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Summer, 1963, a town in rural Guang Zhou, China.
My father could not feel his face. He wondered if his reservoir of tears would ever be used up. He cursed at the irony that he lived in a town called “Heaven.” Kneeling next to his father’s deathbed, he heard nothing but intolerable cries from his mother. His dad finally lost his breath. They said it was heart disease, triggered by a restless week of work. My father was five when he was struck by an epiphany –he was no longer the son of the only literate man in town; he was a kid who had to take care of his mother and baby sister.
Thanks to the townsmen who at some point in their lives have laughed at my grandfather's absurd jokes. They sent my father to Hong Kong. The six year old left his mother at the tobacco farms and hopped onto a ferry to a city that they call “The Pearl of Asia.” It was only eighty five miles apart, where my father went from his shabby hut to his uncle’s apartment in Hong Kong. To his disappointment, there were no frogs or chickens to chase after, just skyscrapers and austere relatives to encounter.
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Spring, 1972, Hong Kong
"Wake up! It's six o'clock, knucklehead. You're putting my business in jeopardy just because you're lazy bum who can't take care of yourself!" Uncle Six gripped his walking stick, ready to do a Arnold Palmer golf swing on his brother's kid. Meanwhile, my father crawled down from the sofa and went through his morning routines. He could never stay in the shower for over three minutes or his Uncle would further his agonies. "Now get the hell out of my house will you. There's a reason why I let you live here." My father slammed the front door and sprinted through the corridor. He heard his distant cousin's whiny voice: "But dad, I don't want to go to school!" He walked down the staircase and entered his real home – the streets.
My father carried postcards and cardboards to his...