In this essay, I’ll talk about a few ordinary people who have lived in Chinatown. I’ll start with my sister.
In 2005, my mother and my sister moved to America. It was my first time flying long distance, and I argued with my sister en route. I was seven, and my sister was thirteen. We lived with our grandparents in the Bush Hotel. Growing up, I wasn’t exactly a well-behaved kid. I had ADHD, often left my hat or jacket at friends’ houses, and spent my time skating around, selling sneakers and marijuana. Maybe I lost touch with my more conservative roots because I didn’t grow up in China as long as my sister did. She was always better behaved than me.
My mother often told me the story of birds raising their young before they fledge. The parent birds would drop the chicks from the sky to see if they could fly—and if they couldn’t, they died. That kind of tough education was meant for my sister, but not for me. My mother spoiled me instead: she drove me to school, picked me up, and took me to after-school activities. My sister, on the other hand, had to take the bus everywhere. So, from a young age, she became much more independent than I was.
My sister started working at a bubble tea shop at sixteen. She would do her homework there when there were no customers. I don’t think she’s ever stopped working since. Growing up in a single-parent household, we faced many difficulties. Luckily, my sister always treated me like a little brother—buying me things, even though we argued a lot. When we argued, my mom would take sides. Sometimes mine, sometimes hers. It got really ugly when my mother took my sister’s side. I might have shouted terrible things at her, things I now regret.
Fortunately, my sister never held grudges. She still took me out with her friends on Halloween, took me trick-or-treating, and gave me hugs. She had a big heart, one that could tolerate almost anything repulsive and digest it with patience.
Later in life, when I was diagnosed with schizoaffective bipolar disorder, she bought a house in Texas and took me and my mother in. She wanted me to live in a better environment, so she worked hard to pay the bills. She got off work at 6 p.m. every night, and we ate together as a family—for the first time in years. That didn’t last long. During one of my episodes, I lashed out at her. She moved out, and eventually, I moved to China.
She always led by example, never by words. Once, at dinner, she told me that everyone has a line, and she had hers too. Cross it, and it’s over. Unfortunately, I crossed her line. But when my grandfather passed away, we met again, and I cried in her arms. She accepted me once more. I’ve since heard that she completed her Ph.D. and now lives in Boston. I wish her and her pets, Rudy and Cleo, all the best.
Another person I want to talk about is Ah-Wong, a woman from the neighborhood. Growing up, she would give our family leftover broth from her second boil as a gesture of kindness, though some saw it as cheap or tricky. She was a single mother raising two kids, much like my mother, in Nihonmachi Terrace.
Once, she wouldn’t open the front door for me, and I immediately thought she was being selfish. But later I realized—maybe she didn’t want to take on the responsibility of opening the door every time I forgot my keys. Ah-Wong didn’t rely on any man to raise her children. She saved every penny she could. She never wore anything expensive and lived very frugally. After her kids grew up, she supported herself by selling Chinese cigarettes.
I guess I never really understood Ah-Wong back then. I didn’t see that she lived a respectable life. I often thought she was stupid because of the way she talked—loud. But as I grew older, still living in the Nihonmachi Terrace, she would often hand me a soda or a drink she had on hand, as a way of caring for me. Now that I’m older, I believe that everyone is just everyone. We all have our flaws and our moments, but none of that makes us less human—imperfect, but loving.
I love Ah-Wong now, and I respect her. It’s not easy raising two kids as a single mother, and she did it entirely on her own.
The final person I want to talk about is my uncle. In China, he was addicted to drugs. But whenever he exceeded the limit he had set for himself—for example, spending more money than usual—he would voluntarily check himself into rehab. In that way, he was smart. He knew where the danger lay and knew how to restrain himself.
After moving to America, he left drugs behind and lived with my mother in our Chinatown apartment. In his forties, he got married and had a son named Bo, who later immigrated to America with his wife. They now live in Bellevue.
Once, as we were folding bedsheets together, he told me, “The real hero is your everyday Joe.” I will never forget the day he shared that wisdom. In my eyes, my uncle is a hero because he beat his addiction and built a family of his own after so many years of struggle in China.
Everyone is born into this world with their own dharma—the moral duties expected of an individual. Each of the people I’ve mentioned has, in some way, fulfilled their dharma: my sister by completing her studies, Ah-Wong by raising her children, and my uncle by overcoming his addiction. So, my question is: what is mine? What should I do before I leave this earth and move on to the next one? What is yours?
(The names have been changed for privacy).
