ginsberg and Susan Fromberg Schaeffer at Brooklyn College and now teaches Creative Writing at Medgar Evers College, City University of New York. She is the author of My Last Century (2012), In Thailand with the Apostles (2014), and Track Works (2017). Her poem ‘Timescape: The Age of Oz’ was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2016. In addition to her memoir East to East, she is working on an ethnographic narrative called The Reincarnation of Red and another book of poems called Fantastic Voyage.
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