Chinese Historical Society of America

Bruce Lee posing with San Francisco’s Coit Tower in the background, circa 1959. 

I recently visited the “We Are Bruce Lee: Under the Sky, One Family” exhibit at the museum and shadowed a high school tour. After being closed since the beginning of San Francisco’s COVID-19 shutdown, the museum reopened this spring with this new show. The exhibit is extraordinary! I was absolutely blown away - even for a high schooler like myself, who has never even seen a Bruce Lee movie. The exhibit is rich culturally and visually, and told an inspirational story of Bruce Lee as a martial arts maestro, an international pop culture superstar, and an individual who constantly broke barriers and inspired the world.

As I walked the exhibit and listened to the amazing docent at the museum, I learned of Lee’s fitness and nutrition routines and how he worked to build strength and innovate on his craft. He created a new form of martial arts called Jeet Kune Do which was based on Lee’s own philosophies and ideas about self-defense. I observed the archaic-looking fitness equipment and viewed clips from his film “Enter the Dragon” and was mesmerized by the question of how Lee was able to be so good and accomplish seemingly impossible feats. As I continued to journey through the exhibit, it became clear. He believed it could be done. 

Because of Lee’s lofty aspirations, innovator’s mindset and tremendous work ethic to bring his dreams to life, Bruce Lee is relevant to even those who haven’t seen any of his films (Enter the Dragon, Game of Death, and Fists of Fury were some of his most famous films.). Lee was able to prove to the world that he could be an international star–even if he looked different from the “typical” action hero. He was loved by the world and transcended nationalities. To this day, my family in India watches Bruce Lee movies and I have an uncle there who proudly showed off to me the two-finger push-up he learned from Lee. Bruce Lee executed to perfection and the world noticed.

I personally found the experience to be very eye-opening in terms of learning about the challenges that Lee experienced at every turn. As I perused the wall of artwork from his TV shows and movies, and read about the racist portrayals of Lee, and other Asian people, in TV and movies at the time, I felt how difficult Lee’s journey was. He had to face harmful and hurtful stereotypes and overt racism. Lee encountered constant adversity, even as a TV star. For example, when he was in the show “Green Hornet,” he was paid significantly less money than the white protagonist, and he was given much less screen time and lines despite his many theatrical talents. I think that it is important for young people to learn about Lee because of how he persevered and fought against stereotypes and injustices.

The Green Hornet & Kato on TV Weekly from September 1966. (Courtesy of We Are Bruce Lee exhibit collector Jeff Chinn).

Also, the exhibit allows people to see the beautiful intersection of American and Chinese cultures in Lee’s identity, inspiring me, and giving me tremendous hope for the future. On a more personal level, Lee’s story specifically resonates with me because of my dual-identity as both an Indian and American. It is important to me that both facets of my identity can co-exist and I can grow as an individual by having this experience.

The exhibit connects to today’s world because of how it shows people a role model for discovering one’s identity in life and forging their own path. Lee married an American Caucasian woman, Linda Cadwell, which was considered scandalous at the time because interracial marriage was still illegal in several US states. For Bruce Lee, he blended his native Chinese culture with his newfound American identity to help craft something truly unique. Moreover - he showed that it can be done.  

Overall, the Bruce Lee exhibit is a must-see—especially for my generation, because of how we can apply the lessons learned from Lee’s journey. In a complex world of misperceptions and barriers, the story of Bruce Lee is relevant today more than ever. Enter a true American hero. 

Entrance to the Chinese Historical Society of America’s We Are Bruce Lee exhibit. (Courtesy of Nikhil Kothari).

By Kelly Velasco

The colorful, vinyl tablecloths in Jodie Lyn-Kee-Chow’s “Picnic Parade” bring back nostalgic memories from her childhood in Jamaica and represent the island’s historical ties with China. Her performance piece invites viewers to participate in a social gathering that breaks down social, ethnic, and cultural barriers. Additionally, Lyn-Kee-Chow’s performance uplifts the diverse ethnic cultures that have created a lasting impact in Jamaica. 

After Britain abolished slavery in 1834, its colonies in the Caribbean islands began looking for new labor sources to keep up with their agricultural production. At this time, China was struggling from internal conflicts caused by civil wars, high taxes, and hunger. Adding to their troubles, Western nations attempted to force open China’s borders during the Industrial Revolution, which ultimately led to the two Opium Wars in the 1840s and 1860s. Nations such as Britain used this opportunity to contract the Chinese working class as indentured laborers. The British Empire recruited Chinese people as well as people from India, Ireland, Germany, and East Africa to serve as indentured laborers, replacing enslaved Africans. However, only in Jamaica, Trinidad, and British Guiana (present-day Guyana) did they notably recruit the Chinese. 

The presence of Chinese indentured laborers in Jamaica can be traced back to 1854. During this year, two ships from Hong Kong and Panama arrived carrying Chinese laborers. Most Chinese immigrants were from the southern provinces of Fujian (福建) and Guangdong (廣東) in China and of Hakka descent. Men made up the majority of laborers. Many were married and separated from their families who remained in China, which was likely why many returned to China at the end of their contract. Additionally, many Chinese men who arrived as bachelors married local Jamaican women. These marriages led to the beginning of a mixed population that by 1943 was large enough to be added to the Jamaican census under the term “Chinese Colored.”

Thirty years later, in 1884, the third ship from Hong Kong arrived in Jamaica via San Francisco. However, this time businessmen traveled with their wives and children. It is this demographic shift that arguably was the reason behind the Chinese community building a cemetery at the beginning of the twentieth century. Historically, Chinese cemeteries have been located close to families so that the deceased can be visited and celebrated frequently according to Buddhist, Confucianist, and Daoist beliefs. Before entire Chinese families began settling down in Jamaica, men either returned to China or married local women, sometimes converting to Christianity. However, as the Chinese community grew, so did their desire to bury their dead locally in a traditional and dignified way according to Chinese culture. 

In 1907, after the Kingston earthquake, Chinese cemetery development began. This was made possible by a group of Chinese businessmen, including Chin Lenn-kao and Chang Sheng, who bought eleven and a half acres of land in Kingston in 1904. The first burial took place in 1912 and since then there have been over 3,200 burials. Throughout the twentieth century, the cemetery went through periods of disrepair, but the community consistently came together and collected donations for its repair. After the first repairs were completed in 1929, the Chinese Benevolent Society began holding ceremonies to honor and remember the dead. These ceremonies took place during the Chinese spring and autumn festivals, Tsing Ming (Gah San) and Chung Yang, respectively. Children from the Chinese Public School also participated in these festivals, singing songs of remembrance to their ancestors. Although Chinese residents make up only three percent of Jamaica’s population, this cemetery is evidence of the lasting impact the Chinese community has had on the island. 

It is this history of Chinese migration to Jamaica that serves as the backdrop for Jodie Lyn-Kee-Chow’s artwork. Lyn-Kee-Chow is an interdisciplinary artist who currently lives in Queens, New York. She received her BFA with honors in Painting from the New World School of Arts, the University of Florida in 1996, and her MFA in Studio Art and Combined Media from Hunters College, CUNY in 2006. The artist was born in Manchester Parish, Jamaica to an Afro-Jamaican mother and a Chinese-Jamaican father. Her artwork, which relies heavily on experimentation, reflects the cultural and ethnic experiences of Chinese-Afro-Jamaicans. Both of her grandmothers were farmers, and their countryside homes in Jamaica serve as nostalgic reference points for many of her performances and installation pieces. Additionally, Lyn-Kee-Chow’s maternal grandfather was a tailor and greatly influenced her decision to design and assemble all the costumes for her performances. In an interview, Lyn-Kee-Chow stated, “I have a strong passion for both fashion and design, and performance art was the outlet that allowed me to bring these two elements to life.” 

Lyn-Kee-Chow engages with her audience by encouraging them to overturn ethnic, racial, gender, and geographical barriers in a contemporary yet folkloric setting. In her performance “Picnic Parade,” Lyn-Kee-Chow uplifted the common marketplace woman by playing the role of the African spirit, “Oya.” She used vinyl tablecloths, which are both inexpensive and common items found in the average Jamaican home, as the primary fabric of her costumes. The artist chose this material because it was manufactured in China and arrived in Jamaica through trade, referencing the history of trade between the two countries. Additionally, these vinyl tablecloths were sold in Chinese shops, highlighting the many Chinese businessmen who have remained in Jamaica over the centuries. 

Lyn-Kee-Chow models her costume for “Picnic Parade” after the Jamaican national dress, the Quadrille. However, she did not simply use the pattern that most closely resembles the Quadrille, which is known as the red madras or the plaid, striped, or checkered pattern. Instead, the artist used multiple tablecloths of different styles, patterns, and colors. Through this modification of the dress, Lyn-Kee-Chow captured the audience’s attention and began to direct them towards a new and alternate reality. In her utopia, the queen is a person of color who brings together communities across boundaries of geography, race, or socioeconomic status to share in the act of nourishment.

“Picnic Parade,” which took place through the streets of Queens, New York, was the first iteration of a series of “picnic performances” calling attention to this utopic alternate reality. After walking through the streets of Queens with a basket of fruit on her head, Lyn-Kee-Chow and her procession arrived in front of King Manor Museum, a historic abolitionist home. Upon arrival, they sat down on the grass, used her dress as a picnic blanket, and shared water and fruit with the audience. This spectacle, as the artist called it, brought to light questions about social, ethnic, and cultural boundaries. Lyn-Kee-Chow demonstrated the role of immigrants in the production of food as well as the social significance of sharing fruit with others.

Happy Chinese New Year and the Year of the Tiger! As the festivities continue for the next two weeks, we asked CHSA staff and community members to share their Chinese New Year traditions, memories, and plans for celebrating this year. Here’s what they had to share:

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This is always a social festival for me. So as a kid growing up it meant always visiting friends and family. Always on the coffee table was the same dish of nuts and dried fruits and candies. I can still taste the seeds, which my mom taught me to break between my teeth and spit out the shells. 

~ Justin Hoover

CHSA Executive Director  

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The first Saturday after every Chinese New Year, I wake up at 8am, get ready to head over to my Auntie's house in the Marina in San Francisco. Her family awaits. They form two assembly lines for the tee doy- (sesame ball) and dumpling-making stations. The women are bedecked in lucky Chinese red ensembles; the men are, too: San Francisco 49ers or Golden State Warriors Chinese New Year jerseys. We roll up our sleeves, find a position alongside the tables, and start filling and folding dumplings and laying them onto a tray, where they are soon ushered to the steamer or deep frier. 

Throughout the course of the 8-hour affair, my Auntie's whole family stops by: two siblings, their spouses; their 9 children; like 15 grandchildren; ex-husbands; cousins; neighbors; family friends all find their way to this annual event. Some come from San Mateo, some from Sacramento, some San Diego. 

Lai see collections are massive and heartwarming. Stories of my father's family and their father's family are exchanged. Ukuleles are being played. Whisky is poured. 

As noontime approached, the herd congregated for the yearly family photo on the front steps. Everyone nestles cozily into position and squints in the sunlight, forever capturing another Chinese New Year celebration.

My memories are filled. My belly is full. My heart is full. 

~ Nathaniel Jue

CHSA Communications Coordinator 

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This photo was from when my sister and I were in preschool and kindergarten and our school had a Lunar New Year parade where we were the consecutive queens and got to wear traditional Chinese clothing. It’s one of the few memories I have where the public school system recognized a holiday that was important to my family. It would not have happened with dedicated educators that inspired me to join the profession. 

Tina (left) with Julie at the Lunar New Year Parade in Sacramento, CA. 1994. 

~ Julie Law-Marin

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I must've been 7 or 8 yr old living in the Ping Yuen housing project when we had the best Chinese New Year memories - mom making "ji", pomelo, oranges stacked, branches of pink blossoms, loud firecrackers from the streets below, dressing up in our red puffy meen nops, sweet treats everywhere and visiting relatives or they visiting us.  Anyway, the best part was the "lay see" red envelopes and we received our share with the rehearsed, thank you's in our native Cantonese dialect, learning the proper titles of the distant relatives, etc.  I would then run off and start charting and keeping track of the monies received and from whom.  I had an elaborate pre-Excel sheet manually put together by an 8 year old.  My mother eventually found this "chart" and was shocked.  As good Chinese children, we were supposed to be just grateful and not talk about money and make charts like little greedy misers.  Then she confiscated my whole operation.  She "recycled" my cash to give to other greedy kids.  So much for a Sun Neen Fi Lok - especially the Fi Lok part!

~ Elaine Wong Choy

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I remember one Chinese New Year week in the  late 1950's, MaMa said Auntie was paying us a visit, and we had 30 minutes to tidy up the house. Closets would open and items would be tossed in. 

Auntie would arrive and greet us. She walked the mile to our place from Chinatown. She'd bring a bag of oranges and tangerines. She and MaMa would visit, and we'd serve her tea with MaMa's crunchy kok (fried crescent cookies filled with sesame seeds, chopped toasted peanuts, coconut filaments and sugar) and sliced oranges. Before returning home, she would pull out red envelopes with quarters to give us kids. MaMa would repack some oranges and tangerines and return a red envelope in her bag. MaMa said it was the practice of "give and return" to show your appreciation for their visit. 

In turn, we would visit her and some other village aunties another week. I had my first Oreo cookie on one of those visits and brought home the red envelopes. It was a special time for visits that gradually became less and less because many aunties got jobs sewing or worked in their new family businesses and didn't have time.  

Now, I actually clean my house before Chinese New Years, set up a dish of orange and tangerine pyramid and have a sweet box of dried fruit, candy and candied ginger, and a pot of red flowers in case my girlfriends come for a visit. 

~ Jeanie Low 

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Year of the TIGER

Brings luck, health, and happiness.

Zodiac #3 !!!

(Haiku written by Elizabeth Xiu Wong)

"Walmart" is the only store in Sacramento to find any TIGERS.

~ Elizabeth Xiu Wong

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A Treasured Moment from the Past

During a move & lots of house cleaning since lock-down, I found an old family photo album with a picture of my mother in front of a bowl of big round oranges.  She was putting red envelopes around the edge of the bowl, part of her preparation for ushering in the Lunar New Year.  It brought back memories for a holiday I have not celebrated in a very long time.  

I remember when I was a kid that Lunar New Year was the most important holiday of the year.  It was the only holiday celebrated in my house and the only one my Mom fussed over. 

For days, she would clean every inch of our home to rid it of all negative energies and surround us with tokens of good luck and happiness - usually a bowl filled with oranges, tangerines and candies.  These, of course, were off-limits to us kids until the actual day.  Forget about Santa knowing whether you've been good or bad.  Mom ran rings around him.  

On the eve of the first day of Lunar New Year - when all was made right - we would all wash up, put on new clothes and gather for a special meal of good-luck food Mom had prepared that satisfied the palate and soothed the soul to usher in the New Year.  We - the kids - were expected to be on our best behavior which meant no fighting or acting up.  As our reward, we would be allowed to select a piece of sweet and be given a red envelope containing crisp new bills ranging from $5 to $50 on New Year’s Day so that we’d have good luck and prosperity throughout the year. 

Last year, for the first time, I decided to celebrate the Lunar New Year.  I did not clean my home or make preparations as thoroughly as my mom.  But I put out a bowl of oranges and sweets and made my version of some of the special dishes I remembered Mom had made.  It brought back many happy memories at a time when they were very much needed.  

I will look forward to celebrating the Year of the Tiger because it's my son's birth year.  

Gong Hey Fat Choy!!

~ Mary Lew-Goucher

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Growing up with Gau. While other families enjoyed the sticky sweet pudding steamed to a gooey delight, my mother made hers differently.  Since I could remember Lunar New Year, mom made baked gau in cupcake pans.  She would have mixing  bowls and ingredient packages set up like a lab factory as she made the batter. The idea was that making it in small cupcake pans, she could give them to relatives, church friends and coworkers in large gallon bags of wrapped  individual  Gau cookies. People loved receiving them and said they were crispy outside and soft and chewy inside even when warmed up again.   

After retiring, she made less each year and eventually stopped. I have seen a written recipe but can't find it.  Alzheimer's Disease took over her last years and I was her caregiver. Bringing back memories of Gau cookies was something she would remember fondly but unable to create anymore.  

In January 2020 she passed and the following year I decided to try and reconstruct the recipe from memory while adding my own touches to it (like a dash of rum and hazelnut topping). The result was like a real lab experiment to recreate it. The key secret I remember was using canned yams. That's where the natural sweet taste and texture came from without using so much brown sugar. I followed my notes and recorded the steps taken in the process. When I tried it, it brought back the same memories of mom's Gau cookies. Eager to get the real test done, I called my old friend (who fondly recalls mom's Gau cookies) to come over and pick up a bag for his family. Verdict: " OMG! YOU Nailed it exactly! It was crispy and chewy goodness just like your Mom made it!"  To keep a tradition, I gave bags to my coworkers who loved it as well. Since then I've modified the recipe to use pumpkin for Thanksgiving.  

Aloha Pepe the chihuahua always searches each New Year  for the big Gau to bring home since mom stopped making gau cookies. 

This Lunar New Year weekend, I will make Gau Cookies again.  Kung Hei Fat Choy.

~ Roy Chang 

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As a Taiwanese-American born in Taiwan who immigrated to the US when I was 4, many of the Chinese New Year celebrations and traditions were thrusted upon my siblings and I with sparse explanations of why we do them. It was more about complying than enjoyment and understanding. Because of it, it was hard to relate to and find pride and joy with something that I didn't fully understand or connected to at the time. Now, with my own child, I am making more intentional choices, actions, and behaviors that will help my child understand, connect and appreciate what CNY (as well as those who celebrate Lunar New Year) is and means. I want to ensure that my child has positive and joyful memories around CNY and that those traditions are tailored to our family, while still remaining respectful of those who came before us. Love is celebrated through food in my family so I will definitely be making some toddler--friendly versions of traditional CNY foods. And, learning about the "how" and "why" of CNY through @bigcitieslittlefoodies children-friendly picture books. 

One of the hopes I have for my family's Chinese New Year [Lunar New Year] memories is really to flip the narrative about CNY for my young son. Growing up, CNY was something we had to do as opposed to enjoy doing. I think a lot of that was due to lack of a connection and understanding. As a child, my parents did not have a lot of time to explain these things. The urgency for them was more about "doing" CNY rather "learning and appreciating" CNY. As an adult, I've learned about the historical contexts of why we do certain traditions, eat particular foods, etc. and with greater understanding and connection, I've come to love and enjoy what CNY means and share that joy and pride with my family. To have my son grow up and continue to feel immense pride and joy that we celebrate CNY would be a #parentgoal! That, and eating well throughout this beautiful holiday! 

~ Jenny Cheng

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It took 12 years to confirm my mother's worst fears. It took another 12 to dispel them.

I was born in the latter half of the Year of the Metal Ox 1961. My gut tells me not to publicly disclose the exact date because my mother would always warn me, "never tell anyone what time you were born or else they can hire some village witch to curse you!"

Since avoiding curses and variants are a priority these days let me continue with that in mind.

As you know, the year of the Tiger leaps powerfully behind the heels of the Ox in the Lunar zodiac. No different in 2022.

My superstitious mother contrived a pattern that would mark me for the first quarter of my life.

It started in January of 1962 at the tail end of the year of the Tiger. I was told I jumped off the sofa, overly stimulated by my favorite TV cartoon at the time, The Mighty Hercules.(Great opening theme song by the way. Sung by Johnny Nash who would later record a hit song  - I can see clearly now.)

The fall broke both fragile bones between my right elbow and wrist. This was confirmed when my father was summoned home to examine his crying toddler son. He later told me he almost vomited when he picked up my arm from the elbow and it bent unnaturally from the compound fracture. Ouch!

I have no recollection of this incident presently and only have a snapshot of myself with the splinted broken wing. Never had a problem with the arm thankfully.

Fast forward to my very next year of the Tiger - 1974. I was in the middle of soccer drills in junior high when I reached for the ball with my - you guessed it - right foot. The weight behind my poorly planted foot twisted my ankle enough to fracture the Tibia. My ankle was swollen and all shades of purple within a minute. 

My mother and grandmother prepared the traditional Chinese Dit Da Jow liniment used to supposedly heal external injuries. I cannot tell you which made me cry more. That my mother was rubbing the liniment onto my broken leg with all her might or the horrid odor of the Dit Da Jow itself! That medicine had to have been concocted outdoors!

Dad came home again and took me to the same emergency room from the last Year of the Tiger. Fracture confirmed. Casted 6 weeks.

By now my mother was putting 2 and 2 together and was probably wondering who the hell knew what time her son was born! All she deduced was that I had seen 2 Tiger years and suffered 2 broken bones. She was convinced the Tiger was my sworn enemy. 

In the years to come all Tiger references were forbidden from our house. We ate Corn Puffs and not Frosted Flakes. We filled our tank with Sinclair not Esso.

I can only imagine my dear mother praying at the Chinatown temples every Sunday for my safety until the next Year of the Tiger.

I tell my own kids this story every 12 years and how I solved the riddle in 1986 during the Tiger's next reign. Very simple, I got married to the love of my life. Mary has always been my good luck charm and together we have learned to live peacefully with the Tiger and all the other animals of the zodiac for 36 years. Love broke the curse not the bones! 

Just dealing with some migraines that I can tolerate without any animal pattern association. I even let the kids eat Frosted Flakes sometimes.

We now always welcome the Year of The Tiger but still keep our birth times a secret!

p.s. - when my sisters and I were cleaning out mom's house preparing to sell it, we discovered a vintage mid '70s Tiger dashboard bobblehead buried on a basement shelf behind jars of preserved mushrooms, tree bark and Dit Da Jow! Imprisoned and facing the wall as punishment! It was won at a carnival but mom probably didn't want to throw it away especially since someone overpaid trying to win a prize. We freed the Tiger and it was picked up for a dollar by a lucky tag sale customer. 

~ Roger Ng Bow 

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Recollections of Lunar New Year in the Village of Tai Ting Pong, Guangdong Province

My mother, Yee King Ying, grew up in the Cantonese village of Tai Ting Pong in the 1930s. Back then, in the weeks leading up to the Lunar New Year, her family cleaned and swept the house, and her stepmother purchased their new clothes for the year. They paid all their debts if they could. 

Homes in the village had strips of heavy red wax paper printed with auspicious poetic couplets on either side of the front door. Those who could afford it posted fresh calligraphy.

On the day before New Year's Eve, Stepmother rose early to go to market and do all her shopping for the holiday meals. She bought fresh fish, dried root vegetables, edible flowers, seaweed, flour for pastries, spices, brown sugar, salt, oranges and tangerines, lychee nuts, coconuts, and winter melon candies, as well as incense and candles for the family altar.

The family spent the remainder of the day and part of New Year's Eve preparing dishes for the upcoming feasts. They shared a pig with a neighbor, who slaughtered it on their behalf. When they got their share, Stepmother cut it into pieces, steamed it, then preserved what she wouldn't use immediately with salt. She stored the preserved meat in a food basket, which hung from the ceiling so that rats couldn't get to it. She set aside the remainder for the holiday feast.

Stepmother herself slaughtered their chicken. The poor chicken would be innocently pecking around her feet in the kitchen when suddenly she would snatch it up, bend its head back, and slit its throat. 

In addition to meat dishes, Stepmother prepared dim-sum, such as steamed pork buns and deep-fried sweet flour dumplings, some filled with pork, shrimp, and chestnuts, some with coconut, sesame seeds, and honey, and others with sweet bean paste.

When the family finished chores on New Year's Eve, they bathed, then prepared to eat the New Year's Eve meal to close out the old year. Legend said ghosts rose to earth on this night, so every family member must be present. Anyone missing might become a ghost himself! 

After the meal, they went outside. My mother's brother and other boys and men lit firecrackers to drive away evil spirits and greet the new year's arrival. For a time, deafening noise engulfed the village. 

Longer version of this story at karinkjensen.blog

The six siblings, with the youngest and first aunts in the front row left side, accompanied by my cousin, extreme right. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee).

Among my earliest recollections are those of Aunt Wen Fan and Uncle Jen-Da, when I was 3-4 years old. They lived in Taipei near their parents, relatives and close acquaintances. As the oldest of four sisters, she was quick to express warmth, and placed the welfare of others before her own. Her husband was the eldest among four siblings, and shined as the trailblazer of the family. The couple appeared to be settled and content, with my aunt at home raising three children, and my uncle at Taiwan University embarking on a promising career as associate professor of accounting.  

In 1977, the couple’s future transformed overnight after moving to the US for the sake of their children’s education and career futures. They were courageous to embark upon a fresh path in an unfamiliar landscape, while fiercely determined to make the journey successful. After settling in San Francisco, they operated a gift stop in Chinatown, in partnership with her youngest sister, Aunt Jane, and her husband, Uncle Joe, located across the street from my parents’ two gift stops. A year later, the Chao family sold the retail business interest and relocated to a township in New Jersey, around the same time my uncle’s siblings were also establishing residencies in nearby communities. The couple struggled to obtain suitable jobs with their limited English fluency and skill-sets. The travails of the Chao family are typical of the experiences among immigrants, but perhaps weighed more heavily in light of the creature comforts they gave up after leaving Taiwan. Over the years, my aunt and uncle faced many challenges beyond the financial, notably bridging the cultural and lifestyle differences between East and West, and ensuring that the next generation would become productive contributors in their adopted country.

Internment of the remains of my aunt and uncle. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee).

Their lives serve not only as testament to how a couple persevered during the best and worst of times, but reveal the depth of their sacrifices for their loved ones. Aunt Wen Fan and Uncle Jen-Da are nothing short of heroic role models for their descendants!  Whenever I contemplate the trials and tribulations they endured in this Brave New World, the haunting, poignant passages in Emma Lazarus’ New Colossus (1883) hearken:  

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she 

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, 

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, 

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. 

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, 

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

My first uncle is to the left of my second uncle surrounded by the aunts. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee).

The passing of my two uncles has led to my reflecting on their lives, and the indelible impressions both left on me. My first (older) uncle, Cui Wen-Chiao (1925-2017), and second uncle, Cui Wen-Tse (1931-2021), led very different existences, but both experienced much of China’s upheavals from the past century.  

After graduation from boarding school, my first uncle left home to seek his fortunes in the 1940s. In contrast, my second uncle kept close to the family and helped to look after the younger siblings during the Second Sino-Japanese War (1937-45) while his father and brother were away. In his late teens, however, he was separated from the family after the occupation of Nanjing and Shanghai by the PLA in 1949-50. By this time, my first uncle had married his classmate and stayed behind in Shanghai.  

The career of my first uncle in the Chinese Merchant Marine spanned 50 years, where he toured the East and South China Seas, making ports of call to Japan and Hong Kong. He would captain his own vessel and serve as instructor at the Merchant Marine College of Shanghai Maritime University.  Meanwhile, my second uncle studied history in college at Chengdu in Sichuan province, where he met his future wife. In the coming years, they and their families endured the travails of the Great Leap Forward (1958-62) and the ensuing famine (1959-61), during which my second uncle nearly perished from starvation. They all felt the effects of the political and economic turbulence that was the Cultural Revolution (1966-76), as their children (my first cousins) were compelled to forego college/university education. 

Upon meeting my first uncle and his family in 1979, I was struck by his towering presence ( 6’ 2”) that belied a soft-spoken, dignified demeanor. He and his family enjoyed a quiet, simple life in the Latin Quarters near the Bund. Their apartment was furnished with rosewood antiquities, the only remnants of the material wealth from his wife’s family to have survived the Cultural Revolution. We met again in 1995 during the reunion among the six siblings.

Upon meeting my second uncle and his family at Xian in 1995. I was struck by his quick wit, easy banter, and sense of humour. He recalled as a youth fleeing with the family from one place to another to escape the ravages of war-torn China, and how American GIs introduced the neighbourhood kids and him to the game of baseball and gave them bubble gums and chocolates. My fondest memory was when he took me to visit the Cui family ancestral home at the industrial city of Shenyang in Northeastern China during August of 1995. He remembered vividly his grandfather working at a munitions factory near the city’s main railroad station during the 1930s. From him, I learned that the Cui ancestors were salt merchants originally from Shandong province, who migrated north to Liaoning province eight generations (200 years) ago. My other fond memory was visiting Chongqing with him in 2001, where we experienced the Sichuan customs and savoured it’s hot and peppery cuisine.

I was amazed how much my first uncle resembled my grandfather, who served as an UN advisor and university lecturer in agricultural economics. Born in 1908, he was only 17 when my grandmother, born in 1901, had first uncle. Years later, I learned that the traditional betrothal arrangement in northeastern China was where the bride would be much older than the groom. In contrast, I was impressed how much my second uncle resembled my grandmother, a Manchurian belonging to the Jin clan represented by the Plain Yellow Banner.  She courageously and capably managed all domestic affairs during wartime and ran a tailor shop after they moved to Hong Kong. The one regret that she and her sons shared was not being able to reunite again after their separation. 

The silk embroidery of the Shanghai Bund. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee).

Bund of the 1930s, as a memento of a long maritime career in the “Paris of the East.”  Alas, I can only bid you both adieu from afar, dear uncles!  May the warm, swift trade winds of the China Seas be at your backs in your voyage to the next world to reunite with my grandparents and first aunt.

CHSA wishing you a Happy Mid-Autumn Moon Festival this year. 

A red bean mooncake for breakfast and a home-cooked meal for 12 are the images surfacing the cloud of my memory as I dwell upon the word Mid Autumn Festival in Mandarin.

Mid-Autumn Festival is bittersweet to my immigrant family. While on the one hand, we celebrate our resilience and togetherness in America; memories of our time together in Qingdao would eventually sound the nostalgia bell. A silent ring that everyone in the family is familiar with. It resonates with the deep sorrow for a time gone by and an impossible future.

You see, for us - there would never be a moment when the entire family would gather as one in Qingdao because of work, school, and that between my mom and aunt at least one person needs to stay and watch over the family business.

While we may never have a taste of a grand family reunion, these experiences helped us foster greater connection and appreciation to the Moon. The same Moon enjoyed by our separated families in China. The same Moon once enjoyed by our past loved ones.

In these times, as we sit as a family in America - we look up to the Moon and name it the messenger of our love beyond Distance and Time. 

The Moon can speak for my heart. 月亮可以代表我的心.

Shou Zhang 

CHSA Education and Programs Coordinator 

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I enjoyed being able to share the Autumn Moon Festival with the community! It was great to see our organization’s neighbors as well as welcome back visitors to Chinatown. The much needed energy and positivity was felt throughout the neighborhood. And the festival wouldn’t have been complete for me without indulging in my favorite lotus filled mooncakes which my colleagues and I enjoyed from Eastern Bakery!

Angelo Racelis on this year’s SF Chinatown Mid-Autumn Festival 

CHSA Visitor Services 

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As a Hong Konger growing up in the U.S., I realized a lot of the traditions and celebrations of the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival are lost in immigration communities such as the lanterns, the courtship and matchmaking activities, and more traditional foods. 

But as long as I can remember, the most memorable fond memories of the Mid-Autumn Festival I have are having mooncakes with my family -- my parents and grandparents. I absolutely adore lotus filled mooncakes with two to four egg yolks. If I could, I would eat multiple in one sitting. As a kid, I loved hearing the folklore that was tied to this holiday such as Chang’e, the Moon Lady and the Jade Rabbit in the moon. 

As I got older, I slowly realized how much I needed to treasure and cherish these moments with the family; because as you grow older, it becomes even harder to spend time with and to catch up with everyone. Grandparents eventually pass away, and we, who were once kids, are now working adults who do not get to see the family as much as we would like to, unlike when we were younger with no responsibilities. It really means everything to cherish even the littlest things and times spent with loved ones. 

In this quarantine era, for the Mid-Autumn Festival, our immediate family -- myself, mum, papa, auntie, and uncle --are celebrating with delicious foods (of course there will be lots and lots of mooncakes) and catching up. 

Kimberly Szeto

CHSA Education and Research Intern 

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🥮 Every year at Moon Festival time, my grandmother would ALWAYS call me from wherever she was to see if I got my moon cakes yet. She passed away in 2010, but I can still hear her “call” every year, and I miss her. ♥️

Avery Lim on Instagram @averyllim

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As someone with a food allergy I could never eat mooncake with everyone else but last year we made our own red bean ones! I was able to eat a mooncake for the first time in my life! They were delicious! 😍

Jennifer Lay on Instagram @jenniferlay_art

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Author's mother, Helen Yee at that time, second from the right, her sisters, and brother in Canton (Guangdong) province, the 1930s. (Courtesy of Karin Jensen). 

My mom and aunties and uncle grew up in Tai Ting Pong village, Canton province, in the 1930s. The story they told me about the Lady of the Moon was of a corrupt and uncaring high official whom no one liked. He thought only of his pleasure. He kept many concubines and coveted immortal life. He paid a mysterious medicine man to make for him the elixir of everlasting life. However, the high official’s prettiest concubine learned of his plans. Wishing to escape her degrading servitude, she made love to him when he came home until he tired and fell asleep. She then swallowed the elixir and left.

When the high official awoke to find his elixir gone, he sent an army to chase after her. However, as no one liked him, the soldiers didn’t search too hard, and the young woman ran fast. Gradually, as the elixir took its effect, her steps grew lighter until her feet lifted off the ground, and she floated to the moon to live forever. Her figure is most visible during the full moon. 

Although families celebrated together, it was a festival primarily for women, for the softly glowing moon, waxing and waning, manifests feminine yin energy. By custom on this evening, my mother and aunties, along with other young women and girls of their village, brought out large wooden bowls filled with water and draped with translucent silk. By positioning the dish correctly and peering into it, they could glimpse the veiled figure of the Lady. Legend said that upon seeing her, a young woman or girl could express a secret dream and hope to have it fulfilled.

The moon festival was also for couples, for it was pleasant to sit together gazing at the full moon, eating mooncakes, sometimes with rice wine. If the couple could not be together, they could enjoy the night by watching the moon at the same time and thinking of each other. 

Women such as my step grandmother, alone in the village while their husbands worked abroad, gazed longingly at the moon. Mother and aunties sat with her, swaying as they sang:

We praise the moon so bright.

We praise the moon so shining.

Every year we praise the moon,

We grow wiser and wiser. 

This text is a rough translation. In Chinese, the song is more beautiful, for the words have a singsong, rhyming quality.

Karin Jensen

CHSA Community Member 

Check out Karin’s article about the Autumn Moon Festival for NewsBreak: https://original.newsbreak.com/@karin-k-jensen-561603/2374411520047-celebrate-the-autumn-moon-festival-to-enjoy-an-ancient-tradition-delicious-dessert-and-a-touch-of-magic?s=influencer 

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The story of Chang'e and the jade rabbit was one of my favorites growing up in San Francisco. There are many interpretations but this is the one I learned as a kid. In Chinese school, we would all gather around and listen to the myth of Chang'e and Houyi. Legend has it that Chang'e was a beautiful servant in the Jade Emperor's Palace (during this part I would imagine walls filled with Jade) where she accidentally angered the Emperor and was banished to live on earth. Houyi lived in the village where she was banished and was a powerful archer. The people on earth were suffering because there were 10 suns. He shot down 9 of them and was awarded the elixir of life. They hid the elixir of life but one day a bandit came in to steal the elixir. Chang'e was the only one home so she drank it so the bandit couldn't have it. After drinking the elixir she floated to heaven and for the rest of their lives, they are separated. Once concluding this story, if we were all good and well-behaved we were rewarded with a mooncake slice (I didn't like the egg yolk and would elbow my way to an ONLY lotus bean paste piece) 

Mooncakes and sharing our culture with others is a beautiful way to build bridges and connections with people of different backgrounds. As a kid growing up in the city, I shared my mooncakes with all my friends whether or not they celebrated the holiday. Teaching others about my culture helped me feel proud of where my parents came from, Hong Kong. 

Julia Quon

Community Member 

My grandfather at his office in Taiwan, early 1960s. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee).

My maternal grandfather, Tsui Young-Chi (1908-85), was the first in our family to have studied and worked in America. A native of Mukden (Shenyang) in Northeast China, he completed his master’s in statistics at Washington State University (1933), then continued doctoral training in agricultural economics at Stanford University, while also moonlighting as a newspaper editor in San Francisco’s Chinatown (1933-6). Young-Chi was compelled to return to his family in Mukden before finishing his degree and just prior to the onset of the Second Sino-Japanese War (1937-45). 

After returning to strife-torn China, Young-Chi was a staff economist at several banks, and following the Communist take-over (1949), moved with his family to Hong Kong, Taipei and Bangkok, where he lectured at several colleges and consulted for both the Sino-American Joint Commission on Rural Reconstruction, and the United Nation’s Food and Agriculture Organization. He was a visiting scholar at the University of Kentucky, Lexington (1961-2), where his most widely known paper was presented and published. Through his teaching and research, Young-Chi’s influence on a generation of academics and policy-makers in the area of rural development/reform at Taiwan and other South-East Asian countries is incalculable.

My grandfather and I in front of our residence in Taipei, 1964. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee).

I am grateful to have stayed with my maternal grandparents from three to five years of age and to have later uncovered Young-Chi’s legacy, that is now my honour and privilege to share some years after his passing. 

Young-Chi’s papers are listed in the link (Google Scholar does not include his Chinese language articles, which were mostly published in Taiwan): https://scholar.google.com/citations?user=ztq22WUAAAAJ&hl=en&oi=ao

In front of the second gift shop, where we lived above, early 1970s. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee).

My father, Frank Lee (1925-92), was the second of six siblings to a successful merchant and his second wife. The family had moved from their hometown of Zhaoqing, Guangdong to Tientsin and Qinhuangdao to embark on various businesses, including a night club and general store in the early 1930s. After my paternal grandfather passed away in the late 1930s, he and his oldest brother were responsible for running the family’s affairs until Frank left for an extended visit to Formosa (Taiwan) in 1948. While touring the island, he received word from my grandmother that the Chinese Communists were poised to defeat the Nationalists (Kuomintang) and govern China in 1949. 

Alas, he dared not return to the mainland, and settled in Taipei for the interim. After working at various odd jobs, he enrolled at the National Taiwan Normal University to train as a teacher. Upon graduation, he instructed at an elementary school in Taipei in the mid-1950s, before being reassigned as vice-principal at an overseas Chinese middle school in Tahiti in 1958. He realized, however, that this was a dead-end posting and left for America to seek his fortunes a year later.

In Polynesian sarong, 1958. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee).

Frank arrived in San Francisco on a tourist visa, but quickly changed his visa status to student after enrolling at John Adams Adult School. Through a mutual classmate, he met Virginia (nee Tsui), his future wife and our mother, in 1960. After a brief courtship, they wedded in January, 1961, followed by my arrival later that year. Frank taught Mandarin-Chinese at the Army Language School in Monterey during the early to mid-1960s. 

In 1965, he resigned this teaching position to operate a retail stall inside the Chinese Cultural Center on Grant Avenue, selling colourful batiks painted by himself. The following year, he closed the stall and opened a gift shop next to the renowned restaurant, Shanghai Low, selling his artwork, imported handicrafts from Taiwan, Japan and Thailand, and sundry souvenirs of San Francisco. Three years later, a second shop was opened on the other side of Shanghai Low. Virginia helped run the businesses, while also employed as key-punch operator at several firms downtown. 

Family portrait, 1963. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee).

Throughout the late 1960s to the early 1980s, my parents raised my brother, Oscar, and me, all the while operating the shops, which evolved to selling jewelry and higher-end merchandise in the 1980s. Frank was active in the Chinatown Merchants Association during this time. He instilled within us the importance of industry and self-reliance when we were old enough to help out. He also home-schooled me in written and spoken (Mandarin-)Chinese during after-school hours and on weekends. 

I remember him as a firm but fair parent, an innovative entrepreneur, and engaged in the local community, who had various self-taught talents (besides painting, he played the erhu and snare drum), and was physically fit until the end. Regrettably, he did not live to know of his extended family, including grandchildren Nerys, Kaeden and Kendra.

Mike Kranzke, our homeroom teacher, instructed EST meditation in class. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee from Evelyn Sacks, posted on Facebook, May 31, 2016).

Our Class of ‘76  witnessed and were affected by major societal changes during and after attending St. Mary’s on Stockton St. In 1921, Paulist priests founded the school and invited the Sisters of St. Joseph of Orange to run classes. When we first met in 1967, the modernization movement of Vatican II had not completely taken hold: the sisters were wrapped in medieval black-and-white habits, and catechism was rote-taught. By the late 1960s, however, their attire was replaced with modern white blouse and knee-length skirt, and religion class covered a broad range of topics.

The biggest charge was the staffing of lay teachers to replace most of the sisters in the early 1970s. Wendy Dorband taught us Judaic beliefs and customs, including hosting a traditional Passover supper. Michael Kranzke practiced EST and instructed us meditation techniques. He led the Mass choral strumming a guitar to Cat Stevens’ Moonshadow. Don Papa brought youthful vitality and a free-spirited teaching style, encouraging us to discuss and debate current event issues, very much like Mr. (Mark) Thackeray in ‘To Sir with Love’.

Wendy Dorband, our grade 6 homeroom teacher, instructed English, history, geography, as well as sex education and Judaic customs. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee from Evelyn Sacks, posted on Facebook, May 31, 2016).

The counter-culture movement of the late 1960s encouraged teachers and students to question traditional values and attitudes held by mainstream establishment. Wendy covered sex education, including birth control and legal abortion, which were taboo topics prior to Vatican II. In the 1970s, territorial squabbling among the Chinese youth made for headline news and spilled into the classrooms of St. Mary’s and other schools. Perhaps as counterbalance, William Coward, our sixth grade math teacher, played “What the World Needs Now is Love” in class one day! Our cultural-ethnic awareness and identity strengthened after the introduction of Asian-American Studies at SF State, and media exposure and popularity of Bruce Lee films, both in the early 1970s. 

The optimism experienced in our final year at St. Mary’s was reinforced by the patriotism and pride of the Bicentennial celebration. That feel-good afterglow was short-lived. The Golden Dragon massacre the next year was a cataclysmic financial and psychological blow to Chinatown. Concurrently, the International Hotel protests lay bare the economic disparity and injustice many immigrants living in or near Chinatown endured, which continue unabated today. In the forthcoming years, ethnically-motivated mistreatment and violence, such as the Vincent Chin slaying in 1982, have become bellwethers of race relations in SF and other American locales.

At our 2016 reunion, teachers seated (left to right): Mary Tan (homeroom 8th grade), Johanna Pendleton (homeroom 3rd and 4th grades), Michael Kranzke (homeroom 7th grade), and Don Papa. (Courtesy of Raymond Lee from Corinne Cho-Beaulieu, posted on Facebook, July 9, 2016).

At our 40th class reunion in 2016, my classmates and I expressed sadness and frustration over the gradual erosion of the Chinatown neighbourhood, including the eventual shuttering of our alma mater due to revenue shortfalls. Ironically, a few years earlier, the school had moved into newly built facilities at the very site of the demolished International Hotel. The pandemic lockdown and retail closures have, once again, drawn attention to the plight of the most vulnerable in Chinatown, whose children and grandchildren our school once taught and supported. The community void will take all our collective determination and effort to fill.

“If flamingos turn pink when they eat so much shrimp, why don't cows turn green when they eat so much grass?”

As parents, we’ve encountered a lot of thought-provoking - and often fun - questions. Some have been easier to answer than others. Some are asked by our kids, others are ones we’ve asked ourselves.  

One question I wrestled with was: “Should we try to teach our kids Cantonese - and if so, how?” Trying to decide whether to teach our kids Cantonese was not easy. I spent hours researching, often searching online late at night, thinking through each of our language decisions and options. Then, after finally deciding to teach our kids Cantonese, I spent hours figuring out how to actually do that.

Amazingly, today, our entire household speaks Cantonese! Along the way, we created bilingual Cantonese picture books to support our own learning, which grew into our own indie publisher Green Cows Books, named for the fun questions that emerge out of bilingual learning - and out of parenting in general.  Most importantly, we continue to have fun. I'm sharing our story, with all my doubts and second-guessing, in case it helps another parent. 

The Green Cows Books logo (Courtesy of Karen Yee). 

How I got my entire family into speaking Cantonese

So...how did this turn into a family adventure? How did we go from one native (but limited) Cantonese speaker to the entire household speaking Cantonese?  Why do I spend so much time making Cantonese-English picture books?

First, before my son was born, I made the reluctant - but relatively quick - decision that we were NOT going to teach him Cantonese. I was the only Cantonese speaker in our house, and even then, I had grown up in California and mainly learned "around the house" language. While I had attended weekend Chinese school, my reading and writing were limited. Simply put, I was intimidated. Other voices seemed to validate my fears: Parenting forums debated the wisdom of trying to teach kids multiple languages. Well-meaning relatives suggested Cantonese was a “dying language” and Mandarin might be more useful. And of course, there just weren't Cantonese resources available. So we decided to focus our efforts on Mandarin, a language neither I nor my husband speak.  

Then my son was born, and things changed. While my Cantonese was limited, speaking English to my own kid just didn’t feel like “home.” I decided that however basic my Cantonese was, I would try to pass it on. If I failed, nothing changed. But, if I succeeded, then my son would speak a "dying language” spoken by 74 million other people around the world.   

So I began speaking Cantonese to our son - and this is where everything jumbles together time-wise. It was difficult at first - I felt awkward, and there were words I didn’t know (I had to learn them first!). We introduced Cantonese and Mandarin songs early on, but waited until our son turned 2.5 before introducing Cantonese cartoons (all on YouTube!). It was also tough for my husband for a while - once our son started speaking Cantonese, my husband could not understand what we were saying. But with a little one, we said the same phrases many times a day - "let's go!", "time to eat,” "drink your milk!", etc. Somewhere along the way, my husband learned basic Cantonese.  

Meanwhile, I searched non-stop for Cantonese books. I found a lot of books in Chinese and English; some books with Mandarin pinyin or zhuyin; and some books with Cantonese romanization. But I found nothing focused on spoken Cantonese.

So I began making my own Cantonese learning materials. I’d noticed that our board books had images of apples, ice cream and grapes - but nothing with Chinese food. So I printed out pictures of egg tarts, sesame balls, shrimp dumplings, almond tofu and tong yuen to learn alongside words like "apple" and "banana". No disadvantage at the dim sum table for our son! I also included materials to support my husband - primarily key phrases such as “What do you want to eat?” and “I want to eat...” We’d quickly realized that just a few basic phrases go a long way towards communicating with toddlers! 

A portrait of Karen Yee, founder of Green Cows Books (Courtesy of Karen Yee).

Our materials worked amazingly well. When we finally took our 2-year-old to dim sum, he recognized a lot of the items. He even tried to order for himself: “daan taat!” (egg custard tart). (Though the waitresses paid very little attention to our toddler.) Eventually, I turned these materials into our first book, “My First Everyday Words in Cantonese & English.”  

Today, our older one is trilingual. He learned Mandarin at daycare, Cantonese at home, and English. He was talking nonstop by 18 months. Our relatives generally also agree he has a better Cantonese accent than I do, even though he learned his Cantonese from me. I think he must have applied his Mandarin to Cantonese! His Mandarin is apparently excellent, and he was even chosen to represent his school at a reading contest.  

Our 2-year-old is fluent for his age - he and his older brother speak Cantonese, but sometimes switch to Mandarin. While I’ve heard that learning multiple languages simultaneously can cause speech delays, neither of my kids experienced this. I think this might just be personality-driven! My husband now speaks Cantonese. And my mother-in-law also has picked up Cantonese. Being able to speak Cantonese (or even just understand the basics) has made for easier conversations with extended family.

A portrait of Yee’s family, all of whom contribute to Green Cows Books’ language offerings as writers and translators (Courtesy of Karen Yee).

So, where are we now in this learning adventure?

Our books are family activities. Topics are chosen by our kids, and each book is fully kid-approved. For example, every find-and-point-item - such as in Goh Goh and Dai Dai's Big Day with Elephant - is thoroughly tested.   

Our Mandarin translations are actually done by our older son. He's been (informally) translating for us since he was able to talk, and translating books pushes him to stretch his Mandarin. He gets to choose kid-appropriate language - and his own pen name - to appear in the books. He’s also now started school - they teach English through what they call “Reader’s Workshop” and “Writer’s Workshop.” We now sometimes write together!

Honestly, I don't have much of a roadmap. Some days, I can't even think ahead to dinner and what we're going to eat. I want us to continue creating books that are useful for parents and for kids, for everyday communication - but even if they're meant to be educational, I want them to be fun and easy to read. As our kids have gotten older, we’ve also moved towards slightly more advanced story books. We're also experimenting all the time. For example, we introduced a few other languages, including in Korean and German (our friends wanted to do their own translations!). 

I hope that you will join us on our adventure!

I would love to hear from other parents who care about bilingual education. As a mom, I’d love to learn about what’s worked for you, and how you support your kids with their language learning. For those who are focused on Cantonese (or Mandarin), I'd love suggestions and feedback on future books. Please get in touch!

Dancer Jessie Tai Sing (of the Tai Sings) on a program cover (ca. 1942). (PC: Forbidden City, U.S.A.: Chinatown Nightclubs, 1936-1970 by Arthur Dong and Lorraine Dong).

While working as a Collections Intern for CHSA the summer of 2019, my main task was to digitize the VCR collection and create a Finding Aid for them. I watched a lot of film, ranging from minute-long news clips in which CHSA programs were mentioned to full-length documentaries such as Curtis Choy’s The Fall of I-Hotel (a true must-watch!). It may sound boring on the surface, but I truly enjoyed what I was doing. I was learning a lot about Chinese American history from diverse perspectives, and contributing to a cause I was passionate about, both as an East Asian Studies major and a Chinese American.  

There was one documentary I watched that has stuck with me to this day: Forbidden City, U.S.A. At the time, like many people, I was only really familiar with the less “glamorous” sides of working in Chinatown, like working at laundries or in Chinese restaurants. What this unique film explored, however, was another side of Chinatown: its history as the center of San Francisco nightlife in the 1930s and 1940s.  

One of the most popular clubs was Forbidden City, known for its premier all-Chinese cast. There were singers and dancers advertising themselves as “The Chinese Sinatra” and the “Chinese Sally Rand” who performed jazz songs and burlesque—a stark contrast to Chinese American stereotypes. Of course, part of the allure for the white audience was the fetishization of Asian women, but the performers themselves were very clear about the fact that there was no sexual exploitation against them. I was especially interested in the accounts of female performers like Noel Toy, who was famous for her bubble dance—particularly accounts of how they wrestled with conflicting cultural upbringings and racism to pursue their passion. I found it very inspiring how they held autonomy over their bodies and owned their sexuality in an industry notorious for taking advantage of vulnerable young women and also lacking Asian representation.

Noel Toy lifts bubbles and business for the Forbidden City, as in this article from Carnival Show magazine (March 1941) (PC: Forbidden City, U.S.A.: Chinatown Nightclubs, 1936-1970 by Arthur Dong and Lorraine Dong).

What drew me to the Forbidden City performers was just that—their bodily autonomy in a world that has denied it to them. For me, and I believe for many young Asian American women, it is difficult to be comfortable with your own body and sexuality without running up against rigid cultural standards about how women can comport themselves or against the response at the other end of the spectrum, the fetishization of Asian women in Western culture and the male gaze. As a young Asian woman, I have never felt totally confident looking at myself in a mirror or posting cute pictures on Instagram. “Guys only like you because you’re Asian,” my brain tells me, or “You’re not as skinny as the girls in K-dramas” or, to bring up the pervasiveness of the Model Minority myth, “Good Asian girls aren’t supposed to stand out.” 

Mary “Butchie” Ong, Jessie Tai Sing, Kim Wong, and Helen Kim are featured in Beauty Parade magazine (November  1943). (PC: Forbidden City, U.S.A.: Chinatown Nightclubs, 1936-1970 by Arthur Dong and Lorraine Dong).

Beyond my own experience, the gross fetishization of Asian women has far more insidious consequences. There are so many published statistics from dating apps in which white males overwhelmingly answer that they  “prefer Asian females” over all demographics (a sentence that grosses me out even as I type it). The fetishization of Asian American women is further normalized in film and television, where it often becomes the butt of jokes in everything from  the 1987 film Full Metal Jacket's now notorious line from a Vietnamese prostitute, "me so horny, me love you long time,” to Kim Anami's 2021 “Kung Fu Vagina” music video, rife with cultural appropriation and stereotypical portrayals of Asian women as hyper-sexual “dragon ladies.” These stereotypes remain so pervasive that when I heard about the terrible hate crime against Asian women in Atlanta, I knew that the sense of sexual ownership white men so often claim over Asian women was the obvious motive. 

As Asian American women, when one culture objectifies us and the other shames us, it is so difficult to love ourselves and take back the power over our bodies. We should be able to express and be ourselves fully no matter what the world tells us to be—just like the performers of Forbidden City.

It was 1967 in San Francisco Chinatown. After an ordinary day of work, local schoolteacher Benjamin Tong and his friend George Woo went to Portofino Cafe, a charming European cafe formerly located at 150 Waverly Place. The two friends were regulars there, part of a crowd of teachers, magazine photographers, medical paraprofessionals, musicians, writers, construction workers, cab drivers, and occasional homeless teenage lost souls. 

While enjoying their coffee, they overheard a group of foreign-born, monolingual Chinatown street kids -- many of whom were jobless school dropouts or had been kicked out of the house -- plotting to burn down the “gweilo street parade” in retaliation for a white carnival worker supposedly running off with one of their Chinese girlfriends. The youth were referring to an annual white-run street carnival that occupied Chinatown’s streets and Portsmouth Square during the Chinese Lunar New Year. This packed event directly interrupted Chinatown business and the community’s holiday celebrations. Despite numerous complaints, however, the City did not address Chinatown residents’ concerns.

Deeply concerned about such a reckless and life-threatening plot, Tong and Woo spoke up. 

“Look, you guys live here in Chinatown. If you set fire to the carnival, the flames will surely engulf your homes!” George said.

Their reply was emphatic: “We don’t care, man! Burn them down! There’s no kind of future for us Tong Sahn Doys, anyway! Can’t relate to school. No jobs. All we get is grief around the clock from uptight parents and cops!”

Tong Sahn Doys means “boys of the Tang mountains” in Taishanese, referring to the medieval Tang Dynasty (618 to 906 AD) that was considered a golden age.

Tong, Woo, and other adults at the cafe managed to convince the youth to not follow through on their plan. What continued to trouble them, however, was the disconnect the youth felt from their community. They were frustrated, neglected by adults and left with no purpose or direction in life. 

Hoping to improve these boys’ situations, Ben and George drafted written proposals in Chinese and English for bilingual education, job training programs, family counseling, and other social services to present to local public schools, social service agencies, church organizations, and family associations. Yet despite beginning a good deal of dialogue, which included heated testimonials from Tong Sahn Doys, nothing stuck. None of the agencies and organizations followed up with concrete, viable commitments for improving the youth’s lives. Instead, their failure to support those in need deepened the rupture in the already fragile relationship between the restless youth and the community members trying to help them. Eventually, many of these disillusioned youth turned to “pulling jobs” for criminal organizations to make a living. They were soon branded the “Chinatown Gangs” by the news media.

In the wake of the failed intervention, the community members who had tried to turn the situation around drew the following conclusion: “We’ve lost this generation. We have failed these youngsters. Their fate is dark now. They’re running out of control, turning on each other as well as ‘the establishment.’” 

But not all hope was lost. One evening at the Portofino Cafe, a lightbulb suddenly went off in the heads of Tong and other demoralized individuals who wanted to help the youth. Inspired by the education reformations that African American student activists demanded at San Francisco State College, they wanted to do the same for Asian American students: create a curriculum that examines the history, stories, and nuances of the Asian American community. They hoped that an education which teaches youth about their identity will help them discover a path and purpose as a minority in America.

In the late 1960s, the Black Student Union of San Francisco State College (now San Francisco State University) began advocating for better access to educational opportunities, as well as for the creation of a Black Studies program in response to the exclusion of nonwhite communities’ experiences from university curricula. But progress on these demands for a more representative education was slow, and the students’ frustration grew. Finally, during the 1968-1969 academic year, what started as a small protest group grew into a multi-ethnic coalition as other minority student organizations representing Latin American, Mexican American, and Asian American students joined in to support the movement. This multi-ethnic coalition became known as the Third World Liberation Front (TWLF).

Police attack and arrest protestors at SFSC. (PC: Shaping San Francisco Digital Archive). 

Eventually, TWLF began to boycott the university. For five months between November 1968 to March 1969, protestors formed a column of student and faculty protesters that continuously marched around the entire college, making it so that the few students who attended class had to weave through an impenetrable crowd. Tong was among the leaders who represented the Asian American interests. He spent many hours gathering students and faculty to support their efforts. As a participant in this long march, Tong himself wore through three pairs of shoes. Many of these protests were violently broken up by the police. Nevertheless, students persisted, and a similar movement even took place at UC Berkeley.

Eventually, the universities could no longer handle the situation. After negotiating with the leaders of San Francisco State College’s TWLF, they provided the funding and classroom space for the creation of the College of Ethnic Studies, the first of its kind in the entire United States. Similarly, UC Berkeley established the Department of Ethnic Studies. Students could now take classes in American Indian Studies, Asian American Studies, Africana Studies, and Latino/a Studies. 

Tong became one of the original faculty in Asian American Studies, helping to build the curriculum from scratch. The department aimed to teach Asian Americans and other students interested in Asian American topics about their history, unique American influenced identity, portrayal in media, and generational cultural differences among many other concepts. In other words, it was a place for students to understand the history of and engage with their cultural identity in America, asking questions such as “What does it mean to be Asian in America?” and “How does my Asian identity affect my experience in America?”.

The inaugural SFSU Asian American Studies Faculty. Tong is at the center of the first row. (PC: SFSU Asian American Studies). 

Fast forward half a century to today. These classes that examine the impacts of race, particularly those of systemic racism, on people’s lives in America are as important as ever. Learning about not just one’s own racial group, but other racial and ethnic groups’ experiences will enable them to feel empathetic towards each other's triumphs, hardships, and everything in between. Compassion for and willingness to help one another will allow all communities to grow and not leave people behind, as the neglected Chinatown youth were. We must remember how it was the collective action of many minority groups, each of which faced their own unique challenges, that enabled them to all create positive change together. Benjamin Tong pictured the changes he wanted to see in his community -- empathetic, educated, and passionate Asian Americans -- and pursued his vision until it was achieved.

This month, we asked our interns to share their reflections on AAPI Heritage, answering the question, “What does AAPI Heritage mean to you?” Here’s what they wrote: 

AAPI Heritage Is…

...a living history 

Shou Zhang, Research Intern (We Are Bruce Lee) 

I am a 1.5 generation Han Chinese American.

I believe our communities' diverse and beautiful history lives through us like water flowing from the past into the present and onwards to the future. Our very existence in this country is a testament to the resilience of those who came before us. When I can go to a Chinese grocery store and buy goods that satisfy my taste for the Chinese Lu culinary cooking style, that experience is the legacy of our lived history. When I cook the dishes that my family taught me, the very act of it is a celebration of my Han Chinese culture. 

Examples of China’s Lu cuisine, originating in Shandong. (PC: China & Asia Cultural Travel).

To me, the AAPI history of my community is a lived experience. I recognize that the Han Chinese and Han Chinese American community in America are members of a wider community whose struggles and experiences intersect with our own. So for me, AAPI History Month means going beyond protecting, sustaining, and sharing the history of the culture of my community – it means finding the emotional space to listen to the stories of other AAPI communities.

In my journey as someone who grew up and emigrated from the People's Republic of China, I have been particularly invested this month in learning more about the lived experiences of other ethnic and indigenous communities who emigrated from mainland China, who have had a drastically different experience than my own.

...a way to understand my identity

Samantha Vasquez, Research Intern (Chinese in the Richmond) 

Being Asian American is integral to my identity, as I have spent almost twenty-one years attempting to understand what it meant to be Asian and American. I am a Chinese adoptee with a third-generation Chinese American mom and a first-generation Mexican American dad. I learned about the term "third-culture kid" in a Multiracial Americans course in college, and I found it to describe my experiences almost perfectly. This experience is defined as the phenomenon in which a child grows up with their parents' culture and the culture of the place they grew up.  Both of my parents grew up in the U.S. and have navigated what it means to be American. For me, I have my Chinese heritage, through which I participate in traditions and cuisine, and I also have my Mexican culture, through which I understand Spanish phrases and attend religious ceremonies.

There are so many nuances with my identity that I had trouble understanding when I was younger, but I embrace being Asian American because it can encompass these nuances. I want to give my children the tools to begin to understand their identities, no matter what their culture is. I want them to know my parents and their cultures' influence on my upbringing. I want them to embrace all cultures and realize how interconnected we all are.

...a source of political strength

Katherine Xiong, Community Programs Intern 

I have to admit that I struggle a lot with the term “AAPI.” Doubtless, the lived experience of individuals grouped together under the AAPI umbrella are extremely disparate -- even within ethnicities, there’s so much diversity that it’s hard to say that people belong ‘together.’ Take the term “Chinese” for example: It’s fuzzily defined. It can (or can not) include diaspora from the mainland, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore, etc., many of whom chafe under the label “Chinese American” because of political connotations in their countries of origin. It can include descendants of the first railroad workers, migrant workers, and communities facing gentrification, but can also include some of the richest people in America, many of whom have become the gentrifiers. We don’t all have the same history, or the same political issues, either. Questions of affirmative action that my conservative parents are thinking about and questions of media representation my friends are thinking about are not the same problems that massage workers or Chinese American elders in large cities are facing. Zoom out to all of the ‘AAPI’ umbrella, and the differences grow still vaster. Yet outsiders often read us as “all the same.” 

A protestor displays her support for solidarity between the Black and AAPI communities. (PC: NBC News). 

As I interpret it, the power of the term “AAPI” has less to do with identity and more to do with politics. And it’s not about having the same political ‘issues’ or racial/ethnic stereotypes. It’s about coalition-building and solidarity in spite of difference -- building from communities up, across ethnic and class lines. It’s about recognizing the ways in which we all get ‘read’ as one people from the outside and leveraging those misconceptions to say, ‘If you treat us all as one people, fine. Then we’ll face our problems together, and support each other in each other’s problems, no matter how different we are. We are not the same, but our communities do not have to form around divisions and differences. We can borrow each other’s strength. We can -- and will -- make change.” 

...the past (and the people) who shaped our present 

Samantha Lam, Development Intern 

As Asian Americans, we have been taught to believe that we are the model minority, and thus a greater ‘proximity to whiteness.’ AAPI history tells us the exact opposite. For example, the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 was the first immigration ban towards a specific ethnic group, and was only fully repealed with the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, which abolished the National Origins Formula. Discrimination towards Asian Americans is not as much a “thing of the past,” as some people like to think. 

I cannot stress how important it is to know about how we as Asian Americans have reached our current status, thanks to the sacrifices of people like early Chinese laborers, who came to the U.S. hoping to find work, and Asian American activists who fought for our civil rights. I know more about this thanks to heritage museums and cultural institutions like CHSA. I am so grateful to CHSA for filling in the blanks for me and many other young Asian Americans who may not have been taught Asian American history in school. 

High school students in Oakland at Black Panther Party funeral rally for Bobby Hutton. (PC: Asian American Movement 1968). 

AAPI Month this year has been far sadder than I think anyone anticipated with increasing reports of hate crimes towards Asians. However, I can see a silver lining in the uptick in Asian American activism and with more resources being made available online discussing topics like intersectionality and the history behind the model minority myth. I believe learning and connecting with Asian American history has allowed me to better understand the struggles other minority groups have faced here in the U.S., and I know I need to do more with the privileges I have.

…a diverse community with many voices

Kimberly Szeto, Education & Research Intern 

Real talk: I am not the biggest fan of umbrella labels like AAPI, API, etc. There is so much to being Asian American or being Pacific Islander that just gets bunched up into one monolithic category. As people, we are more than what labels and stereotypes define us to be. 

But what the labels such as “AAPI” and “API” do instead is bring together a community of people with similar but different backgrounds and give a space to embrace and celebrate who we are, as well as giving us a voice. Yes, May is the month to celebrate AAPI, but why don’t we celebrate all year round? As Asian Americans, we should not have to conform to what “societal norms” in the U.S. constrain us to be, for us to stay quiet and not rock the boat in fear of backlash. Furthermore, we must debunk the model minority myth stereotype, where Asians are seen as uniformly more prosperous, well-educated, and successful than other groups of people. This is a dangerous generalization of vastly different groups of people, one that allows the white majority of America to avoid responsibility for racist policies and beliefs. We need to embrace who we are and educate those who may not know or are less aware.

I started hearing the term AAPI more prominently when I got to college and found a place in the AAPI community at UC Santa Cruz. I think this is where I started to feel more comfortable and began to champion my Asian American identity because I felt like my community was a safe space. I was no longer embarrassed by my family out in public and the customs of our culture that others may have found foreign. 

As an Asian American, I think it is very important to keep history and customs alive. That includes our lives here in America as well as the history of those who came before us, and all the triumphs, struggles, and little things in between. These are the experiences that should form the narratives of any human being, no matter where you are from and who you are. 

Since the start of the pandemic, many small businesses and restaurants in Chinatowns across Northern California struggle to continue operations and find sources of revenue.  According to the Chinese Chamber of Commerce, 75% of storefronts in San Francisco Chinatown were classified as non-operational at one point throughout 2020.  A large part of the problem stemmed from interruptions in food production in California and beyond, in how small businesses could affordably purchase their supplies as they struggled to maintain demand and simultaneously operation costs. The pandemic has thus brought out many questions about the long-term sustainability of our current food supply networks and brought forth the alarming possibility of food shortages in the future. It has further introduced important concepts to the public such as food security and land sovereignty, ideas geared towards solving issues like how to locally source our available vegetables, fruits, and proteins, as well as the need for local communities to take ownership of their own food production and lands.

Mixed-gender Chinese day laborers at the field, 1893, Puget Sound Region, Washington State. Courtesy of the Seattle Civil Rights and Labor History Project at the University of Washington. 

These questions are directly tied to the histories of Asian American communities and businesses in California. California has a long history of Asian American producers and farmers within its agriculture and fisheries.  Historians estimate that in 1890, approximately 75% of California’s agricultural workers were Chinese, most of whom worked as day laborers, painstakingly managing the land. However, laws such as the Exclusion Act, Alien Land Law of 1913, and more prevented them from owning property and evening leaving their Chinatown neighborhoods.  Chinese and Japanese American families were only able to purchase land through loopholes, such as buying property under their children’s names (who were US citizens by the Fourteenth Amendment).  Asian American contributions to the establishment of agricultural systems are indelible to the history and future generations of the American West.

The Chinese American Kee family and friends at the hop yard, 1928, Oregon. Courtesy of This Land by Oregon Humanities. 

Food insecurity is not only an issue stemming from racial injustice but a major environmental concern.  Large-scale corporate agriculture has pushed away small farmers.  The dependence of corporate agriculture on unsustainable practices has resulted in the degradation and destruction of the natural landscape. Throughout California, pastures have begun to turn to dust and the lack of water has resulted in the death of forests in valleys throughout the Sierras. Making the situation worse are wildfires and drought conditions.  The US Bureau of Reclamation is preparing to declare the first official water shortage in the history of the western United States.

However, this is hope!  Taking note of earlier generations of the Asian American community’s contributions and centrality to the development of agriculture early in California’s history, many outstanding AAPI activists and media figures have raised their voice to tackle both the consequences of the legacy of racist laws of the past  and the dire ecological problems left in the wake of corporate agriculture.  Chinese American film and television producer-turned-activist John D. Liu is one such innovator seeking to provide tangible solutions. His documentary Regreening the Desert has revolutionized the perception of how humanity could effectively solve its most serious ecological problems, introducing ideas of ecological restoration to the public.  The documentary shows how desertification can be reversed by generating public awareness of simple ecosystem restoration techniques and principles at the individual level. Watch the documentary below to learn more.

John D. Liu’s Regreening the Desert

Additionally, Liu is currently spreading awareness for World Central Kitchen, a concept formulated by Spanish-American celebrity chef Jose Andrés. World Central Kitchen attempts to establish concrete supply lines of locally sourced foods to mitigate stumbling blocks in food distribution and to increase awareness on how to sustainably source and maintain these food reserves. The clip below explains the World Central Kitchen model.

A local Southern California news network’s introduction to World Central Kitchen. 

In the video below, Liu states “I would also like to note that there are multiple outcomes from what is taking place now. First of all it looks like the economy all over the world is going to take an enormous hit and the most vulnerable people look like they will suffer the most. So the rest of society needs to step up now and figure out how to feed the hungry. If we are able to take this first step and feed the hungry, then we will be able to take the next steps. If we are unable to solve this urgent problem, we are going to have a series of feedback loops that are harder and harder to deal with."

A growing number of Asian American farmers from younger generations are working to establish sustainable practices and economic resiliency in their communities. With the support from other communities of color, these producers are regaining access to their food and land sovereignty by forming resilient local networks of producers. These innovative producers are establishing direct links between rural farms and urban dining tables. One example is Scott Chang-Fleeman’s Shao Shan Farms. Located in the San Francisco Bay Area, Shao Shan Farms is a cutting-edge local Chinese American-owned farming cooperative that aims to ensure food security in the Bay Area by using newly developed permaculture methods and economic models to create a reliable, foolproof network of sustainably grown food.  Organic farmers like Scott Chang-Fleeman can directly sell their produce to restaurants and small businesses, many of which are owned by Asian Americans who require specific types of produce grown in uniquely specific ways.

Scott Chang-Fleeman, owner of Shao Shan Farms. (PC: NBC).  

If the history of Chinese American producers and African American communities in California teaches us anything about how to respond to our current agricultural models, it’s that we have to redesign our current methods within agriculture in order to safeguard our local food resources, both in the short term and long term.  Younger generations of environmentally aware youth have been actively promoting environmental and economic issues through social media campaigns. Producers such as Chang-Fleeman have turned to Instagram to create a social network, connecting not only with fellow producers but with regional chefs.

We don’t have to be producers like Scott Chang-Fleeman to make a difference. I encourage you to educate your community about what they can do to be a part of local supply networks through social media and public outreach, our local communities will be better able to work together to secure the integrity of our food supplies and the lands we grow them on.

The time to act is now.

Check out these Instagram Accounts to stay connected!

@shaoshanfarm

@radicalfamilyfarms

@farmernguyen

@kamayanfarm

“America is a melting pot.” One of the most common cliches about our nation’s immigrant history and present diversity -- and perhaps one of the least accurate. 

A romanticized depiction of the American “melting pot” for the 1908 play of the same name by Israel Zangwill. (PC: Wikimedia Commons). 

As someone who immigrated from China to America when I was 11 years old, “America is a melting pot” was a saying I lived by every day. Integrating into elementary school was hard for an 11-year-old who didn’t speak the same language as everyone else. Going by my favored communication method from those early years in America, I’m surprised I never considered a career as a mime. 

To make up for it, I tried falling back on a language I did know, performing my Mandarin for my band of wide-eyed classmates. Everyone seemed to enjoy my best attempts at translating their English names into Mandarin, but more often than not, I could only guess. I’ve always felt a sting of regret for mishearing ‘Robert’ as ‘rubber,’ then mistranslating ‘rubber’ as ‘eraser’ (橡皮 Xiàngpí) based on British English. The unlucky Robert then went around mispronouncing his mistranslated name as Cinnamon Bark (香皮 Xiānɡ Pí) for the entire school year. 

As funny as these gimmicks were, each one of these cultural exchanges, each attempt to ‘please’ was part of an endless battle to belong. I knew there were unspoken lines, so I simply took cues from the people around me. When they laughed, it was a cue to laugh. When they looked flustered, it was a cue to appear concerned. I was a mirror, a reflection of my surroundings with little of my own to share. Everything I had learned from my upbringing in the People’s Republic of China, I packed up and dumped into the melting pot behind the mirror. Chinese proverbs and poems I had memorized, memories of home, proficiency in Mandarin, everything I didn’t use in my American school, dissolved in the melting pot like overcooked potatoes. 

In recent years, the melting pot analogy has faced its fair share of criticisms for not embracing diversity. Its’ ‘healthier’ alternative, the salad analogy, appears more inclusive, but in fact supports the assumption that people of different cultural backgrounds coexist but share little in common, held together only by a salad dressing of shared ‘American’ values. 

As a 1.5th generation Chinese American, I would prefer the hotpot way of bringing people together. Hotpot in Chinese culture is as much a social practice as it is a dish. It is rarely eaten alone. Especially on cold days, the hot steam from the pot provokes a sense of comfort and closeness among family and friends. 

Hotpot starts with a pre-prepared soup base into which ingredients, including everything from meat, vegetables, and root vegetables to tofu, fish, and mushrooms of all different kinds, are added. Their variety also means balancing different cooking speeds and flavors. Some foods absorb more flavors, while others engage with the broth in creative ways. 

A typical hotpot spread and broth, including different sliced meats, tofus, noodles, mushrooms, vegetables, and mixed sauces. (PC: the Woks of Life). 

Take sponge tofu vs. sliced meats, for example. Sponge tofu maintains its shape and texture and soaks up the broth for a juicy bite. Sliced meats cook quickly, absorb tons of flavor, and leave a legacy of taste for the rest of the flavors to come. One way or another, the ingredients are all immersed in the hotpot together, changing themselves, changing each other, and the broth they leave behind. 

Culture is dynamic and ever-changing. Unlike what happens in the melting pot, no one will melt away into nothingness. Unlike what happens in a salad bowl, we are all connected by more than a drizzling of vaguely defined shared values. The image of a cooking hotpot allows us to see our entanglement with one another in its totality, the connections between us that transcend time and space. Hotpot encourages us to see every ingredient as capable of change and capable of causing change. It values alternative embodied experiences of immigration that don’t strictly follow the worship of the American Dream. Some of us will assimilate and take up the broth’s accumulated flavor in all its glory. Others of us will hold onto our shape and texture in new environments. Regardless, all of us will leave our taste that will last long after we are gone. 

Whether you identify as an immigrant or not, please look through your fondest memories and consider all the people with whom you have crossed paths. Consider how, whether the changes have been big or small, temporary or permanent, we have all changed one another. 

If I could sit at a table with my 11-year-old self, I would encourage him to take his belongings out of the melting pot behind him to share a meal of hotpot with me.

My view of Twitch’s Homepage. (Courtesy of Kimberly Szeto) 

Some may see the COVID-19 quarantine era as one of the toughest times for them; I have too. I have definitely gone crazy from the quarantine anxiety at home over the past year. But instead of seeing this in a negative light, I have taken this year as a time for me to grow, since I have gotten the chance to finally sit back and think about what I want to do in the future, especially after graduating from college last June. 

In this digital age, people have been finding new ways to express themselves and to bring people together, and so have I. After years of watching other people create content on various platforms -- everything from YouTube, Facebook, Snapchat, etc.-- I finally made a Twitch, a streaming platform used by gamers and non-gamers alike. At first, it was to watch one of my favorite YouTubers, who had become a Twitch streamer to continue creating content in quarantine. Little did I know that I would stumble upon a wonderful community of study and co-work streamers after hitting it off with someone in my favorite streamer’s Twitch chat. 

I am normally a pretty extroverted, social person, so for me, these streamers and viewers were a source of the comfort and social interaction I was craving. I have found a home with this supportive community, and they really have helped me to cope during the craziness of quarantining and not being able to go out and go about my normal life. This community even motivated me to stream as a hobby to spread the same love, encouragement, and support I received to my viewers. 

Twitch has allowed me to connect with a network of an English-speaking Asian community around the globe. To me, this spans beyond the Chinese-American diaspora and brought me into a new world of connecting with people I never imagined I would meet. On Twitch, I was even able to find an ever-growing community of Cantonese speakers from around the world, from places like the United States, Canada, United Kingdom, and Hong Kong, which was a wonderful surprise and blessing. None of this would have been possible if not for the advances of technology and the extra time on my hands from quarantine.

Finding this community hit a particular chord in me because I have been trying to find ways to reach back to my own roots as a Chinese-American and an Asian-American. I grew up in a small town in New Jersey that did not have a large Asian community. Like many others in my shoes, I struggled with reconciling my Chinese and American identities when I was growing up. There was no safe space for me to explore my Chinese culture, and at times, I even pushed it away. I found myself having an identity crisis -- I genuinely enjoyed celebrating Chinese holidays, eating the food my grandmother cooked, and learning more about the famous Chinese dynasties. Yet, I was also embarrassed by my family at times when we were out in public, for fear of judgement from other people because we did not look or sound like them. 

In high school, my family moved across the country to the San Francisco Bay Area in California, where I noticed there were more people who looked like me and talked like me. Encouraged by familiarity, I embraced my heritage and culture. I put more time into learning Chinese, both Cantonese and Mandarin, and consumed much more popular culture content from Asia, such as music, dramas, TV shows, radio, etc. I particularly desired to know more about my family history, which led me to pursue a B.A. in History with a concentration in East Asia and the Islamic World. In college, not only was I able to learn about Chinese history,  I was able to learn more about Hong Kong and its people and culture; this is the very place my parents grew up and constantly reminisce about. And now, looking back to my childhood, I regret the times I struggled to interact and communicate with my grandparents with my limited Cantonese. I regret the times I told my parents I wanted to listen to Disney music instead of their 80s Hong Kong bops because now, those Cantopop songs are the exact tunes that get me through the day and put me to sleep at night. 

But now if you were to ask who I was, I would say that I am Hong Kongese-American. My Cantonese has improved a lot. My go-to foods are dim sum, a Hong Kong style milk tea, and a Portuguese egg tart. I have finally accepted and come to terms with my heritage and culture, and Twitch has only helped me explore that heritage with other people who know and love it.

Catch some of my cute Twitch emotes such as me: 1) fangirling with an “add oil” -- an expression of encouragement and support -- banner, 2) sipping on some Hong Kong style milk tea and 3) happily eating a Portuguese egg tart. (Courtesy of Kimberly Szeto).

Accidentally stumbling in this Twitch rabbit hole has helped me connect with other people who have similar identities, backgrounds, and interests. I am not an avid gamer, but I was still able to find a community on Twitch where I stream myself co-working, playing games, and just chatting. At the end of the day, instead of feeling disconnected like you would expect from quarantining, now more than ever, I feel more connected with people, as well as my own culture and heritage. 

Now, in light of recent events of the rise in attacks and hate crimes against the Asian community worldwide, it has been especially encouraging to see a community of Asian voices and supporters stand up to the racism and discrimination that has always been embedded in American society. These voices have grown stronger and stronger both in the wider community and on Twitch as well. The Asian American community on Twitch has spoken out about the violence and found ways to support the community, such as running charity streams where the donations will go to Asian American support funds.

In such a dark time, Twitch has become another place where we can stand up, break out of the model minority myth, and take the next step in engaging in uncomfortable discussions about racism. And for many of us, myself included, it has become our chance to rise up and stand with the community.

You may follow me and my Twitch adventures where I keep you company as I play some of my favorites jams, chat, co-work, and play some games...and maybe catch me singing. 

My Twitch Recommendations: 

JustHagan: Hong Kongese-Canadian variety streamer (mainly Kpop content and some games) -- the very YouTuber turned Twitch streamer who got me down the Twitch rabbit hole.

StudywithTiny: Chinese-Canadian variety streamer (mainly studies Korean and sings in English/Korean/French) -- the lovely madam I met in justhagan’s stream.

ahJingTries: Chinese-British study streamer (mainly studies Korean) -- whom I have gotten to know through StudyWithTiny.

camibasket: Chinese-American variety streamer (mainly plays Tetris).

jakuwwu: Chinese-American variety streamer (mainly games and chatting).

ckypiano_: Hong Konger who sings and plays nice light jams (music streamer).

vyctoryyy: Korean-American singing streamer.

seihyuni: Korean-American variety streamer (mainly coworking and singing streams).

HiJohnsies: Korean-American variety streamer (mainly singing streams).

cheap_vegetable: Filipino-American variety streamer (mainly singing streams).

horangsoon: Okinawan-Brazilian variety streamer (chill vibes study and chatting streams).

cynzyy: Chinese-Canadian variety streamer (mainly study streams)

On Friday, May 8, 2009, the day of a full moon, we celebrated the Qingming festival at Long Gang Li (Village of Dragon Hill) in Jiangmen, Guangdong, China. 

Kaiping County lies in the southwest region of the rich Pearl River Delta near Jiangmen. Facing the South China Sea, it is a fertile region of vales, glens, and mesas where rice and fishing are abundant. Long Gang Li is located in the Chishui Township of Kaiping County. It lies on the east bank of the Tan River Valley near the glorious emerald Mount of the Eight Immortals Crossing the Sea (Ba Xian Guo Hai).

My ancient village has a long history that extends back to 1506 A.D. during the Ming Dynasty. Its name, meaning “dragon hill,” references the five-clawed dragon used as a symbol of the Chinese emperors. Today, about 250 people of the Zhang Clan, mostly elders and children, live in this village among rice fields, vegetable gardens, tropical fruit orchards, and fish ponds near bamboo groves. It is from this place that my family’s diaspora originated: Six hundred Zhang descendants now live overseas in Southeast Asia and America.

It was this scenery that I saw on my way into Kaiping after a long day’s journey from Los Angeles to Guangzhou. As the van carried my mother, Yu Xinkai (Seen Hoy Chong, neé Tong), and I toward Long Gang Li along a tree-lined concrete road, I saw myriad farm villages of rice fields and fishponds with magnificent watchtowers and villas (diaolou). Bamboo groves, evergreen woods, and emerald mounts surrounded the fertile valleys of the Tan River.

I couldn’t help but think back to the first time I had come here. It had been on a fall day in 2007. We had entered Long Gang Li the same way, the van slowly driving us into the village square on a dirt road. During the commotion of our surprise visit, jubilant villagers poured out of the temple and their homes to greet us. They recognized me as a “fallen leaf” -- Cantonese slang for a returning sojourner -- from America.

Now, on a crisp spring day in May 2009, I had returned just in time to pay my respects to the Zhang ancestors in Long Gang Li.  

Long Gang Li

Village of Long Gang Li at Kaiping. (Courtesy of Raymond Chong). 

At Long Gang Li, the villagers greeted me with a glorious lion dance (xingshi) set to the sounds of a pounding drum, a beating gong, and a clanging cymbal. Zhang Guangye, the village chief, led an entourage of ten in the dance to celebrate my return. Zhang Huixin, an elder, carried a pitchfork to eagerly ward off evil spirits. They proudly waved their yellow Zhang Clan flag (symbolizing Long Gang Li) and a red Xingshi flag (xingshi meaning “awake lion”). I was deeply humbled by this show of respect. 

As we marched to the Zhang Shiquan Temple, the villagers waited for me. I was immensely proud and excited to stand in front of the lion dance troupe with their bright Zhang Clan flag. I respectfully honored Zhang Shiquan, the village patriarch, by bowing with smoky joss sticks (incense) and cups of rice wine. 

We proudly marched along a path lined with the colorful flags of Zhang Clan, Long Gang Li Kung Fu School, Long Gang Li School, and Xingshi to the Zhang Shiquan Temple. 

Xingshi for Zhang Weiming at Long Gang Li. (Courtesy of Raymond Chong) 

I humbly greeted the elders at the entry as I entered the temple, where the altar of the village patriarch stood, lit by a pair of red candles. I honored Zhang Shiquan by bowing and leaving joss sticks, paper money, and rice wine at the altar. Xu Lianti and Huang Caiyun, elderly ladies, carefully managed the ancestral respect ritual. The lion dancers heartily entered the temple to pay respect to our Zhang ancestors and bless the offering of baked geese and steam buns to Zhang Shiquan. Together, they danced and bowed in front of the Zhang Shiquan altar. Villagers lit firecrackers at the end of the ritual to scare the evil spirits away. 

At the time, I was overwhelmed by the significance of the moment, but felt utterly jubilant to finally be able to respect the Zhang ancestors. In 1932, Zhang Baoshen, my father, left Long Gang Li as a young boy to move to America. He never returned to his village, for he died in 1979 at Los Angeles. Now, 77 years after his departure, I proudly represented my father as a “fallen leaf,” a returning sojourner from America to China.  

Zhang Shiquan temple at Long Gang Li. (Courtesy of Raymond Chong). 

Altar of Zhang Shiquan and his wife within the temple. (Courtesy of Raymond Chong). 

In Cantonese culture, ancestral respect is an important tradition. The good fortune of a person is associated with the happiness of his ancestral spirits. Three bows show respect to one’s ancestors in heaven. A pair of red candles at the altar lights the way out of darkness. Flowers symbolize respect and remembrance of ancestors. The smoke of joss sticks represents the ancestral spirits. Hell bank notes (joss paper) represent good fortune to the ancestors. Food is offered to the ancestors, rice wine is poured on the ground for them to drink, and firecrackers are set off to scare away evil spirits. 

At my ancestral house, I joyfully met with relatives from Hong Kong. In the parlor above us, I sensed that the spirits of our ancestors were happy with our family reunion. With Huang Cuixiao, my cousin, we repeated the ancestral respect ritual in the parlor in front of the Zhang family altar. 

Inside my ancestral house. (Courtesy of Raymond Chong). 

Fei E Shan

Later that morning, about 50 people trekked to the Fei E Shan (Hill of the Flying Swan). Shaped like a swan, the hill symbolizes graceful love, and is where we respect the Zhang ancestors in the tombs. Two porters carried the offerings and supplies on the trail. We hiked through the eucalyptus forest over fern-covered ground. The song of cicadas echoed through the rainforest. Blue swallows flew and black butterflies fluttered above us. 

On this sacred ground, the tombs were laid out in accordance to fengshui fashion facing Ping Lake (Ping Hu) below the Mount of Eight Immortals Crossing the Sea. At the tombs on the slope, we offered many plates of cooked geese, pork, eggs, and buns to five generations (the 37th-41st generations) of Zhang ancestors in two rows of tombstones. My Zhang forefathers, the sojourners, are buried there: Zhang Chunzan, the California Gold Rush miner; Zhang Bingyao, the Transcontinental Railroad worker; and Zhang Peilan, the Boston Chinatown gambler and opium merchant. 

Burning red candles and joss sticks were placed in front of the tombs. Paper tomb flowers adorned the tomb mounds. Paper money lay on the ground for burning. Everyone repeated the ancestral respect ritual and bowed three times with joss sticks, paper money, and rice wine. I scattered bits of bread and eggs. Zhang Guangye quickly passed out the lucky money, with envelopes with “Healthy,” “Wealthy,” “Happy,” and “Come Back” written on them.  We reverently feasted on the food for our lunch. 

During a quieter moment, I touched the coarse tombstones of my eight ancestors. In poignant solitude, I sensed their gentle presence. I smelled the sweet fragrances of the wildflowers, soapwort, redbud, and eucalyptus of the monsoon rainforest. In the serenity of the moment, I gazed upon the towering peak of Shi Jin Shan and the crystalline Ping Lake as it shimmered during the late afternoon. 

Respectful bowing to Zhang ancestors at their tombs on Fei E Shan. (Courtesy of Raymond Chong). 

As I marveled at the panorama of the Fei E Shan, I was spiritually impressed and humbled. 

Muse 

My soulful odyssey to Long Gang Li has led me to my spiritual awakening in search of my Zhang clan ancestral roots. I have learned and absorbed knowledge of my Cantonese heritage. My very essence had truly transcended in this fantastic odyssey from who I used to be, an insolent and surly young American boy who resented the Cantonese traditions of the past, to who I am now, a humble and reverent Cantonese man who respects his Zhang clan ancestors. A precious part of my heart will always dwell in Kaiping. 

My Zhang clan ancestors from Canton have etched a subliminal mark on my mind.  They are always in my blood, in my bones, and in my thoughts. Because of their influence, I can proudly call myself a real American with true Cantonese roots.

Even now, living in America, I am indelibly rooted at Long Gang Li in Kaiping, with my Zhang clan ancestors of Canton. I have finally come full circle as a fallen leaf.