BORN WITHOUT WINGS: A MEMOIR

Yifan Ronnie Li


i never had wings.

they were stripped from me
wrenched off my body (i was not fortunate
enough for a scar)

by a single gene
by simple chance
by the triple fates.

i saw everyone soaring

ostentatious feathers waltzing on cerulean
then i saw me
with eyes that only
reflected the flamboyance of others
and ears that merely
heard the slashing of their wings
through the sky i was never part of.

how many moons rise and set

i have watched with swollen eyes
out of admiration for them
and out of pity for me.

for every three steps i took

there was always a gust
to blow me two steps back.
but i'm still moving.

i trod along the path covered in dust.

i walk through the forest they sprint across.
i drown in the waters they circle around.
but i wont surrender.

Ive come far enough to declare

that this will be the day
I proclaim my freedom
and challenge the despots of
biology, probability, mythology.
that this will be when I
become the ardent Daedalus,
empowered just because I can.

that I will build my own wings

announce to those above me,
and show those alongside me
that I can fly.

Chapter 01

A few minutes after we hit traffic on Northern Boulevard, my father took off his
sunglasses, which signaled that he was about to say something important, since he rarely
adjusts them while driving. He kept his eyes mainly on the road but stole quick glances at
me to make sure I was still listening. I watched his eyes snap back and forth from me to
the road. They were the same eyes that cared for me since I first looked into them; I was
sure of it. The only difference was the abundance of wrinkles surrounding his eyelids.
Erzi, you are about to enter a very important chapter in your life. There are only a
few of these moments in life, and this will be your first. If your life was a book, youd
wanna write every chapter well, because every chapter relies on the chapter before it. I
know you can do it. I know you can write the best book. We are all so proud of you.
After Dad finished, I realized how much meaning was contained in those sentences,
and I started to wonder if he had prepared to say this to me. The whole metaphor was
spoken smoothly, without any filler words or awkward pauses. Dads eyebrows drooped,
and he squinted his eyes, waiting for affirmation. I nodded, sighed, and said, Yeah, I
know.
As our Range Rover sped down I-95 North under the guidance of the navigation
system, whom I secretly named Claudia, Dad and I talked very little about college and the
imminent transition to independent life. When we did, our conversations revolved around
logistics, such as orientation, laundry, hygiene, and nutrition. He didnt seem to have much
more to say.
I wanted to tell my father so much during those four hours in the car. I remembered
overhearing his conversation with Mom one night during our vacation in Rome. He said,
One day my son will love me, but by then it will be too late. I wanted to show him that I
loved him now, that Id miss him unbearably as soon as he started driving back to New
York alone. But I only ended up promising pathetically that I would try my hardest in
school. I hoped, though, that he was concealing the same urge to tell his 18-year-old son
that he would always be his fathers bao bei, his treasure. I thought about all the different
ways I could bid him goodbye with and decided a hug would be best, although I really
wanted to childishly throw myself against him and cry.
We entered Providence, Rhode Island, and after navigating a few frustrating,
unlabeled one-way streets, our car pulled in front of an inviting building on Benevolent
Street. Claudia, our reliable guide, announced, You have arrived. Your destination is on
your right. My father and I unloaded the trunk and slowly moved everything into my
room. After the last item was hauled in, my father instructed me to stand outside on the
college green for a picture. I smiled and looked past the camera, and I saw a large banner
hanging out of someones room on the third floor. On it were the boldly printed letters,
BROWN UNIVERSITY, and the significance of my location finally registered in my
brain.
***
A part of me wanted to go over to my Dads house on Woodlawn Avenue during
the weekends, even though Mom was reluctant to let me go. My parents were recently
divorced, and Dad moved in with his lover, Fulya, to a nearby house in Valley Stream,
New York. Dad was almost 40 but still as energetic as an ox, which actually happened to
be his sign in the Chinese zodiac. In fact, his entire side of the family had superb vitality;

both of my grandparents, already in their 70s, continuously astounded their physicians with
each check-up. My grandfather, aside from his semi-baldness, still has no white hair, a
result of a simple habit of walking outside each day, as he claimed. Naturally, as their
offspring, my father surpasses most aspiring businessmen just with his livelihood and
tenacity, the two traits that persuaded him to seek a better life beyond Chinas borders.
Fulya, who was only nearing 30 at the time, met Dad when he took a business trip
to Turkey, where she was born and raised. Her family lived in Alanya, a small city near the
beach whose closest airport was an unpleasant two-hour drive away. She resembled Dad
in her everyday enthusiasm and outspokenness, but in a sense, the power and resonance of
her voice defied the confines of her small stature. Regardless of whether she used her voice
for a hearty laugh or a solemn scolding, Fulya never failed to liven up the house.
Dad and Fulya stayed near Moms house on Melrose Street for the sole purpose of
being close to me. Their house on Woodlawn Avenue, viewed from the front, had a square
base and an equilateral triangle for a roof. The design seemed to imply that the
commissioned architect was a seven-year-old with an abundance of rulers and Crayola
markers. Nevertheless, despite the size and the fact that there was only one room upstairs,
the two of them appreciated every square foot.
Unfortunately, despite the unforgettable memories there, Moms house on Melrose
Street was no better in appearance. The house was a tall rectangle with a square base and
a long driveway. The first floors exterior was red brick, but some brilliant artist had
decided to paint the exterior of the second floor a urine yellow. No two homes were alike
on Melrose Street, and ours just happened to differ in the worst way.
Although there was a rift between Melrose and Woodlawn, Mom and Dad had
agreed that I would stay with Mom on the weekdays but go to Dads on the weekends.
Even as a 6-year-old, I felt guilty for leaving Mom because I knew how tightly she tried to
cling to me. I felt even more culpable for actually enjoying myself at Dads house because
Fulya always planned activities for me ahead of time.
One week, Mom allowed me to go with Dad and Fulya to the office in Manhattan.
As far as I knew, Dad and Fulya owned some sort of textile business. They received orders
from American companies, relayed them to factories in China for manufacturing, and
coordinated the shipment of the finished garments back into the States. I didnt understand
many technicalities, but I marveled at the fact that Dad was able to feel a garment and tell
me if it was cotton, nylon, polyester, or poly rayon.
Always concerned about my safety, Mom told me to come back early and safely to
tell her what happened. As Dad, Fulya, and I rode the Long Island Railroad from Valley
Stream to New York City. I smiled at the old man behind the newsstand who told my dad,
Good luck, Boss as Dad bought a copy of the only Chinese newspaper available. On the
train, I kept my eyes fixed on the passing landscapes and prepared myself for an uneventful
day.
My thoughts always returned to Mom. I pondered what she was doing at home with
me gone, and how she coped with single-mother life every weekend, when most families
indulged in restaurants with their children. I pictured her perfectly plump cheeks and
slightly chubby body sitting at the bedside. Her head was down so I only saw her straight,
black hair, which reflected the light like single strands of obsidian. She was probably
calling out to me, and I started to regret having left her for the city.

When we arrived at Penn Station, Dad said we had to walk five blocks to 39th Street,
where the office was. I complained, noting how far away the end of each block seemed
from my view, and instantly, I felt myself being lifted onto my dads shoulders as we
walked together. Dad dropped me off at 38th Street, not because he was tired, but because
he was buying me pizza and thought Id be more comfortable eating that way. I looked
over at Fulya, who kept smiling at me and occasionally squeezed my cheeks. I dont know
if I ever smiled back.
We entered through an inconspicuous door and were greeted by a tall, muscular
receptionist. Judging from his body, I figured he could probably serve double duty as a
security officer as well. We took the elevator to the 5th floor, and Fulya took out her keys
and opened the office door, which was made of heavy tempered glass. I peered inside, and
unsurprisingly, I saw nothing but long pieces of fabric draped everywhere more or less
randomly. After the divorce, Dad resumed the business with Fulya by his side, but oddly,
some parts of the office still smelled distinctively of Melrose Street. I followed them in and
was introduced to the employees, who were few in number and sprinkled across the
irregular corners of the office. Dad gave me a seat next to Fulyas desk. I contorted my
body to fit the chair and ended up squirming around in it like a lost worm. Having found
nothing else to do, I withdrew into a state of instant boredom and closed my eyes.
I woke up to the light tapping of Fulyas hand on my shoulder. She was saying
something, but it mustve been the fifth time she was repeating herself before I
comprehended her words. She wanted to play a game.
I gladly agreed to it and Fulya told me the rules. She and I would both draw the
same object and show it to different employees, who would be the judges. We drew
everything, from tigers to hotels to cartoon characters. And I won every time. But after
many rounds, we showed our pictures to an employee who attempted to humble me.
Wow, Ronnie, thats a really awesome drawing! I really like it, but I think Fulyas
is more accurate. I really do like yours, though, sweetie!
I immediately turned red and pouted at the injustice. I histrionically stomped
outside, lifting my legs as high as I could. A few seconds after I slammed the glass door
behind me, Fulya came outside and mollified my anger.
She thinks mine is better, but I think yours is still the best!
I was easily soothed by these words, so I wasnt disappointed when Fulya said she
had to get back to work. As she worked, I gazed dumbly around the office with its exposed
piping and oversized tinted windows, thinking of a new means of entertainment. I was
thoroughly enjoying myself now, despite my preconceived notion. However, traces of guilt
still lingered for liking them so much; I thought I was betraying my mother.
Disappointingly, I couldnt find anything suitable for my definition of
entertainment, so I passed the time by writing letters and doodling on pieces of paper. I
addressed all my letters to Fulya without consciously debating over the rightful recipient.
I then frolicked around the room, hiding the letters like the Easter Bunny of the Postal
Service. Having exhausted myself, I was about to return to my seat when I noticed the mail
slot on the front door. I took the last letter, snuck outside, and closed the door behind me.
I turned around and knocked.
Who is it? Fulya asked seriously.
I tried my deepest voice and said, Im the mailman. You got mail!
Ronnie, oh my God! What are you doing outside?

I realized I couldnt fool her that easily, so I just stuck the letter through the slot
and shouted again: You got mail!
I heard Fulya chuckle and come to pick up the letter. She opened the door with a
big smile and hugged me. By the time she let go, we were both smiling.
We took turns playing Mailman in the office until 5:30 p.m., when Dad suggested
going home early. I couldve stayed the night at the office, but I couldnt stop thinking
about Mom. I didnt know what I would tell her, because what I wanted to say contradicted
what she wanted to hear. No matter how much she wanted me to be happy, her grudge
against Dad and Fulya and her lack of close friends caused her to release all her sorrow to
me. At the same time, I missed Mom because I knew how lonely she was without me. I
didnt know what alcohol was, but I found out much later that shed drink more frequently
to relieve her solitude and depression when I wasnt around. However, I was undeniably
comfortable now, sandwiched between Dad and Fulya on the train back to Valley Stream.
I fidgeted a bit, but I was so exhausted that I found myself removing my head from Fulyas
shoulder once we arrived back home.
***
A year after the divorce, when I was supposed to start first grade in Valley Stream,
Mom declared that she would take me to live in China for a year. Of course, I had no say
in the matter, and I soon found myself on an Air China 747 to Beijing. We had an apartment
near Grandmas, where my aunt and uncle lived. All of us belonged to a private residential
area called New Atlantic City in Beijings Wangjing district. It was a quaint neighborhood,
one in which youd see older women practicing Tai Chi by the lake if you woke up early
enough. There were 5 official enclosures, labeled A-E, but a new Area F was being
constructed. Each area had its own small apartment buildings, and there was a narrow road
that connected all the areas. New Atlantic City had its own gym, tennis courts, swimming
pool, convenience stores, and even a day care program. Walls surrounded the entire
neighborhood, leaving only two heavily guarded entrances. The aim was essentially to
construct an isolated, self-sufficient neighborhood for the upper-middle class.
Grandma, my aunt, and my uncle-in-law lived together in a two-story apartment in
Area B, but Mom and I lived in Area C. Because Mom said she needed a place to stay
when she visited China, she actually bought the apartment a few years before the divorce.
As a result, my room was painted in fluorescent colors, I had a glow-in-the-dark water
pillow, and my chair only fit one butt cheek. While I delighted in the novelty of the new
home, I also missed the comfort of Melrose. Thus, I was able to maintain a fairly neutral
attitude during my year in Beijing; my mixed emotions always canceled themselves out.
The existence of this apartment, though, bothers me in hindsight. When she bought
the apartment, Mom rarely had reason to return to Beijing. She only stopped by during
business trips, but not long enough for her to need her own apartment. There might have
been another motive behind her decision, and one possibility haunts me: Was Mom
anticipating divorce?
When I asked her where I would attend 1st grade, Mom kissed me on the cheek and
assured me I would like it there. She explained that she had many things on her mind to
sort out, implying that I couldnt be around her often. Mom chose to send me to a boarding
school on the outskirts of Beijing. It was called Li Mai Elementary, which meant strong
step. When I arrived, I learned the true meaning of the name: Only the fearless are able to
step foot on this campus. The place was essentially a neglected prison: 10 students shared

a large room, and menacing old ladies helped you take a shower in front of your floormates,
regardless of whether you needed their help. The dining hall was a semicircular building
that looked like a giant stone version of a childrens building block. Li Mai was a torturous
confinement that I miraculously survived.
Curfew for 1st graders was at 10:30 p.m., a time that was strictly and mindlessly
enforced. Because 10 of us were kept in a room, everyone could tell who was asleep and
who wasnt. Although we students paid no mind to the restless ones, the residential ladies
did. These women constituted a grumpy police force for the school at night, creeping into
our rooms after bedtime to ensure that we were asleep. They carried wooden metersticks
and operated under a fire at will command system instituted by the administrators. These
women were even permitted to lean close to you and listen to your breathing to check for
regular rhythms. Thus, by the end of the year, an insomniac wouldve at least learned how
to effectively feign sleep.
Well into the school year, none of us had any problems sleeping (or faking it) at
bedtime when the women came in. However, one boy named Zhang Chun risked getting
caught every night because of his lack of skill. His ultimate failure one night cost him.
Zhang Chun was sleeping when the woman creeped up to his bed, scanning his body for
any sorts of inconsistencies. He apparently felt a tap on his shoulder, for he responded
cohesively, Stop it, idiot, I dont want to be caught! To this the residential officer
shrieked, grabbed him by the shoulder, and dragged poor Zhang outside into the light. I
quietly rolled over to get a glimpse of the action.
The lady spanked Zhang a couple of times with the meterstick and yelled, You
think Im stupid? You think I want to be here right now? No! But Im going to teach you
a lesson for misbehaving. Now stand up! Straighter! Stop slouching!
I heard Zhang sobbing, his silhouette contrasting sharply with the artificial orange
light in the hallway as he stood with his back against the wall. It was traditional
punishment; the Chinese called it fa zhan, or standing punishment. The difference was
that Zhang would stand there the entire night under the unrelenting scrutiny of an
authoritative witch. As I fell asleep, I understood how desperately Zhang must want to be
in bed. I reminisced about Melrose and Woodlawn. It no longer mattered that my family
was split between the two or that both houses were architectural disasters. The divide
between the two homes didnt even concern me now; I simply wanted the basic comfort of
a home, the coziness and warmth, which no adult in Li Mai Elementary knew how to
provide.
The next morning, I saw Zhang Chun in our Chinese class. With my peripheral
vision (we werent allowed to look anywhere except at our teachers), I noticed that his eyes
were bloodshot and he was constantly sniffing. Zhang Chun talked to no one for an entire
week, and we knew better than to bother him.
On the last day of 1st grade, even though all the students seemed completely focused
in their seats, I was certain that their minds had already decided to start vacation early.
When Teacher Liu taught what would be my last class ever in Li Mai, the overwhelming
joy and nostalgia of home whatever that term meant caused my legs to tremble. I began
to feel a rising urge to use the bathroom, but I knew that students werent allowed to go to
the bathroom until the end of the period. Wed just started, and there were 45 minutes left.
In the last 10 minutes, the urge was so unbearable that I called out and voiced a
request in class. In doing so, I automatically disrespected the teacher and all of my

classmates, so Teacher Lius response to my pleading was an adamant No, hold it.
Unfortunately, it was easier said than done, so I released it all inside my royal blue uniform.
I maintained my disciplined schoolboy posture for another 10 minutes and made sure I was
the last student to leave class by packing slowly. On my way out, Teacher Liu bid me
goodbye, glanced at my soaked overalls, and scoffed. I dried my uniform as well as I could
before Mom came to pick me up. As soon as I saw her, I leapt into her arms and burst into
tears.
***
The period immediately after Li Mai was the first time I noticed a peculiar urge to
roll my eyes. The feeling came so infrequently and subtly that on most occasions, even I
didnt realize it. Although Dad and Fulya told me that they observed this phenomenon as
early as age 6, I probably wasnt consciously aware enough. During these few months, I
made no effort to concern myself with the situation. If Id actually mentioned this urge to
anyone, I wouldve been referred to a doctor for delusions, not anything else. However,
one fact intrigued me: the more I rolled my eyes, the better the eye-rolling felt.

Chapter 02

Spending a year in China at the malleable age of 7 developed within me a

contemptible personality that took nearly a decade to change. When I was old and educated
enough for metaphor and imagery, I contrasted this process with the construction and
burning of Troy; for me, what took so short to build would take so long to destroy.
No one in my maternal family referred to Fulya by name during my stay in China.
To us, her name was filthy woman, or when we felt more generous, that woman.
Everyone took turns bashing her, while she obeyed and carried through my fathers
only prerequisite for marriage: that she would love me like her own son. And since I was
afraid of the majority, I participated in the derision. Soon it became easier and more natural
for me to criticize Fulya on my own, and I regretted doing so less and less. My relatives in
Beijing (with some help from Mom) conditioned me to scorn divorce, to exaggerate
Fulyas imperfections, and to never forgive my father. The more I visualized Dad and Fulya
together, the angrier they made me. Although most of the time I condemned them both
silently, there were a few instances of direct, outward expression, which caused much
greater commotion.
***
A few months after I came back to Valley Stream, New York for second grade, I
stayed with Mom during the weekdays as usual. Because of my unchanging view of Moms
perfection, I increasingly distanced myself from Dad and Fulya at the Woodlawn Avenue
home. Dad struggled to maintain his spot in my heart, and he showed his affection in every
way he knew how.
On a sunny Friday afternoon, as it was nearing the time to leave Melrose for
Woodlawn, I felt a resilient urge to reject Dads offer and stay with Mom for the weekend.
I heard a knock on the door and opened it, knowing Mom was upstairs because she didnt
want to see Dads face. Dad was well aware of our unwillingness to meet him, but his
persistence always caused him to keep trying.
Hello, my son, my good son, my treasured son! He shouted and lifted me into his
embrace, probably because he knew I would never voluntarily give one.
Hi Dad.
Guess what, my good son? I have a big surprise for you. You wanted this for a
long time; you told us many times. Youll like it a lot!
What is it? I asked with forced enthusiasm. My eyebrows were still flat.
Dad gave me a small cardboard box that was haphazardly sealed with packing tape.
Stop staring and open it already!
I nonchalantly peeled the tape off and opened the box. Inside was the most
beautiful, fascinating, and entertaining piece of technology known to children at the time:
The Gameboy Color. Dad had always known how badly I wanted one since the first time
Id stared at it through the window of a dilapidated Sam Goody. Now hed finally saved
enough cash to buy me one, hoping a Gameboy could elicit some emotion from me. It did,
and I was happy. For two minutes.
So, my treasure, my beautiful treasured son, how about I take you to Woodlawn
and we can play your Gameboy all day? I even got you Pokemon Crystal; look! Dad
pulled out a smaller, more colorful box that contained the cartridge for Pokemon Crystal.

I looked at it, and I wanted to go. Then, Dad said, Actually, here! Ill give it to you right
now. Just come over, okay? Wrong move.
I took the Gameboy Color and cartridge, put it on the table behind me, and kept my
hands to my sides while Dad hugged me. But I thought of Mom, of how weak shed been
recently, and how much she wanted me to herself.
No, Dad, I declared, I dont wanna come.
What do you mean? You always come over on the weekends! Why are you
refusing now? Is something wrong? Tell me!
I just dont wanna!
My father was now bitterly frustrated. Hed just saved money to buy his son the
newest and coolest gaming console, only to be stoically rejected. And he couldnt even
take back the Gameboy. At that point he told me, I am so disappointed, Goddamn it,
causing Mom to come downstairs and ask about the commotion.
Nothing. I was just leaving, Dad said. I backed away from him by retreating a
few steps into the house. Dad turned his back to me, without looking at either of us, and
slammed the door as he left.
***
When Fulya gave me a journal to record my thoughts, she briefly explained the
concept of a diary: Basically, you just write down what happened and how you feel about
things! But remember, you have to write every day, okay?
Enthused by this newly imposed routine, I set half an hour aside every night to
bequeath upon my journal the depths of my sentiments. I trusted my notebook immediately
and completely, spilling seven-year-old secrets that were sometimes as powerful as those
of an adolescent. I took it back and forth, between Melrose and Woodlawn, hiding this
treasure of mine under my mattress in each house.
The first few entries contained strict regurgitations of daily remembrances. I
incorporated the announcements at school, the bus ride home, what Mom cooked for
dinner, and when I planned to sleep. A week after Id ensured that no one had read my
journal, I was comfortable enough to incorporate emotion. However, regardless of my
mood at any given time, my emotion revolved around the single desire to demean Fulya,
the one whod given me the journal. The force-feeding back in Beijing had succeeded
flawlessly, and it made my hatred of Fulya natural and unfaltering. I became a machine,
fueled by the sadistic hope of someday avenging Mother.
Meanwhile, Fulya wasnt completely ignorant of the contempt she faced. She had
an uncanny ability to not only determine if people were talking about her behind her back,
but also to guess what they were saying. Because of this, Fulyas cheerfulness was always
guarded. One Friday afternoon, she picked me up from school, and we went straight to
Woodlawn. Mom knew beforehand, so Id only agreed because shed consented. I had my
hardcover journal in my backpack, and as the car glided into the driveway, I took it out and
held it in front of me. Fulya looked at me and smiled.
You really like that journal, huh? Well, Im so glad.
I did like my journal, but only because it allowed me to release my anger toward
my cautiously optimistic stepmom. Id already written a malicious page about Fulyas
flaws the night before at Melrose, and although I felt a tinge of guilt, it quickly dissipated
into indifference. I held onto my journal tight.

After we ate lunch, I complained to Fulya about my sleepiness, and she promptly
urged me to rest and do my schoolwork when I woke up. Carelessly, I strolled to my room
and closed the door.
Approximately an hour later, I woke up as if Id experienced but quickly forgotten
a horrid nightmare. It was nearing 6 p.m., and the once luminous sky was now halfway
across the earth. I rose, stumbling to find the doorknob while rubbing my eyes, then realized
that Id accidentally left my journal at the kitchen table after lunchtime. I bolted through
the hallway, only to find Fulya on the living room sofa, holding my journal, piercing my
flesh with her gaze.
Whatdid you write in this diary she started softly, because there was only
one way her volume could go from there. What did you write?
I was still trying to formulate a response somewhere between unaffectionate
apology and genuine concern, but Fulya continued, and I knew which parts she was
referring to.
How dare you write all this after everything your father and I have done for you?
I cant believe you still dont learn. I dont know how long it will take you to understand.
Maybe never.
Id written: Dad and that evil woman will never make me happy. Never. Not in a
hundred thousand million years.
You are so ungrateful for what you have, even though your father and I work our
asses off so you can have a good future. You. Nobody else. You. This was in response to
my complaint that Fulya and Dad kept trying to buy my love.
I wasnt the one who destroyed this family. And also, your family is not
destroyed. I know all the things your relatives said to you in Beijing; trust me, I know. But
I did not break this family. Id accused Fulya of having the courage and heartlessness to
break my happy family.
Fulya sighed, teardrops forming on the corners of her eyes. She lowered her head
and looked at the inauspicious book. Ronnie, I cant believe youre so young, but you
already hate us this much. I cant believe someone like you can hurt me so deep. Im gonna
show this to your father, see what he says. I cant believe this
Her words moved me slightly, but I was mostly angry at myself for having forgotten
about my journal. However, her intention to involve Dad in this argument forcefully
uprooted my fearlessness. I realized Id been blindly convinced that none of Fulyas words
could sway me, and I started sweating. Regretting what Id written, I knew I couldnt let
Dad find out for fear of punishment. Just before Fulya left to pick up my father from the
train station, I screamed, No! Ill rip it out okay? Ill rip it out! Dont show him!
Fulya stared at me with an expression that mimicked my own coldness. She took
the car keys, turned her back, and resignedly closed the door. I didnt want to see either of
them when they came home, so I withdrew into my room and slept. I heard my parents
open the door, but they didnt call me for dinner.
After I heard the rinsing of dishes and sets of footsteps ascending the stairs, I
determined that it was safe to come out of hiding. I knew that Dad and Fulya always retired
to the upstairs bedroom to watch television after dinner. They could only afford two TVs
in the Woodlawn house at the time, and the one downstairs was so antiquated and bulky
that it took all three of us just to rotate its 32-inch mass. Having confirmed that both would

10


surely prefer the upstairs TV, I walked to my door. Id just put my hand on the knob when
someone knocked.
My fathers voice penetrated the door and froze me. Ronnie, I want to talk to you.
Ill be working in the basement. Come when ready.
I waited until he finished and walked away, then slowly removed my trembling
hand from the knob. I knew I had to go; there was no use fighting that part. I simply didnt
want to bump into Fulya as I exited my room. Listening for the faintest signs of descending
steps, I made sure Fulya was upstairs when I gently opened the door and tiptoed downstairs.
The basement was finished in terms of plumbing, heating/cooling, and electrical,
but it consisted of a large, open space with a lonely sofa flushed against the far wall. It had
one smaller room as you made an immediate left after reaching the bottom stair. This room
was intended to be a storage room you could tell by the halfhearted paint job and the fact
that the light was turned on with a cord but my father used it for a makeshift office at
home. I found him there, in his chair, reading a news website in Chinese. He spiked his
short, thick hair with gel every morning before work, his hairstyle making every black
spike look like a needle. He immediately changed into a Disney T-shirt and cotton
sweatpants after coming home; Dad hated the discomfort of work attire.
I dont wanna say lots, he explained to me calmly. I know what happened, and
I want you to know what you wrote really hurt her; no, it hurt both of us. I didnt know you
were so angry at us
I knew it. The typical lecture to condemn the child for his ingratitude and
selfishness. Nothing new here, so I just offered perfunctory nods.
But Dad continued. You shouldnt have written that in your diary. But also, Fulya
had no right to read your private stuff. I told her that on the way home, and I made sure she
understood. Im not saying youre all right or all wrong. Im saying youre both.
Wait, I thought. He was defending me? Id never seen this side of Dad before; I
thought he was against everything I did that could shame the family. I thought he wanted
to force me to respect him and Fulya and treat her as a genuine mother. Instead, he
reprimanded Fulya for going through my privacy, even though I was a spiteful child? Later
I came to understand the true meaning behind those short sentences. Although Dad was
certainly fair to both of us, he displayed a certain kind of resignation or pessimism in his
words because of the harshness of my journal entry. A small piece of him had given up
hoping that I would ever come to love Fulya, but ironically, his talk actually helped me
discover the remnants of that hope that Beijing had almost obliterated.
***
Summing up my experiences with Dad and Fulya in the Woodlawn Avenue home,
itd be wrong to assume that most of them resulted in confrontation. Fulya and I spent our
weekends well when I came, and shed always have an activity arranged for me.
The arrival of the Nintendo 64 game console at the front door brought tremendous
joy into my heart, although I didnt know how to express it. Dad bought it for me for no
particular reason other than to soften my frigid soul. He came home one Saturday afternoon
with the box and set it up to the television in the living room. At that point, I didnt even
mind the quality of the television as I opened the two cartridges that came with the console.
Dad, Fulya, which one, which one? Mario Kart or Super Smash Bros.? Pick pick
pick pleeease!

11


Appreciating my evanescent happiness, Fulya said, How about Super Smash

Bros.? Lets all play together!
My father consented, despite the stressed look on his face from unfinished work,
and the three of us sat around the flickering, twitching television and forgot the world for
two whole hours.
After many gaming marathons, I developed a penchant for virtual hand-to-hand
combat, so Super Smash Bros. quickly became my preferred game. I especially loved all
the characters abilities to double jump when the control stick was tilted up once on the
ground, and again when the character was in midair. I tried double jumping in the empty
space of the basement only in vain. My father, when he wasnt overwhelmed with nightly
phone calls to his factory managers in China, rubbed my head and assured me we would
play again really soon. He playfully noted that the title was lame, and he always referred
to it as Super Smashed Potatoes, which made me laugh the first two times. Fulyas
willingness to play Smashed Potatoes never subdued; she took advantage of every
opportunity to assimilate me into the Woodlawn family. The process obviously began by
treating me as her own, an obligation that she met and surpassed.
Fulya didnt want my vision to deteriorate from playing too many games, and
despite the joy she received from my occasional, radiating smiles, she had to limit me.
Expectedly, I refused to put down the controller and quickly inverted my smile when she
tried to restrict me. My stubbornness always forced her to improvise, and she soon
discovered that the only way to steal me from the clutches of the Nintendo 64 was to place
me in the grasp of another fun activity.
Hey Ronnie, wanna have a Pokemon battle in real life?
Of course I did. As much as I didnt want the Gameboy Color from Dad when I
was in Melrose, I ended up taking it with me everywhere, even showing it off in school.
Pokemon Crystal, the game cartridge that Dad had included in the package, was the close
second to Super Smash Bros., although it was my first choice when I played alone. I
unabashedly obsessed over these creatures and their unique attacks, envying their abilities
to evolve. Pokemon had become such an integral part of my childhood that even now, I
still remember that Charmeleon evolves into Charizard at Level 36 and learns Wing Attack
in the process.
With my consent, we began to simulate Pokemon battles on the living room carpet.
Fulya and I used rolled up socks for Pokeballs, and we were both the Pokemon trainer and
the Pokemon itself. I threw a pair on the floor while yelling Go, Moltres! and hopped to
the spot where my sock landed. I proceeded to flap my featherless arms and roar, convinced
that I was indeed a giant, flaming bird. What made me truly happy, though, was that Fulya
matched my enthusiasm.
Before we retired to bed for the night, Fulya always made an effort to read to me.
The purpose of the reading was threefold: Fulya loved books herself, and she never
hesitated to read a great novel; she wanted to enrich my imagination and make me enjoy
reading; and of course, she wanted to make me laugh. For mostly the last reason, shekneel
by my bedside as if I were a little prince or shed even cuddle with me and read one of
the many books we had bought earlier. I was too old and too smart for stuff like Winnie
the Pooh, I was told, so I moved onto series like The Magic School Bus, Magic Treehouse,
and Scooby Doo. Because the monsters in the Scooby Doo television show terrified me

12


(even when they were unmasked, for some odd reason), hearing Fulya read the mysteries
provided much more reassurance.
The aspect of Fulyas reading that amused me most was her impersonation of
different characters throughout the books. She imitated Scoobys idiosyncracies by
beginning his words with Rs and using a deep voice. She made Shaggy sound moronic,
Velma sound clueless, and Freddy and Daphne sound like they were dating, but I found it
hilarious and believable. Fulya turned off the lights and held a flashlight up to her face
when the monster approached the gang, making me laugh while desperately clutching the
bedrail. On top of that, she performed the most infamous line in Scooby Doo with the
utmost fluency. And I wouldve gotten away wit it too, if it werent for ya meddlin kids!
and shed close the book and kiss me good-night.
***
I was genuinely happy most of the time at Woodlawn. I couldnt find a reason to
grieve until my mothers image appeared in my mind. She kept ushering me back, back to
Beijing, back to the lonely queen bed in Melrose now occupied by one. I learned guilt,
regret, and hate prematurely, and I substituted my happiness with them. Of course, I knew
Fulya wasnt my real mother and that I should be supporting Mom through this crisis, but
for the same reasons that a child takes candy from strangers, I felt invited to a more joyful
childhood when I went to Woodlawn.
My weekdays at Melrose soon became bleaker as Mom became more pessimistic.
She was jobless and hopeless, and I feared what Id do if one morning I found her lifeless.
I maintained an unwavering attachment to her, and although I discarded much of it when I
visited Dad and Fulya, the guilt tormented me when it surfaced. Because of this, bipolarity
in my behavior was the norm. Pokemon battles instantly turned into cold shoulders, while
journal conflicts could suddenly become warm embraces. As I thought about what Mom
had told me, I hated Dad and Fulya for abandoning her, but as I stayed at Woodlawn, I was
disappointed in Mom for her constant moodiness. Either way, I had to acknowledge that
my happiness was only available in one home at a time.

13


Chapter 03

After the divorce, I always tried to imagine what a Fulya-free life would feel like,
whether it would be festooned with pretty garlands or laced with even more misfortune. I
fooled myself, out of hatred, into completely believing the former. One night in Woodlawn,
when my parents were upstairs watching television, I snuck down to the basement and
shuffled through some photo albums. It was actually a second-grade homework assignment
that Id already done: bring in a photograph of your parents. I just needed more clarity
and certainty about the past, which I hoped to gain that night.
Fulya was a huge fan of photography. She would literally stare at a magnificent
photo with a slightly open mouth and unconsciously hold her breath. An older me, more
in-tune with wordplay, would casually ask her, Um, is it really that breathtaking? Fulya
maintained that pictures were the only reliable way to look back on an event long past. And
that was both true and untrue, because even though cameras can capture a scene more
accurately than the human mind, the major downside of most family photos is that
everyones smiling. Nobody looking at the photo realizes that the second woman from the
right had gastrointestinal cancer or that the young Chinese boy was laughing only because
the photographers fly was open. Nevertheless, my stepmom treasured her photos and kept
them organized in albums sorted meticulously by year and month. I picked up the album
with the oldest year and flipped through its contents.
First I found a photograph of Mom, Dad, and me standing beside a rusty, red
machine thatd barely pass for a vehicle by todays standards. I was on the hood, my arms
outstretched, embracing both parents from behind. Mom was on the right, her face radiant
as always, smiling. Dad smiled too, although his grin was more handsome and confident
than Moms. I put on the widest cheek-to-cheek grin of all, flaunting my separated front
teeth and unnaturally elastic mouth. I wore a navy-colored sweatshirt from the Gap (Dad
said my favorite color was navy before it changed to neon yellow) and sandals from
Sketchers. Probably too young for conscious memory when the photo was taken, I paid no
mind to the Buzz Lightyear designs fading arm or the unattended strap on my left shoe. I
emanated naivet.
The car was a red 1993 Toyota Camry that my dad bought secondhand immediately
after getting his drivers license. Everyone in America needs a car, even the poor people,
hed told me. Despite our financial burdens, Dad temporarily prided himself on the fact
that hed become an everyman in American society. The Camry got the job done, and
thats what mattered to him; he couldnt care less about the more luxurious models.
I have no vivid memories of riding in the Camry besides my first impression of the
car. As a four-year-old, I was so captivated by this inverted tub on wheels that I pleaded
with Dad to snuggle up against the velvety backseat. I knew next to nothing of Fords,
Audis, or BMWs, and with the little knowledge I possessed, I deemed all cars created equal.
When my father brought home the car with my mother in the front seat, I showed little
enthusiasm toward it. But Dad put me in the makeshift carseat in the back and showed me
that it could move on command, and I delighted in that phenomenon. I began to express
much more affection toward the Camry; I even showed my disappointment when my father
had to sell it.
Though Dad rarely displayed his envious side, he made it increasingly clear that he
wanted even more. Hed been here for less than a decade, and he expected to achieve

14


something that many couldnt accomplish in multiple lifetimes. On a rainy afternoon, the
three of us drove on Merrick Road on our way to Flushing, and wed just passed under the
bridge of some railroad tracks, where we stopped at a red light. On our right was an
abandoned mini-plaza that couldve provided a quaint location for three small shops, but
now the entire structure was painted a gaunt white.
The traffic light turned green, and Dad was about to resume driving when a silver
BMW 740 IL swerved in front of us as the driver desperately tried to catch his light to
make a left. Dad slammed the brakes, causing all of us to lurch forward from our seats.
Dad shouted asshole in English, disregarding the fact that the windows of both our cars
were closed. He lifted up his skinny, tanned arms to signal his frustration, while Mom
muttered bastard in Chinese under her breath. Mom kept her temper, probably because I
was in the car and she was still recovering from the close call.
From his rearview mirror, Dad watched the offending car nonchalantly disappear
behind us, and we continued the trip to Flushing. Abruptly, he broke the typical silence
with: You know, that was a nice carBMW and all? Thats high-class.
Yeah, its a good car. Expensive though, I bet, my mom replied. Save that dream
for later; its not realistic to be making it now.
Maybe not, but just watch. One day Ill have a car like that, and one day Ill have
a car even better than that.
Of course, Dad ended up selling our Camry for a silver BMW 740 IL much more
quickly than anyone even Mom thought he would. It was all part of his American
Dream, his lifelong struggle to improve the lives of his loved ones. So when Dad said, Ill
have a better car, he really meant, Well have a better car.
Dads textile business expanded rapidly, forging new relationships and hiring new
employees. Although the office itself didnt increase much in size, my father received more
phone calls each day from potential customers, all of whom hed have to treat to
dinner sometime. He began not coming home for dinner, noting that he had a date with a
representative from Dress Barn or Ann Taylor in the city. Dad also started to hire more
workers to communicate with the textile factories in China so that he wouldnt bear the
pressure of being the only Mandarin-speaking individual in the company. On top of that,
he hired a receptionist, a feat that he was oddly the most proud of.
Yet, given the tremendous development of their company in New York City, my
parents work remained esoteric and insubstantial to me. Because I couldnt grasp the
dedication required to go from Toyota to BMW, the source of all that income was largely
taken for granted.
I put down the photograph of Mom, Dad, and me beside the old Toyota and briefly
cherished their diligence before moving on. I was somewhat more grateful for the BMW
now, but I started to believe more fervently that the familys happiness could only arise
from a life without Fulya. Dad had accomplished so much with Mom by his side; could
Fulya, who couldnt speak Chinese, be of any help to Dads company? Fab Mill Inc., a
name whose origin has eluded me to this day, depended on interaction with American retail
stores just as much as it required communication with factories in China. After all, the
purpose of Fab Mill was to receive designs and blueprints from American companies, make
the garments in Chinese factories, and ship them back to the States in enormous containers.
Since Fulya was also an owner, she also had to shoulder the frustration of dealing with

15


China, which usually meant yelling at them. She wasnt bilingual like Mom was, I
thought, so she couldnt possibly be an asset.

The second memorable photo I found depicted the three of us standing in front of the
Melrose Street house. Judging from the date, wed just moved to Valley Stream from our
first rental home in a nearby town called Elmont. We bought the Camry shortly after
settling in Elmont, and we sold it for a BMW almost a year after we relocated to Valley
Stream. The major difference in this photo besides setting was that I was pouting and ready
to throw a classic temper tantrum. In addition, Mom and Dad were squeezing my hands
from each side, preventing me from flailing on the grass as they smiled for the camera.
This photograph reminded me of my first bed-wetting episode at Melrose, a few
years before the divorce. I was probably around five years old at the time and exhibited no
symptoms of neurological disorder. Mom and Dad slept on a king-sized bed in the master
bedroom, and I was squeezed between them because my furniture was being ordered.
Besides, Mom had spoiled me and instilled within me a fear of sleeping alone.
I woke up in the middle of the night and felt that the sheets were drenched with
urine underneath me. The guilt hit me instantly: this was the first bed-wetting in the new
house, and these were fairly new sheets. But I had to wake and inform my parents before
the stench did it for me.
Instead of casually tapping Dad on the shoulder and calmly explaining myself, I
decided to get it over with by announcing the deed straightforwardly. Baba, wake up! I
peed on the bed, sorry! Ba, wake up! I peed! Sorry!
My dad, still sleeping, rolled over to face me and lifted his left arm as if to either
turn off an imaginary alarm clock or seal my lips with a slap. He missed either way, and
his hand landed directly on the wettest part of the blanket. Dads eyes opened immediately
and fixated on me, expecting an explanation. Well, at least he was awake.
He groaned loudly, and after an extended Ugghhhhh, he pulled himself out of
bed. Mom woke up when Dads body was no longer on the bed, and I explained to her that
I had let it out too early. She sighed and told me to change and clean myself in the
bathroom. As I walked away, she suggested I should start learning to sleep alone in the
near future.
Having gotten massive amounts of paper towels and new sheets, Dad returned
upstairs to clean up the mess. Still changing clothes in the bathroom, I heard, among the
folding of the sheets, Mom and Dad talking about how I should be sleeping alone at this
age and how they were spoiling me too much by giving me this luxury.
American kids, they all sleep by themselves when theyre only a few years old,
Dad said. We should follow their example. Ronnies not a baby anymore.
I blithely walked back into the bedroom, pretending to have heard nothing of my
inability to sleep alone. Mom had already tried asking me nicely, bribing me with games
or candy, even forcing me to sleep alone as punishment. No matter the cause, I adamantly
refused and pleaded and begged and pouted for Mom to revoke her decision. And she
always did, because if I hated anything that much, she told me, I shouldnt be made to do
it. Mom actually couldnt bring herself to force me to do anything.
That first incident in the Melrose Street home exemplified the degree to which Mom
and Dad spoiled me. I always managed to cuddle in between Mom and Dad at bedtime.
Sometimes I felt guilty and contemplated moving into my own room just for the night; my

16


parents had actually bought furniture for the room, only to find out that their son was afraid
of the monsters of the dark. Nevertheless, I unconsciously extracted a ridiculous comfort
from drenching the sheets in urine that night. Bed-wetting, although Id grow out of it in a
few months, became an initiation ritual to get me used to each new home. Soiling the sheets
meant declaring that Id acclimated to the house. However much my parents disliked the
idea of cleaning up after their overly dependent child, they eventually came to recognize
this pattern too. In fact, Mom even claimed that my mood was drastically happier the
morning after I wet the bed for the first time in Melrose. She and Dad had to lug themselves
out of bed for work, but I was already downstairs waiting for breakfast. Having completed
the ritual, I knew that I could start treating Melrose as my home now.

The last photo that caught my attention was my favorite one from childhood, although I
was too young to form conscious memories at the age of three. All my knowledge of the
scene stems from my parents words and anecdotes. In this photograph, I was radiating joy,
pumping my arms up to the sky. I was a baby Superman, though I probably wouldve
shamed him by wearing a bootlegged shirt from China that inverted the S on his chest.
At the time of this photograph, my family had just moved to Elmont, New York
from China. We rented a part of a shabby house in the area and started from there. The
screen on the backdoor the only one through which we were allowed to enter and exit
was visible in the picture. The characteristic features of the Elmont house were the
driveway with the Camry always parked on the inside, the absence of a porch covering the
back door, and the chipped and moist wood that defined the houses exterior.
I like to believe that my relationship with the sky began with this photo, where I
showed my admiration of flight by wearing a propeller cap on my head. The actual cap
consisted of alternating chunks of dirty blue, yellow, and red fabric, while the plastic
propeller blades had the same colors. Mom commented that it was my favorite one when
she found the hat during her routine storage room purging. She tried to fit it on me again,
three years later, and acted surprised when she couldnt adjust it to contain my head. I felt
an intrinsic connection to this hat, and while the feeling is ineffable at best, I know it exists
because I still have that childlike urge to activate my propellers and watch the world shrink
beneath my feet.
I loved this low-quality picture for the imaginative nostalgia that it evoked with
each viewing. What was I doing before and after the photograph was taken? How was I
able to be so happy when my family and I lived marginally above poverty? And most
importantly, where was Fulya back then?
***
Highly oblivious to the strains between Mom and Dad, I barely understood the
nuances of marriage, let alone divorce. I thought they were eternally inseparable, so I
blatantly pointed out every flaw I witnessed, unrelentingly asked why they were keeping
quiet and avoiding eye contact at the dinner table. I became more adept at noticing subtle
cues as I matured; signs like a hollow silence at dinnertime didnt mean Mom and Dad
were too hungry to speak. But at the time, Dad gave me sufficiently obvious clues to his
mood when he raised his voice and slammed every door he walked through. Mom did the
same, although she was more vocal than physical in her expression of anger. At times, I
sympathized with the damaged objects more so than with either parent, grieving for the
door hinge and the mutilated beak of the wooden rooster whod fallen off the ledge. I also

17


formulated a theory that my parents had unconsciously learned which two surfaces were
most appropriate to bash at different times. Wood on wood was the typical instigator; the
pitch of metal on metal provided an appropriate substitute for screaming; and porcelain on
marble was an absolute last resort that Dad only used once, and not on Mom.
In late 1999, my aunt and grandma flew in from Beijing to try to resolve the
mounting conflict between Mom and Dad. Their primary motive was probably to support
Mom through whatever may come, since they, too, seemed uncertain that this marriage
would last for much longer.
The day seemed to have come abruptly, establishing its instant dominance over
all of my adjacent memories. It was nighttime, and I didnt know how I ended up sitting
beside Grandma on the living room sofa, but I was there, frozen in space and time,
experiencing the restless world with unblinking eyes. My aunt was sitting cross-legged on
the carpet in front of me, leaning on the glass table that was too embarrassingly small for
the room. The lights flickered spastically because Dad hadnt changed the lightbulb, and
the sky was silent, as if also listening to the commotion in the basement.
Downstairs, Mom and Dad attempted fruitlessly to reconcile differences and fix
heartbreaks. Downstairs, their freedom from each others company extended only up to the
dangerously low ceiling, with its outdated lightbulbs that knew only how to die since
replacements werent being manufactured anymore. A flimsy door and two short flights of
stairs separated me, Grandma, and my aunt from the ruckus, allowing us just to hear the
noises louder than a certain threshold. I saw my aunt bite her fingernails, which she did
rarely, and only in the most stressful circumstances.
Known for being worrisome and stressed all the time, Grandma was the altruistic
63-year-old who concerned herself with everyones troubles. She used knitting to relieve
the mostly self-imposed stress she faced every day. When I asked her why she bothered to
get involved in the worlds imperfections, she referred to her career before she retired.
I was a nurse before I got this old, she reminded me. When people are dying
around you, worryings what you do.
But Grandma was also the impulsive one who let her emotions spontaneously
combust. She broke the silence in the living room.
Truly stupid. Both of them. I just dont understand whats to fight over. Its like
theyre trying to put together broken glass. Doesnt work like that.
My aunt, almost 30 years old, nodded at this wisdom but urged Grandma to keep
calm for fear of her high blood pressure. She was about six years younger than Mom, and
she was the middle and favorite child of Grandma among Mom, her, and my uncle.
Grandma and Grandpa had always praised her for being non-confrontational and peace-
loving, characteristics she inherited from Grandpa. My aunt was chubby and had short,
black hair, but after she alone remained in Beijing to care of Grandma, domestic stress
caused her to lose tremendous weight.
Ma, she said. I know youre worried about them. He didnt make the right move.
But stillI really want them to stay together. Remember how happy they were at first?
She then proceeded, ignoring my presence, to bring up my parents obscure pre-Ronnie
life. Although my aunt certainly didnt mean it that way, her anecdotes made me feel awful
and accountable for the misfortune that was happening now. If it werent for the more
important issue downstairs, I wouldve let that guilt pierce me more deeply.

18


I barely spoke a word or made a sound the entire time my parents were quarreling
downstairs. Because I didnt know much about the circumstances leading up to the divorce,
I was naturally unable to express any emotion stronger than shock. The only factoid I could
evaluate was that Mom had received a call from an anonymous woman who referred to
Dad in affectionate terms, but even that tidbit was hazy. My aunt and Grandma simply told
me that Dad had cheated on Mom with another woman, and that his infidelity caused this
mess. Even though I began to regard my father as a villain, I was also too petrified by the
fighting to truly contemplate morality.
Before Mom took me back to China, I dont remember ever hating my father. I
didnt retain many exciting memories with him, since our relationship consisted of me
selfishly absorbing everything he had to offer. When I was told that he had cheated, I did
view my dad as a person whod betrayed my mom, but my judgment was highly labile until
Mom and my Beijing relatives branded Dads wrongdoing as truth.
My aunt broke the silence this time with her perpetually tranquil voice. Oh, by the
way, Ronnie, Wang Tian shushu is coming soon. Please get the door for him.
Mr. Wang was the familys best friend, a slender man around my dads age who
claimed to have made it big after spending a decade in America. He had a triangular
mouse face and wore slim rectangular glasses, but he always dressed formally, never
forgetting his Omega watch. Mr. Wang was essentially a hybrid between a full-time stud
and a cute college professor. His son, Jerry, was twice my age, but probably the square of
my weight. The first time we visited them in Syosset, Jerry boasted of how many dumplings
he could fit in his mouth while still managing to chew them all. (I think it was around
eight.) Mr. Wangs wife didnt seem to have any eccentricities, but that was because she
rarely made an appearance. It was difficult to take Mr. Wang seriously, but my dad admired
his business smarts, and my mom appreciated his charity during our travails.
I ended up not hearing much of the argument in the basement, perhaps due to the
utter shock and confusion I first had to grasp. There was one indistinguishable thump on
the far wall of the basement, which I learned later was the result of Dad throwing a book.
Whether it was hurled directly at Mom or at the wall to prove a point didnt matter to me
after Beijing unearthed my hatred; I exaggerated the details of the incident by asserting that
Dad aimed to hit Mom, by transforming the book into a dictionary (or encyclopedia), and
by adding in myself as an eyewitness. I convinced myself so effectively that I ultimately
believed that Id watched Dad throw a dictionary at Moms face. In reality, the noise was
no different from loud stomps on the stairs or someone pounding at the front door.
Coincidentally, someone was pounding on the door as Mom and Dad were still
fighting. Before checking to make sure it was Mr. Wang, my aunt rushed me upstairs and
urged me to sleep, to forget whatd frightened me this entire evening. My grandma smiled
and gracefully shooed me away with her frail fingers. Her short, boyish hair was graying
quickly, especially after the trauma of Grandpas death the previous year. Grandmas facial
expression has been calm but troubled since then; her eyebrows gradually began to furrow,
and soon enough, she started to look worried all day. My aunt kissed me lightly on the
forehead, and I bid both her and Grandma good night and scurried upstairs into the master
bedroom. I expected only one parent in bed that night.
Mr. Wang, Grandma, and my aunt greeted each other, and Mr. Wang sat down on
the living room sofa in the same place Id been. I came out of the master bedroom and
listened to their conversation. I was aware that my aunt knew I was by the staircase, since

19


anyone couldve heard the eerie creaking of the bedroom door and wooden floor. Because
she was too preoccupied to stop me, I grabbed onto the railing and leaned over to get a
glimpse.
Around the same time, we heard footsteps coming upstairs, and the door to the
basement flew open as Mom took the keys to the Nissan Pathfinder and stormed out. She
paid no attention to any one of us, even though she didnt expect Mr. Wang to be here.
Besides, they all knew better than to bother her, and I was in no position to interfere. Dad
came up a minute later, immediately after Mom had slammed the front door behind her.
His movements were far more listless than Moms, and he didnt seem the least bit
surprised when he saw Mr. Wang.
I want to talk to you about this thing, Mr. Wang said.
Dad didnt react, which meant he tacitly agreed. Mr. Wang suggested they talk by
the base of the stairs, and as soon as I heard that, I sprinted back to the bedroom on tiptoes,
knowing I could spy no more.
Mr. Wang, Grandma, and my aunt all tried to dissuade Dad from divorcing.
Eventually, I heard the footsteps of my grandma and my aunt ascend the stairs and retire
into the guest room. Curled up in a ball against the worlds coldness, I wondered whod
nudge me and wake me up next morning. I wouldve preferred Mom, just because I wanted
us to comfort each other through the process. Soon, I could no longer tolerate my fatigue,
stress, panic, and fear, and I didnt manage to turn off the desk lamp before I fell asleep.
I woke myself up the following morning, my bed still empty, the desk lamp still on
and its base warm. It was a sunny day outside, and the world had continued spinning
without us.

20


Chapter 04

Dad came over that afternoon and knocked on the door. Mom wasnt home yet from
wherever she went, so I opened the door and let him in. He greeted me with the usual kiss
on the cheek and pat on the head.
So, Mas not home still? he asked.
No, I replied, but it was more of a whimper.
Listen, erzi, why dont you come over and stay with me and Fulya a little bit? I
know things are hard for you right now, but were trying our best to figure it out. Ill take
you back; lets go?
I want to stay here, I said. I wasnt aware of the fact that Dad was trying his best
to streamline the process, but I was far too unreachable by then. But Dad tried once more
with a different reason.
Ronnie, come back to our house. Moms not going to be here for awhile, and I
dont want you staying here by yourself. You know thats not good for you. Come on.
Okayfine, I agreed, but promise youll play with me.
Fulya and I both promise, he said, and we hugged to seal it.
As I stepped outside, I noticed the BMW 740 iL that Dad was driving parked right
behind the Pathfinder, which was the family car. Seeing that the BMW was by far the more
luxurious car, I wanted Mom to have it in the end, but Dad had been driving it for awhile
back at the Woodlawn Avenue house, so I started fearing that he might end up taking the
car for himself.
Fulya greeted me with great sensitivity when Dad pulled up to the Woodlawn
driveway. She knew everything that had happened; Dad had obviously told her about the
whole incident that night I slept alone. I reluctantly hugged her and rushed over to my
room, where my Nintendo 64 anxiously awaited my arrival. I jammed Super Smash Bros.
into the socket and started playing. I heard Dad and Fulya mumbling something outside,
but I was too absorbed in the game to pay any more attention to their words. At the time, I
wanted nothing more than to be alone, and nothing less than to be accompanied.
***
As a witness of a family divorce, I naturally had tons of internal tensions and
motives battling each other within me. These started to manifest themselves in my social
conduct and academic life. I was still in second grade when the divorce happened, and I
happened to meet a Caucasian boy named Trevor. We got along fairly well, often ate lunch
together, and played kickball on the same team during recess. Trevor was a few inches
taller than me, but he was lanky and had buckteeth. He wore Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirts
to class every day, whereas I failed to dazzle the class with my ripped T-shirts from GAP.
Nevertheless, we became good friends in the beginning of the year.
In the middle of the year, our teacher, Ms. Camron, had asked us to pick out a book
to read during DEAR time. DEAR stood for Drop Everything and Read, and Trevor, being
a little duller than the other kids, didnt see why he couldnt drop his body to the floor to
read his favorite book. There were five baskets of what looked like donated books in the
back of the classroom, and all twenty of us hurriedly rushed there in order to get the best
pick. I ended up sharing a basket with Trevor and a few other students, and I saw Trevor
choosing a book on Thomas the Train. Having read the same book in first grade, I
screamed, Haha, Trevors got the stupid book! Trevors got the stupid book!

21


The whole class turned around and looked at the two of us. Trevors face flushed
and I could tell he was on the verge of tears. The only thing he managed to say was, Stop
it, no I dont!
Trevors got the stupid book! I repeated.
Before Ms. Camron had time to react to the conflict, Trevor swung his fist at my
face and punched me square on the cheek. I retaliated by grabbing his hair and pulling it as
hard as I could. Within a matter of seconds, we were screaming, punching, kicking,
grabbing, and pulling whatever we found attached to the other person. At this point, Ms.
Camron noticed what was going on and let out a shriek of disgust.
Ronnie! Trevor! In your seats, now!
But we didnt budge. Instead, we fought like ancient Roman gladiators in the hopes
of making the other surrender in submission. Ms. Camron wasnt the type of teacher to pull
us apart physically, but she had no option in this case. I felt a normally gentle hand snag
me by the collar of my shirt and yank me backwards. Trevor chased after me, but Ms.
Camron forced her body in between us.
Seats. Now. This is going up to the principal, she said with the sternest look on
her face Id ever seen.
Ms. Camron was normally the sweetest teacher Id known, especially after the
grueling experience at Li Mai Elementary in Beijing. She substituted sugar for the
expletive, and she instinctively gave hugs to whoever complained of feeling ill. In a sense,
she was the epitome of a saint, in whatever way our second-grade vocabulary couldve
defined it. To see her react in this way was terribly shocking to both me and Trevor.
Ronnie and Trevor, she continued while the class stared dumbly, I will not have
this in my classroom. Behave like good boys or Im telling your parents too. Got it? Trevor
and I looked at each other, half sorrowful and half still enraged, and nodded our heads.
The next day, Ms. Camron had class in the library so that the students would have
more choices for DEAR time. Trevor and I stayed on opposite ends of the library while
picking out our books, and when I had just chosen the one I wanted to read, I heard a
demanding voice come through the loudspeaker.
Ronnie Li and Trevor Butler, report to the principals office now.
The entire class immediately said in their singsong harmony, OoooohRonnie
and Trevor are in trouble!
Trevor and I walked downstairs to the principals office without saying a word to
each other. Neither of us had been there before, so it was like walking into a color-depleted
Narnia for us. The wall on the right had a single calendar on it that was on March with a
gallant picture of a bald eagle above it. The clock on the far wall was covered by a metal
cage in case anyone was 12 feet tall and audacious enough to smash it. There was a single
secretary working in the office, and when we arrived, she looked at us blankly and asked,
You here for the principal? When we nodded, she pointed us to a door on the right.
Not surprisingly, the principal of Wheeler Avenue School was waiting for us as we
entered. She had light brown hair, and the wrinkles on her face made her seem even more
ferocious than we had expected. Her glasses were falling off her face, so she had to adjust
them every few seconds. She had a tall, slender figure, but she looked capable enough to
strangle a lion with her bare hands. She pointed at us as we walked in, and I saw that her
name was Mrs. Elzer.
Hi Mrs. Elz- I started.

22


Sit down. Both of you.

Having walked into a veritable Skinner box, Trevor and I complied with Mrs.
Elzers orders. I snuck a glance at Trevor and turned my head to continue looking at our
lioness principal.
Ms. Camron told me exactly what you two were doing to each other yesterday,
and let me say, I am disappointed in you both. If you dont get along, I promise I will call
your parents about this. Do you want me to call your parents?
Trevor and I shook our heads.
Good. Now go back to your classrooms, and behave like youre supposed to. Dont
let me see you in here again. Is that clear?
Trevor and I nodded.
Good. Off you go.
Trevor looked at me and got up from his seat. I followed him out of the door and
into the hallway back to class. Ms. Camron had always loved me, so the sudden change in
the principals tone came as a shock. I wanted to cry from the coldness I just endured, but
I refrained and went back as if nothing had happened. Ms. Camron welcomed us with her
usual radiant self.
Trevor and I had assigned seats directly across from each other on the school bus.
His stop was a few before mine since he lived only a few blocks away. The bus came to a
halt at Trevors stop, and he proceeded to exit from the front without looking in my
direction. I expected nothing more, but as soon as he got off, a woman came on the bus and
conversed briefly with the bus driver. She had light brown hair and wore a red sweatshirt.
The woman came to where I was sitting and looked me heartlessly in the eye.
Listen kid, I dont want you hurting my son anymore. Im going to talk to the
school about this, but stay away from him from now on. Got it?
I froze for that minute and didnt know how to respond, so I simply nodded and let
her walk away. I knew the other kids were looking, but I couldnt bring myself to meet any
of their gazes. Ashamed and petrified, I longed to get off the bus and see Mom.
When it was finally my stop, I rushed to the front of the bus in an attempt to leave
as quickly as I could without looking back. As the door opened, though, the bus driver
warned me in his thick accent, Better not go messin around with nobody, kid. Those
were the last words I heard before getting off.
Mom was there to pick me up, as usual. She heard the bus driver say something but
couldnt decipher what hed meant. I initially told her nothing of my conflict with Trevor,
but when she asked what the bus driver had said, I instinctively burst into tears and threw
myself against her. I loved it when she didnt bother to ask me immediately what was
wrong.
I ended up recounting the entire story back in the safety of my home, but I also
begged Mom not to contact the school about this. We both knew it was my fault for
mocking Trevor in the first place, so I didnt want the conflict to escalate beyond whatd
already happened. Mom agreed to it, and she reprimanded me for being so reckless, but
she said it was wrong for Trevors mom to accuse me as blindly as she did. I told her I
didnt care and just wanted to do my homework and go to sleep for the day, and she
understood.
Lying in bed, I thought about what Id done to Trevor, and I instantly knew that in
the end, it wasnt even about him. Mom was trying to raise me alone with the few resources

23


and fragile support network she had, while I imagined Dad and Fulya having the time of
their lives over at the Woodlawn house. It wasnt that simple, of course, but I wanted Mom
and Dad back together regardless of how irreparable their relationship was. Trevor simply
happened to be the target of that random outcry.
***
Mom wasnt taking the divorce too lightly either. Though she certainly had a part
in choosing this path, I knew her choice to raise me alone yielded far from optimal results.
I was her only companion through the nights, and since I didnt like sleeping alone anyway,
sleeping together with Mom seemed comforting to the both of us. I had a room to myself,
but the bed was in pristine condition because Id never used it. Mom was my teddy bear,
my defense against the monsters in the closet.
When Mom and I came home from King Kullen on a late Sunday afternoon, she
made a delicious dinner for me using the cheap ingredients we bought. There was spare
ribs, Chinese celery, and rice, and that was enough to keep me satisfied for the rest of the
night. Nobody made spare ribs like Mom did. After dinner, we sat in the living room to
watch Moms favorite Chinese television series, which was set in an ancient dynasty and
involved as much pathetically fake fighting as it did drama. The main character was a well-
known warrior who fell in love with a princess from a nearby feuding tribe. We rented the
VCR tapes from a store in Flushing, the local Chinese neighborhood that we frequented
every week. Mom and I watched a few episodes until it was time to go to sleep.
Ronnie, time for you to take a bath, Mom said. She knew I was too engaged into
the series, but I had to wake up for school tomorrow.
With that, both of us went upstairs and Mom helped me set the water to the right
temperature. She left me to take care of myself, shut the door, and went into the bedroom.
I washed and dried myself accordingly and let the water drain. As soon as I turned the door
to the bedroom, though, I heard a loud ruffling sound and something heavy drop on the
carpet. Shit! Mom said.
What was that, Ma? Are you okay? I asked.
Yeah, yeah, Im okay. Hurry up and get in bed Mas going to take a shower.
Mom left the bedroom without saying much more. Curious to find out what had
dropped on the floor, I made sure Mom was taking her shower before I peeked under the
bed. After rearranging some plastic bins of clothing, I noticed four brown paper bags that
had bottles in them. The glass on the bottles was tempered, and there was fancy writing on
the golden labeled. My first thought was that it was some sort of love potion, so I opened
one of the bottles to take a closer look. The pungent smell that immediately effused from
the bottle convinced me that whatever was in there, indeed, was no love potion. Now I
started to worry about the bottles containing poison, and the only thing that soothed my
fear was the fact that Mom was alive and would be alive for many more years.
I made sure to put the mysterious bottles back in their bags before Mom came back
into the room, and I tucked myself in under the blanket and turned off the light. I started to
miss my journal, the one that Fulya took away and showed to Dad when Id written about
how she broke our family. I wanted to write about the bottles that I found under the bed,
but I wondered if Mom would be angry with me if she knew Id gone through her privacy.
With no journal on my wooden nightstand, I cuddled next to Mom to receive a kiss good
night, then dozed off into sleep, thinking about the bottles.
***

24


As much as Mom was a single mother raising a child in distress, she was never fully
alone in New York. Mom had two friends, one in Flushing, the other in New Jersey, who
were in similar situations and strove to help her through her troubles. I wasnt allowed to
stay home by myself, and Mom certainly didnt want me going over to Woodlawn, so shed
take me with her to see the two single mothers.
The first lady was called Ms. Zhai and lived in Flushing for all her life. Unlike
Mom, Ms. Zhai had no son and was a lonely woman living by herself in a condominium in
the surburban area surrounding the busy streets of Flushing. She had frizzy black hair and
thick glasses, and she always seemed to wear traditional Chinese garments that were either
red with gold stitches or gold with red stitches. It was for luck, shed said. Ms. Zhai had no
pets except for a probably illegally obtained turtle, which she referred to as the only thing
I need around me. Mom took me to see Ms. Zhai a few times, but the visits all seemed no
different from each other. Mom and I would enter the condo through the door on the right,
and instantly my nostrils would be filled with the overbearing smell of burning incense.
Mom would tolerate it and proceed to hug Ms. Zhai and say how well she looked Ms.
Zhai would return the compliment. While leaving me outside, the two ladies would go into
the study and talk for roughly half an hour, at the end of which Mom would emerge, often
teary-eyed, and motion for me to get in the car. The process was all the same.
There was an instance when I felt an overwhelming need to eavesdrop on the two
women while they were talking behind closed doors. Id waited on the sofa for too long,
and I wanted to know what was happening inside. I tiptoed closer to the door and stood
there to listen to their conversation.
You know you cant raise him by yourself forever, Ms. Zhai said in Chinese.
You have to plan for the future!
I know that already, Mom replied. But I cant just let him go like that. Hes my
son, too.
Then stop with the alcohol; its no good for you. How are you going to explain it
to him if he ever catches you drunk or something?
I know, I know. But I feel like I have nothing anymore, besides my son and some
money in the bank. Sometimes I dont think well make it.
You have your son. Thats all that matters, Ms. Zhai said. I wish I had someone
to be with me at this age.
At that point, my heart felt too heavy to listen any longer. I couldnt bear to hear
Moms voice breaking as she said those words, and the more I listened, the more I felt like
it was Dads fault for taking everything away from Mom. I didnt even know how much
money or resources each of them ended up receiving; all I saw was Dad taking the fancy
BMW, leaving Mom by herself. I also realized that Mom was drinking something called
alcohol, or jiu in Chinese, a term Id only known because it was the exact thing wed tried
to get my grandfather to give up years earlier.
Mom had another friend she consulted for single mother advice a woman named
Mrs. Lu who lived with her son in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Her house was a bit of a far drive
for us, but according to Mom, Mrs. Lu often provided the more comforting advice and
knew Moms situation better than anyone else. Mrs. Lu said she knew how Mom felt
because she herself felt divorced all the time.
Mrs. Lu was a woman in her mid-30s who was married to a Chinese businessman
from Shanghai. The husband, though, was rarely home and spent most of his time on trips

25


overseas, leaving Mrs. Lu and her son, Justin, home alone. Justin was exactly my age, but
he was almost twice my weight and had a penchant for stuffing food into his mouth. His
mom dressed him cleanly, but he would ruin his plaid shirt or cargo shorts every day by
dripping soy sauce or vinegar onto them. Other than that, Justin was a nice boy who kept
me company while our mothers were talking in their bedroom. He had a room full of LEGO
toys, which we rearranged in countless permutations to make spaceships, battle stations,
and fancy motorcycles.
I never had a chance to listen to Moms conversation with Mrs. Lu because Justin
kept me so preoccupied, but I noticed that Mom didnt cry nearly as much when she came
out of the room as she did with Ms. Zhai. Quite the opposite, actually, Mom was smiling
and more confident than ever before. On one particular visit, she radiated her independence
and asked me, Ronnie, it can just be you and me. We dont need anyone else, right? And
as much as I wanted that to be true, I knew there was no way wed make it ourselves.
***
When I began third grade, Mom sent me to live with Dad and Fulya quite out of the
blue. She said she thought itd be better for me at the time, but she promised Id come back
to Melrose soon. In the meantime, Fulya would pick me up from the Melrose bus stop, take
me to lunch, and drive me back to Woodlawn.
In the Woodlawn house, Dad and Fulya made very little mention of what was going
on with Mom for a few weeks, and although I desperately wanted the details, I knew better
than to ask at such a hectic time. I was keenly suspicious of something going wrong, since
Mom would never randomly tell me to go live with two of her least favorite people.
On a rainy night a few months into third grade, Dad told me that we were going
over to the Melrose house to check up on Mom. I didnt know what he meant, but I was
now sure that Mom was in some sort of trouble. When we pulled up in front of the house,
I saw a few other cars lined up along the curb and parked on the driveway. Dad found a
parking spot and motioned for me to follow him into the house.
Is Mom okay? I couldnt help but ask.
Yes, erzi, shes fine, Dad said, but he couldnt offer more assurance than that.
Dad had no keys to the Melrose house anymore, so he had to knock on the door to
be let in. The person who opened the door was Mr. Wang, the same man whod tried to
convince my parents not to divorce. He told us to come in, and when we did, the first thing
I saw was Mom, in a wheelchair, surrounded by Ms. Zhai and a two other women I didnt
know dressed in white. My eyes widened, but before I asked what was happening, Mom
addressed me casually and said, Ronnie, its okay, Mommys just a little sick. Dont worry
about me!
I stared at Mom, nodded gently, and looked at the other ladies and Mr. Wang. All
of them seemed to be saying the same thing, so I foolishly believed them. Under the dim
living room light and among the people discussing among themselves, I didnt know how
to behave. The women started talking to Mom, and Dad was conversing with Mr. Wang
about business. I wondered why Dad had brought me here if Mom was just a little sick.
In the midst of everyone talking over each other, Mom called out to me and asked
if I could bring her a hot water pack. I went into the kitchen and brought out a floppy rubber
sack filled with hot water. When I was in Beijing attending Li Mai Elementary, Mom used
to put this on me to alleviate my upset stomach. I handed her the sack, which she then put
around her own stomach.

26


It kinda smells good, I said.

The rubber smells good? Mom asked.
Yeah. Is that weird?
You shouldnt think it smells good, Mom said. If it smells good to you, then it
means you have worms in your stomach!
Am I sick, too? I dont want to be sick! I whined. Do you have worms in your
stomach, Mommy?
Umyes, a little bit. Thats why Ill be away for a little while. You make sure
that Dad takes care of you, got it? I want you to be big and strong and healthy when
Mommy comes back, promise?
Okay, Mommy, I replied. I promise. But where are you going?
Im going to be in the hospital for a little while. The doctors there are nice and will
take care of me, so dont worry at all. Ill be back for you.
One of the ladies standing next to Mom whispered something in Moms ear, to
which Mom nodded and said, Okay, Ronnie, Mommy has to go now. You and Dad get
going too.
Dad heard this and gave Mom a sympathetic look before telling me to get back in
the car. The two women next to Mom gripped her wheelchair and began escorting her out
of the house. Ms. Zhai had an umbrella, which she held for Mom when they stepped out
into the rain. Dad and I got into our BMW and stayed a bit longer to watch Mom being
safely wheeled into a white van.
Im going to miss Mom, I confessed to my father.
Its okay, Ronnie, he said. Mom will be back.
Dad turned on the engine and we drove back to Woodlawn, leaving Mom behind
in the darkness once again.

27


Chapter 05

Mom once gave me a notepad before the divorce, and she told me to write in it all
the emotions that I felt, everything from the most joyful pleasures to the most burdening
pains. Id never found much use for it until Mom and Dad separated, after which Mom and
I shared our grievances in the small green-covered notepad. Every day before I slept, I
would consult her about the things we should write in that notepad. It became a kind of
bonding experience for us, and often, it was at the expense of my feelings toward Fulya.
What should we write in it today, Ronnie? Mom asked.
I want to write about how Fulya is a horrible person, I said, and how she broke
our family.
Good, good. You should let your emotions out every time you feel something.
Dont be afraid to hold it back, because someone might never know. What do you want to
say about it?
Well, she broke our family, I repeated, and I hate her. I hate her because shes a
bad person and doesnt deserve to be in our family.
Write that down, Mom said, and I did. I scribbled furiously on the page, writing
down the same sentence multiple times until the whole page was covered with my
markings: Fulya is a bad person and she broke our family. The more I wrote, the more I
started to believe that Mom and I were faultless in our judgment of the situation.
Is there anything else you want to write?
Yes, Mommy, I replied. I want to write about how we will never leave each
other, because thats true, right?
Right, she said. And I wrote that in my notepad another 15 times: Mommy and I
will never leave each other.
I love you, Mommy, I whispered.
I love you too.
Mom and I had also developed a habit of reading together before we slept. I was
only 5 years old at the time, but I loved being read to. This time, Mom picked out a book
in Chinese that was supposed to test a first-graders intellectual skills. It had a ripped blue
cover and Chinese characters that I didnt understand written over the pages, but Mom read
the questions to me.
Tonight, were going to do something a little different, she told me. Im going
to ask you questions, and you see if you can answer them. Well see how smart you are!
She rubbed my head afterwards. Are you ready?
Yes, Mommy.
Okay, first question. If I have 10 apples and you take away 8, how many are
there?
After thinking for a few seconds, I responded, Well, I dont know, Mommy. I have
8 apples, but you have 2 apples. You didnt say who had the apples, you know!
Very good, erzi! This question was supposed to trick you like that, but youre so
smart that you werent tricked by it! Im so proud of you. Are you ready for the next
question?
I nodded.

28


This will be our last question of the night. Well do a few more of these tomorrow
night. But heres the second question: If I slice a loaf of bread 4 times, how many slices do
I have?
Thats easy, I replied quickly. You have 5 slices, because the last time you cut
it, you cut the bread into two pieces.
Mom was thrilled that I answered this question correctly. She clapped her hands
like a child and kissed me on the forehead. Youre the smartest little boy on Earth, she
said, and Im so happy youre my son. Now, turn off the light, and lets go to sleep. Its a
school day tomorrow.
I looked at my notepad one last time and assured myself that I was going to be the
smartest person on Earth so Mom would be forever proud of me. I stowed the Chinese
book and the notepad in the drawer, turned off the lamp, and instinctively snuggled next to
Mom for the night.
***
One of the biggest misconceptions ingrained in my mind after the divorce was that
Dad had kept all the money for himself and given nothing to Mom. I thought that by taking
the BMW, Dad had essentially robbed Mom of all her possessions and left her to fend for
herself with a child and no business.
After Mom picked me up from school on a sunny spring day towards the end of
second grade, she told me we were going to the bank to withdraw some money. She was
referring to Citibank, which was a 5-minute drive from the Melrose house and near the
supermarket we frequented. At the bank, Mom went up to the ATM while I stood behind
her. I heard a sequence of beeps and then saw some money come out of the vending slot.
Being the curious child I was, I asked, Mom, how does that machine thingy work?
Dont worry about it, she replied. When youre old enough, youll know.
Not satisfied with the answer I received, I was tempted to follow up the question
with another one. How much money do we have, Mommy? I asked.
Thats not your concern. Youre still a little boy. When you grow up and make
money, then itll be your problem.
But I wanna know!
Fine, fine. Its no use trying to hide things from you. We have about ten thousand
dollars.
Is that a lot? I wondered aloud.
Its enough. Now go back in the car; were going home.
For the time, I actually thought that ten thousand dollars was enough to support
Mom and me throughout a lifetime. I didnt know how much anything cost or how to
extrapolate our spending, but I was confident that Mom and I could make it through with
that amount in her bank account, even when Dad supposedly took all that she had. I didnt
catch the look on Moms face as she told me it was enough, but I imagine it mustve been
a hybrid between guilt and worry. I smiled my immature smile and got into the car, waiting
for Mom to drive us back home.
***
During my first grade in Beijing, I saw that Mom more relaxed than Id ever seen
her since the divorce. She was eating well, getting enough rest, and smiling a lot to my
grandmother and aunt. She seemed to be a changed person with no worries in the back of
her mind.

29


After school ended and before we flew back to America, Mom took me to an indoor
stadium on the outskirts of Beijing. The arena was covered by some sort of plastic dome,
and there were three courts Id never seen before separated by deep blue curtains. I bent
down to touch one of the courts and felt that the material was like a hard rubber. The
outside of the court was painted maroon, and the inside was painted blue. There were
intense white lines separating maroon from blue, and a 3-foot net divided the court to make
the two sides symmetrical. I waited for Mom to explain where we were and what we were
doing here.
So, Ronnie, have you ever played tennis?
I instinctively replied with a rhetorical device I heard a classmate use in school.
No, Mom, I said. Youve raised me your whole life; do you think Ive ever played
tennis?
Mom smiled and said, Well, its a fun sport, and today youre going to watch
Mommy play with a coach! And maybe if youre lucky, hell give you a private lesson as
well! But you have to be on your best behavior, all right?
I nodded and watched dumbly as Mom went into the changing room with the duffel
bag she brought along. She came out at the same time as another man from the opposite
side of the hallway, and when they saw each other, they shook hands and casually hugged.
The man took Moms duffel bag on his shoulder, holding a racquet in his left hand, and the
two of them began walking towards me. As they approached, I saw that the stranger had
quite an athletic build, despite appearing to be in his late 30s, and that he was more than a
head taller than Mom. His face was quite angular and his complexion was moderately dark.
He wore a graphic white T-shirt that had a big check mark sweeping across it, and kept
looking at Mom as he was walking, as if scanning her face for a sign.
When the two of them finally reached the end of the long hallway, where I was
standing, the man extended his hand and smiled. Hi, you must be Ronnie, he said. My
name is Tony.
Hi, uncle Tony, I said, using proper Chinese etiquette.
No, please, just call me Tony, he insisted, and I shrugged.
At this point, Mom interjected. Tony is a tennis instructor, she said, so that
means hes very good at tennis. Hell be showing you how to play. Just watch us for a
while, and if youre interested, you can feel free to come in later. Does that sound good?
I nodded, and Mom motioned for me to step off the court so that she and Tony
could begin playing. Tony took out a basket of balls from a closet in the back while Mom
began stretching. Both of them stepped onto the ends of the court and after Tony yelled,
Ready! Mom squatted and put her racquet out in front of her. Tony launched a bright
yellow ball onto the court and Mom swung at it and hit it back full speed. Before I knew
it, the two were engaged in some kind of duel that I could only watch by jerking my neck
back and forth. Mom missed many more times than Tony did, while Tony would amuse
himself by making Mom run all over the court.
After 15 minutes or so, Mom said she was exhausted and that Tony made her run
too much. She pointed to the water cooler in between the courts and staggered over to get
a drink. Tony looked at me and shouted, Hey Ronnie, come play a little bit. Its fun!
Surprisingly, it took little to no convincing to get me to step onto the court, since I
believed that I had to enjoy what Mom enjoyed. Tony handed me a childrens racquet from
the closet and waved for me to come to the middle of my side of the court.

30


Stand right here, and when I feed the ball, this is what you do, he said while
moving my arms to simulate a forehand. Now, show me what you do when a ball comes.
I pretended to hit a forehand, and Tony clapped. Good! Youre going to be great,
Ronnie. Let me feed you some balls.
Tony went to the other side of the net and tossed me a ball. I swung at it as hard as
I could, missed completely, and lost my balance. Mom and Tony couldnt help but laugh a
little, but Tony told me it was completely normal for my first time. He tossed me another
ball and I focused on hitting it into the court, which I managed to do. After seeing the ball
land in, Tony clapped and gave me a thumbs-up.
You got it on your second try! Good job! he yelled. He looked at Mom and gave
her a thumbs-up as well, as if to indicate that her son had passed the adequacy test.
A couple of hits and mishits later, I passed the racquet back to Mom and watched
her play with Tony for the rest of our time at the courts. Before we left the arena, Tony
gave Mom another hug and whispered something in her ear. He escorted us to the exit and
patted me on the head when saying bye.
Youre a good kid, he said. Youll make your mother proud someday.
On the bus back to our apartment in Beijing, Mom and I had difficulty finding
anything to talk about. She seemed preoccupied with something, and I didnt know what
to think of my first tennis experience. Nonetheless, Mom opened up a conversation.
So, what do you think of Tony? she asked.
I like him, I answered truthfully. He was nice to me, and thats really all that my
7-year-old mind cared about.
Well, I have something to tell you, erzi. You know it hasnt been easy for Mom
these days, especially with the divorce and all. And I know its been hard on you too. But
Tony is a great guy, and Mom really likes him. I think its safe to say that hes Moms
boyfriend right now. Can you accept that?
Umyeah, I think I can, I said, but I stopped talking after that. As much as I
wanted Mom and Dad back together, seeing Mom this happy with Tony made me believe
that Tony wouldnt break her heart the same way that Dad did. I thought Mom deserved
better than a selfish man like Dad, and I wanted desperately to believe that Tony was indeed
her savior prince.
Okay, Mom said and kissed my forehead. But Ill always love you first. You
come before everything else in the world, got it?
I nodded and knew Mom was completely serious.
That night, Mom announced that Tony was coming over for dinner, so she was
hurrying everywhere in the house to make it look tidy for her special guest. I sat around
watching television, not knowing what I could do to help. In preparation for his arrival,
Mom brought out a pair of slippers that she had intended to take back to America for Dad
years ago.
Arent those supposed to be for Dad? I asked bluntly.
Mom paused for awhile, looked at the slippers, and said, Yes, but hes not here, is
he? She left the slippers out anyway.
When Tony came, he was dressed in a flashy outfit that included a navy blue
cardigan, khaki pants, and a button-down shirt. He had an umbrella in his left hand, which
he hung up next to Moms coats when he entered. Pausing only to hug Mom, he made his
way over to me, scrunched his face, and smiled.

31


Glad to see you again, he said enthusiastically.

I smiled my first smile to him, and I immediately wanted to impress him with my
taste in popular culture. A few months ago, when I was still in Li Mai Elementary, Id
heard a song by a newly formed duo called Yu Quan, and I fell in love with it instantly.
The songs title roughly translated to Cold Till the End, and it was about how the singer
would rather want a lost love to be cold till the end instead of forgetting all the memories
they shared. Mom explained the lyrics to me, but I was too young to understand the
complications of the sort of love evoked by the song. I still adored the melody, though, and
I wanted to show Tony how refined and mature I was in liking the song.
When Mom was putting the food on the table, I asked Tony if he wanted to hear
this new favorite song of mine. He said he did, and I eagerly put the CD into the slot and
skipped to the right track. Within a few seconds of the first verse, Tony told me to stop the
CD because hed heard the song before.
And did you like it? Did you like it? I asked while jumping up and down and
clapping my hands.
Actually, not really, he replied frankly. When I heard that, my heart sunk and I
slowly ejected the CD from its slot, putting it back in its case.
Oh, I muttered, okay.
I didnt say a word to Tony during the entire dinner. I let him and Mom converse
all they wanted, but I was far too disappointed in his abysmal taste of music to bring up
anything to talk about. He mustve sensed that I was being purposefully silent, since he
didnt initiate any conversation with me either. I didnt know whether he regretted being
so blunt or was simply not the type to appease me when it came to music. I finished my
food, excused myself, and went into my room.
After the dinner was over and Tony left without coaxing me to come out of my
room, Mom came in and asked me what I was doing.
Nothing, I murmured.
Look, she said, I heard what happened with Tony and I know how you feel. I
dont think it was right for him to say he didnt like the song, either, but sometimes hes
just like that. Can you forgive him just once?
I dont like him, I said. I want Dad back. But I knew it was far more
complicated than that. I didnt know who I truly liked more or who was worthy enough to
have Mom as a partner; I was just selfishly concerned at the time.
Okay, Ill leave you alone for tonight. Ill be in the kitchen cleaning up the dishes.
Good night, my little treasure. I love you. With that, she closed the door.
With the door shut, I philosophized to myself about what kind of person Tony really
was and whether he was fit to be Moms new husband. I couldnt imagine myself calling
him Dad, but I also couldnt imagine Mom and Dad back together anymore. For the first
time, I viscerally felt the void that the divorce had created in my soul, the abyss that
engulfed so much of my emotions.

32


Chapter 06

During the time that Mom was hospitalized, I stayed with Dad and Fulya in the
Woodlawn Avenue house. They provided me with more than enough stimulation to keep
me occupied throughout the day in addition to my fourth grade class, but the thought of
Mom always lingered in the back of my mind. How was she doing? Was she coming home
soon? What was even the problem? Though I never formally stopped to wonder about
Moms situation, I held on to the belief that everything was all right and that Mom would
come home soon. After all, Dad and Fulya didnt tell me otherwise.
On a Saturday night, Dad drove me in his BMW to visit Mom at the hospital, which
was about 20 minutes away. The first thing I saw when I entered the hospital was an
overbearing front desk that was only staffed by one person. She had thick, curly hair and
didnt seem too occupied at this late an hour. She noticed us as we walked in, but Dad
surprisingly didnt stop at the desk to ask where Mom was. He walked past her and turned
left and began the trek almost instinctively.
Dad, dont you wanna ask her where Mom is? I asked.
Its okay. I know where she is, he said. I had no knowledge of it then, but Dad
had actually been visiting Mom with Fulyas permission ever since she was hospitalized.
At the time, I made no further remark of his prior knowledge of Moms location; I simply
trailed along.
As we walked upstairs, I passed many dimly lit hallways with portraits of people
framed on the pillars. We entered a foyer full of reclining chairs and images of old men
and women on the walls, and an unwelcoming suggestion intruded my mind. Maybe these
were important people who died here, I thought. Is that why their faces are all over these
walls? While contemplating this, I followed Dad through a hallway and passed tall people
in light blue masks and robes, and I concluded that they must be the doctors. I only hoped
they were good enough to take proper care of Mom.
Ronnie, come, were almost here, Dad rushed me. I quickened my pace to catch
up with him, and we arrived in another lobby with chairs interspersed throughout. Sit
down, Dad said, Moms coming out to us.
Dad and I waited in separate chairs, and I found myself worrying whether Mom
looked any different. I hadnt seen her in a few months, and I desperately wanted to see her
radiant complexion as affirmation that things were going well.
But when Mom finally came out of the hallway and into the lobby, she was still in
a wheelchair escorted by a nurse, and her face was paler than I had ever seen. I didnt notice
it at first, but when she called me over to hug me, her face felt like ice on my own. I almost
wanted to leap backwards in shock, but she held me tightly for a long time while Dad
watched.
Im so glad to see you, Ronnie, Mom said. Her voice was a bit raspy, but I
couldnt tell the difference between this and her healthy voice. She sounded like she was
coping well, but that was because her voice was barely indicative of all the complications
that were constantly arising within her body.
Hi Mom, I said. I paused and didnt know what words to use anymore. After a
cold silence, I continued by asking, Are you coming home soon?

33


Yes, Mommy will be home very soon, just wait a little longer, okay? Everything
is going fine and Ill be back to spend more time with you. She rubbed my head and kissed
me on the cheek.
Okay, I said, fidgeting uncomfortably in my stance.
Now let me talk to your father for a little bit, she said. I couldnt understand why
Mom would ever want to talk to Dad anymore after the divorce, but I backed down
nonetheless and watched as Dad approached Mom in her wheelchair.
As I watched them talk, I saw much head nodding and shaking, and I wanted more
than anything to engage in the conversation that I knew I was barred from attending. I
suspected that it mustve been something important if my parents were talking so freely
with each other. I only later found out that Mom was giving Dad the update on her condition
that shed never wanted to give to me.
Dad came back from the conversation and looked at me as though I were a son he
hadnt seen for years. Splattered across his face were almost palpable emotions of sadness,
solemnity, and love. He didnt say anything to convince me of it, but his expression made
me begin to fear what was happening to Mom.
After he penetrated me thoroughly with his gaze, Dad asked, Do you have
anything else you want to say to Mom?
Yeah, I said, and I ran up to Mom and gave her a hug. I had to restrain myself
from asking about what shed said to Dad because she wouldve spared the details
regardless of how desperately I wanted the information.
Ill see you soon, Mom said warmly. I promise.
Mom always managed to make me feel hopeful in the face of her situation, but the
nascent dread and worry began to outweigh even Moms most eloquent words. I wondered
to what extent Mom would keep her promise.
Dad walked up to me shortly afterwards and told me we had to go. The nurses were
wheeling Mom back into her unit, and we werent allowed to go past that point. I saw a
nurse come into the lobby and grip Moms wheelchair by the handles. He waited for us to
begin walking away before he took care of Mom. Dad took me by the hand and led me
away. I looked back at Mom, who was still smiling and waving to me as she was left alone
in the hospital. I waved back, not realizing whether or not I was smiling as well.
I followed Dad through the labyrinth of stairs and hallways to find the entrance to
the parking lot. When we got in the car, I couldnt hold back any longer.
Dad, what did you say to Mom back there? I asked.
Oh, its nothing, erzi. He replied. After a brief but heavy silence, he continued.
Moms gonna be okay and kissed me.
On the highway back home, neither of us spoke. I was thinking about how Mom
would get better and come back home, while Dad was thinking his own thoughts based on
the more specific knowledge he had of Moms condition. We were almost home from the
hospital when Dad finally spoke.
Erzi, you know you are my little treasure, he said in Chinese. If anyone lays a
finger on you, Daddy will kill them. You know that, right?
I nodded. Dad had said this to me several times before, but I was still unsure of how
much he truly meant it. Moms family in Beijing had profoundly convinced me that Dad
was not a man to be trusted, and I still clung to that belief because it was the only thing that

34


seemed to be completely clear to me at the time. Moms predicament, Fulyas personality,

and even my own fathers love for me were all in question.
We arrived at Woodlawn and were welcomed by Fulya, who was cleaning the
house. Dad went upstairs to change, and I went into my room. I looked around and saw
that there were no pictures of Mom and me anywhere. Moms presence was entirely
unobvious in my Woodlawn life, the only pictures of her having been stored in a photo
album somewhere downstairs. I started to miss Mom already, constantly thinking about
how she was faring in the hospital and if the doctors knew what to do. In my 4th grade
mind, every disease was curable, which persuaded me that Moms radiant personality
would soon emerge from the darkness of the patient room.
***
It was October 28, 2012. My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Sanders, had been preparing
the class to go on a field trip to the zoo on the following day. She told us to pack lunches
and bring a book to read on the long bus ride there. The whole class was overjoyed at the
prospect of going somewhere fun and escaping the confines of the classroom for a day. I
thought no differently, imagining myself on the back of an elephant crusading through the
petting zoo.
At the end of the day, Mrs. Sanders told us all to arrive on time tomorrow to catch
the bus. If you come late, we might have to leave you behind, and that wouldnt be good!
she cautioned us. Class is over for today cant wait to see you all tomorrow!
Fulya picked me up, as usual, from the stop on Melrose Street, where Mom used to
meet me before she was hospitalized. She gave me a hug and took me back to the
Woodlawn house, where I unpacked my things and started to do my homework. Fulya sat
next to me like she always did and helped me with my work. The day proceeded just like
any regular day, ending with Dad coming home, eating dinner, and going to bed. In bed, I
thought about Mom some more, wishing shed come back so that I can stay in the Melrose
home instead.
I woke up the next day at 8 am knowing something was amiss. It was a visceral
reaction more than anything else. I felt a chill running through me as I listened to the sounds
of the house; even the silence seemed abnormal today. Making my bed haphazardly, I
dashed out of my room and down the narrow hallway to the kitchen and living room.
Nobody was in the living room, but I heard someones footsteps reverberate from
downstairs. Growing more and more anxious, I paced back and forth between the kitchen
and the living room, waiting for the person to come upstairs.
After fairly little waiting, I discovered that it was Fulya. But something was wrong
with her. She wasnt her usual self she wasnt smiling, and her face looked white, as if
she were sick. She saw me waiting for her and looked at me.
Im sorry Ronnie. But youre not going on the field trip today, she said, her voice
almost cracking.
It was about Mom. Something happened to her. To this day, I have absolutely no
idea how I immediately comprehended the nature and gravity of the situation. The only
explanation would involve supernatural instincts or a religious interpretation of filial
bonds. Nevertheless, I instantly knew that Mom was in danger, but I couldnt bring myself
to ask Fulya what had really happened, although I predicted the worst.
Dads coming home soon, Fulya continued. Just wait for him until hes back.

35


I dont remember how long I waited for my father, but time was passing by too
quickly and leaving me behind in shrouds of dust. My perception of things slowly began
to disintegrate until I was left only with tunnel vision and muffled hearing.
Finally, there was the sound of keys, which I heard through my partially
incapacitated ears. The door opened, and Dad stood there and saw me sitting on the chair
in the living room. His face and eyes were bright red as if hed just come home from a bar,
and he stared at me wordlessly until he mustered the strength to break the news.
Momthey couldnt save her, he said. They couldnt save her, they couldnt
and he started sobbing uncontrollably.
At that point, Fulya, who was listening to the conversation, came into the room
from the kitchen. Before I had the chance to react, both of them grabbed me and held me
until I finally understood what Dad had said. My body became completely numb and
immune to all of the problems in the world as I stared ahead through my fathers body.
Although I pieced together the words, I couldnt comprehend how that was possible. I
wanted to scream and cry and punch things and demand restitution. Everybody always said
Mom would be okay, I wanted to say. Mom said it herself that she would come back. She
promised!
As much as I wanted to cry and perhaps shouldve cried I didnt. I couldnt
bring the tears to my eyes, not because I didnt feel the misery coursing through my veins,
but because that same misery disabled my bodily functions and shut me down to the point
where all I did and could do was look. Dad and Fulya mustve realized the impact this news
had on me, since neither of them questioned me after they released me from their embrace.
Im so sorry, Fulya said. You know, maybe your mom and I could never get
along, but when something like this happens, everyone feels sad. Its natural to cry.
I looked at her blankly, and for a transient moment, all of my ingrained hatred for
her and Dad dissipated into the thick air around me. I directed those emotions instead to
fate, which I believed was responsible for taking my mother too soon. I stopped blaming
Fulya and Dad for the fracture I thought theyd caused in my family, and I tried to find
somewhere else to displace the blame. Ultimately, though, I would attribute my mothers
death again to Dad, believing that his actions had caused Mom to die so unnaturally.
She was just 36, my Dad whispered to himself. Too, too young
Ronnie, if theres anything we can do for you anything at all you let us know,
okay? Youre not alone in this, Fulya assured me. I offered a perfunctory nod and glanced
out the window. It was a beautiful day outside, but now it would forever be tainted with
death.
I dont remember how the rest of the day passed, but it mustve passed in solemn
silence. The three of us were too overwhelmed by the news to do much talking, with Dad
seeming especially distraught and troubled. Fulya was doing her best to sympathize with
us, although I knew the situation was difficult for her to handle as well.
That night, as I lay in bed, I finally seemed to grasp the reality of the situation. I
was so numbed by the news during the daytime that my reaction was entirely devoid of
emotion, but as I stared into the darkness, the anguish began to pervade my body.
I dont have a mom anymore, I said out loud, softly so nobody would hear me.
Mom, youre not here anymore. I dont have a mom anymore. I felt the wetness of the
first tear run down my cheek, and before I could suppress it, a steady stream coursed across
my face and landed on my bedsheets. I rubbed my eyes over and over, trying to do

36


something that would cure the pain. Pulling my blanket over my face, I continued sobbing
and repeating the same words to myself. I mustve slept when I exhausted my tears.
Fulya drove me to school the next morning after breakfast. I was about an hour late,
but when I entered the classroom, Mrs. Sanders didnt seem to mind. She smiled at me as
I walked and sat down. In front of the entire class, Mrs. Sanders told me that wed just
finished talking about the field trip and that we were now going into reading period
DEAR time, as Ms. Camron had called it. The class took out their books, and all became
quiet.
After she made sure everyone was reading, Mrs. Sanders walked over to my desk
and whispered, Ronnie, I want to talk to you for a bit. Can you come on over to the back
real quick?
I followed my teacher to the back of the classroom, where there was a long wooden
table with a large chair on one side and a smaller chair on the other. Naturally, I sat in the
smaller chair and looked Mrs. Sanders in the eyes. She began to speak.
Ronnie, I heard about what happened yesterday, and Im so, so sorry. Are you
okay? She paused, waiting for an answer.
Yeah, Im okay, I said weakly. I obviously wasnt okay in the loosest sense of
the word, but I didnt expect Mrs. Sanders to cure my misery miraculously.
If you need anything in these next few days, dont be shy to let me know, she
continued, parroting Fulyas words. I nodded, expecting her to say more.
I know its tough on you right now, but I hope I can do whatever you need to make
things easier for yourself. I lost someone to cancer as well; its a terrible thing. But you
need to take the good memories and let that make up for what happened. Are you following
me right now? I nodded again. That was the first time Id heard the word cancer. I didnt
know what it meant, but it seemed like a deadly disease to get. For the rest of the
conversation, I pretended I knew what cancer was while affirming everything Mrs. Sanders
said. As much as I didnt want to talk about it, my teacher did make me feel slightly better
about my situation. I knew she earnestly meant all shed told me and that I could trust her
with my feelings, but I couldnt imagine myself disclosing anything to anyone, given how
fresh the psychological wound was.
I found myself on the school bus going home once more, and when the bus stopped
at the corner of Melrose Avenue and Rockaway Parkway, I suddenly realized that Mom
wouldnt be there to pick me up ever again. Forever, I repeated to myself. That was a scary
word. To think that for the rest of my life, I wouldnt see Mom anywhere anymore was
unbearable, and I wanted to reject all of the memories of Moms death that Id just formed.
As the bus continued on its route, I saw Fulya waiting for me at the next
intersection. She welcomed me off the bus with a hug that was longer than usual.
How was school today? she asked.
Good, I replied, knowing that she mustve told Mrs. Sanders about whatd
happened the day before. I wanna go home.
Back in my room, I thought some more about Moms death. I played around with
the idea of reincarnation, imagining that shed come back to life as another person. Would
she still remember me? I thought. I wondered what all of the religions said about life after
death, convincing myself that there had to be some form of existence beyond what we
knew, that Mom couldnt have just perished completely. Id heard from Fulya that Mom
was in a better place, which I could only hope was true. Having no religion myself, it

37


was difficult to think of all the possibilities, but I coaxed myself into believing that Mom
was still alive somewhere. I refused to let her die.
***
A few weeks after Mom passed, Dad informed me that there would be a funeral.
Of course, That was the second new word to me I had no idea of what a funeral was, nor
did I want to go to it. Dad showed me a tiny black suit that he bought, which was supposed
to fit me. He told me that Id be wearing it to the funeral because it was customary, and I
didnt question him on that. After he put away the suit, he knelt down beside me.
Ronnie, when you go there, do you want to make a card for Mom?
Okay, I said. How do I do that?
Dad left the room and came back with some construction paper. Pick a color, he
said. Yellow was my favorite color, so I slid the yellow sheet of paper out of the stack.
Now, you fold it in half like this, Dad explained as he folded the paper. You
draw a pretty picture on the front here, and then you write whatever you want on the inside.
Its your card now, erzi, you can write anything at all.
Dad handed me the card and I looked at its blankness. Was I supposed to
encapsulate everything that I wanted to say to Mom on this folded sheet of paper? There
was so much I wanted to tell her that I couldnt find the right place to start. I stared at the
cover for a long time and finally asked, What am I supposed to draw on the cover?
Draw anything you want, Dad said. Make it pretty so Mom would like it.
Dad finally left the room, and I was left to fill up the card with things that Mom
would like. Id never written a card before, let alone something this emotionally
demanding, but I wanted Mom to receive the most beautiful farewell gift I could provide.
I opened my box of markers and started drawing.
By the end, the front of the card was completely covered in drawings. There was a
giant teddy bear and dozens of pink flowers around it, and there was a yellow sun smiling
down on everything. On the bottom right of the card, I signed by Ronnie Li and looked
at the card with pride. I knew Mom would love the bear.
Writing, however, was a much more daunting task than drawing. I wrote Dear
Mom on the top but failed to think of the right words to continue. I managed to scribble a
few superficial sentences using my atrocious 4th-grade handwriting, but I simply couldnt
do it justice. I ended the card with You were the best Mom ever. I will miss you and
signed it Love, Ronnie. I closed the card and put it in my drawer, waiting for the funeral
day to come.
A few long weeks passed, and the day finally came for me to don a suit and pay my
respects. Dad and I both put on our black outerwear and proceeded to the door, me tightly
holding my card for Mom. Fulya brushed some dust off my shoulder, gave me a kiss on
the cheek, and smiled.
Like father, like son, she said.
For obvious reasons, Fulya didnt come with us to the funeral. Dad drove us to an
unfamiliar location and parked the car. His body language suggested that this was the place.
I got out of the car and saw a pale beige building that had its name on a black logo hanging
from a bar. The exterior was quite dreary, and the parking lot was small. Keeping my mouth
shut, I followed Dad through the creaky door.

38


As soon as I entered the building, a wave of pungent air freshener hit me. The inside
didnt smell like death at all; on the contrary, it actually smelled pleasant and fruity. The
receptionist greeted us and found our name on the list.
Room 3, she said with a dull smile.
When Dad opened the door to Room 3, I saw that the room was already full of
people all clad in black. In the front was an open casket whose inside I couldnt see, but I
assumed that it was Mom in there. The only light in the room came from the two back
corners, where dim light bulbs attached to poles shone on us. The casket, though, was lit
exceptionally well with lights from all angles in the front of the room. As I took in the
scene, I noticed that the contrast between the rows of black and the glistening light in the
front was frightening.
I didnt personally know half of the people in the room, but I was able to pick out
Mr. Wang and Mrs. Zhai, who sat close to the door. Upon further observation, I saw that
some members of my family from Beijing were there. My grandmother and my aunt looked
at me and smiled weakly my grandmother was holding a handkerchief that she kept using
to dab the corners of her eyes. When I looked around, I realized that many others were
doing the same. So many people were crying it was as though the procession had already
begun. Dad and I took our seats in the back and waited for someone to begin speaking.
A few minutes later, my uncle-in-law got up from his seat and walked to the front
of the room by Moms casket. He put his handkerchief inside his jacket and took out a
sheet of paper from his pants pocket. After softly clearing his throat, he began to speak in
Chinese.
Good morning, everyone. We are here today to remember a very special person in
our lives, Shen Wei. Id like to say a few things about this remarkable woman at this time
regarding her selflessness, compassion, and courage.
My uncle-in-law spoke for a long time, praising Mom and recounting the memories
that they had together in Beijing and elsewhere. The majority of the eulogy has escaped
me, although I do remember that my uncle-in-laws voice fluctuated in strength as he tried
desperately to refrain from crying. He had no blood relation to Mom, yet he delivered a
compelling and sentimental speech that moved most people to tears. I looked to my left,
and I saw that Dad was crying more than anyone else. He constantly wiped his eyes with
his sleeve as he stared ahead. Nevertheless, I stayed in my seat, my eyes devoid of tears
and my mind unsure of what to think. I knew I was supposed to be crying, that crying was
the appropriate thing to do, but I was still coming to terms with the fact that the dead person
in the front of the room was my mother.
When my uncle-in-law finished speaking, he immediately wiped his eyes and
returned to his seat as people clapped quietly. Then, almost automatically, everyone lined
up on the right side of the room, with Dad and I last in line. One pair at a time, people went
up to Moms casket and bowed three times, which was an old Chinese tradition. Dad
nudged me gently.
Watch what the other people do, he whispered. Well do the same thing when
we get up there.
Slowly, the line advanced, and each step closer to Mom became more anxious and
painful than the last. The road ahead became mountainous and steep, and I wanted just to
get it over with. I held my card close to my body and looked at it one last time.

39


Finally, it was our turn to bow in front of Mom. Dad and I walked up to the casket,
and he tapped me and told me to place the card on Moms body. I couldnt see her face
from where I was standing, but it slowly became visible as I inched up. Moms face was
pale and expressionless, but her cheeks were artificially rosy. The rest of her body was
covered in a red blanket that was adorned and embroidered with fanciful designs. There
were flowers and garlands placed all over her casket and around her body. I looked into
her closed eyes and her face that couldnt ever smile back, and I gently laid the card on her
chest. This is my mom, I thought. This is my mom whos lying here. I wanted to say
something meaningful, and I wanted to steal her body and revive her because I believed I
could. But all I could do was stare at her lifeless body one last time and walk back to Dad.
We bowed three times and sat down.
The funeral concluded with everyone gathering and giving me his or her
condolences. My grandma and aunt talked with Dad about something, but we didnt stay
too long after the ceremony ended. Dad was already sobbing uncontrollably, and I could
tell he wasnt fond of remaining in that environment. We drove back home shortly after
Moms casket was taken away.
Back in the Woodlawn house, I lied on my bed and stared up at the ceiling, letting
my thoughts drift away and the memory of the day sink in. I realized that I would be living
with Dad and Fulya from now on, and I wondered what would be done to Moms body
once it was taken away. Moms body, I repeated to myself, and I came to my senses at last.
I didnt have a Mom anymore.

40


Chapter 07

After losing my mother, I had to adapt to a completely new life, one that existed
solely in the Woodlawn Avenue house. Dad and Fulya did their best to console me for
weeks, although Dad was certainly taking the loss just as hard himself. Id never imagined
my life without Mom, always believing that shed be there to watch me grow up, get
married, and be successful in life, yet here I was, forever stuck in a house with Dad and
Fulya. I didnt know how long Id last.
Dad and Fulya had a superficially smooth relationship when I permanently moved
in with them. Dad used to stress to me that he met Fulya on one condition: that shed take
me as her own son.
She can do whatever she wants to me, hed tell me, but if she doesnt love you,
she doesnt belong here. And Fulya followed that rule incredibly well. She showed the
greatest amount of affection for me when I visited even before Mom passed away. We had
simulated Pokemon battles using socks as Pokeballs, but my favorite thing about her was
that she made me giggle by reading stories in the voices of all the different characters.
There were points when I didnt want to go back to Mom in the Melrose house because
Fulya made me feel so genuinely happy, but then Id immediately berate myself for picking
Fulya over Mom. Id always been caught in the conflict between homes, a conflict that was
resolved in the worst way possible.
As much as I thought that Dads relationship with Fulya was without flaw, Dads
irascible nature made it inevitable that confrontation would occur sooner or later. The first
fight that I was unfortunate enough to witness happened over the dining room table. Fulya
was cooking dinner for us, and she decided to cook Turkish rice, a dish from her culture
that she hadnt yet prepared in the Woodlawn house. Being the picky eater I was, I expected
Chinese food every night, not having been sensitized to the foods of different cultures.
When Fulya put the bowl of Turkish rice on the table, I immediately noticed that
the look of the rice was drastically different from the Chinese rice I was used to eating.
This rice appeared squishy and buttery, and it had what looked like green seeds sprinkled
across its oily white surface. I stared at the alien species of rice with disgust and contempt,
knowing that I wasnt going to eat it.
All the dishes the rest of them Chinese were placed on the table, and the three
of us took our usual moment of silence to thank whatever deity was responsible for our
food and our health. No one in my family formally practiced a religion, but the habit of
praying before dinner had already become an integral part of our daily routine. Fulya
always maintained a belief in the supernatural, although I didnt share the same view.
A few minutes into the dinner, Fulya saw that I wasnt eating any of the Turkish
rice. Ronnie, try some of the rice, she said. Its good!
I reluctantly dug my spoon into the rice and scooped out as little as I could to avoid
being told to take more. I put the rice in my mouth and chewed it, my face disfigured as if
Id just swallowed a lemon.
Fulya saw that I was horribly discontent with the rice in my mouth, but she didnt
seem to care. Eat the rice, she commanded.
At this point, Dad interjected, He doesnt have to eat it if he doesnt want to. Why
force him?

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Because, Fulya explained, hes been eating Chinese food all his life. He needs
to try something new!
Well, he tried it, and he didnt like it, okay? Theres no need to push him to eat
it!
The conversation between Dad and Fulya quickly escalated into a heated argument
with both sides yelling about whether I should continue to eat the rice. Fulya had a point
I was too accustomed to Chinese food but I naturally took Dads side because I simply
didnt want to eat the rice. Nevertheless, I couldnt say a word during their argument, and
I just watched the yelling unfold.
Unfortunately, neither Dad nor Fulya was the type of person to yield in an
argument, and Dads temper was the worse between the two. Not long into the yelling, Dad
made it clear that hed had enough. In one quick motion, he stood up and used his arm to
sweep all the dishes off the table in Fulyas direction. He then grabbed the empty chair
from the other side of the table and hurled it at her, yelling as he threw it. Overwhelmed
and covered with rice, I raced to the living room, filled with a legitimate fear that Dad
would kill Fulya at this rate. Luckily, Dad stopped after throwing the chair, and he walked
in my direction, leaving Fulya behind.
Dad grabbed my arm and led me into the bathroom, where he brushed the rice off
my shirt and pants with some paper towels. Dont worry about what happened, he said.
Its nothing. I was too in shock to say a word anyway, so I stood there watching the
grains of uneaten Turkish rice fall to the ground. All of a sudden, I was scared and
vulnerable. I concentrated my attention on the falling rice and kept my mouth firmly shut
so I wouldnt instigate any further commotion. I could tell Dad was still seething with
anger, his breath heavy and short, his teeth clenched so tightly that the skin on his cheek
formed an indent in his face.
When Dad and I got out of the bathroom, I saw Fulya sitting on the living room
couch, holding a napkin and dabbing it on her left eyelid. Apparently, a shard of porcelain
had broken off of a dish and slashed her eyelid. Dad went over to her unemotionally while
I watched from just beyond the bathroom door. They talked calmly for a moment, Fulya
nodded, and Dad went upstairs to change. He came down wearing a jacket and jeans, and
he and Fulya walked to the door.
Stay here, he told me. Well be right back.
The two of them walked outside, and I heard the cars engine start as they drove off
into the night. I went to bed when they didnt come home after 9 oclock, not hearing the
door opening when they came back. I found out later that theyd gone to the hospital, where
Fulya ended up getting stitches for the gash she received as a result of my dads violent
temper. Fulya didnt say anything about it the next day, but she distanced herself from me,
subtly telling me that my pickiness was the cause of the fight. I didnt take it upon myself
to apologize for what happened because I didnt believe it was my fault. Was there really
anyone to blame at all?
After I overcame the emotional stress of witnessing the fight, I moved on with life,
although Fulya and Dad became untalkative for a few days. I couldnt fully grasp the
dynamics of their relationship, but for one thing, their fighting didnt become so novel to
me anymore. It would take nearly a decade for me to realize that Dad had been on the verge
of depression and was probably suffering from self-blame after Mom passed away and that
Fulya was desperately trying to find her way into the fragmented family. I was inevitably

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traumatized by Moms death, and I became more reticent and untalkative during the years
that followed. I had to acclimate to the world again, but that would take time. Each of us
had our own struggles to cope with, and that only made our interactions with each other
more strained and our relationships more tenuous. There was no right or wrong, victor and
loser, that emerged from the fight, but there were clearly subtle traces of Dads and Fulyas
inner conflicts that spilled out along with the Turkish rice.
***
Despite the rare and emotionally overwhelming fights that Dad had with Fulya, I
actually enjoyed most of the time that I spent with them. I read more books with Fulya than
Id ever read with Mom, and I played more video games with Dad than what was probably
healthy. One day in the spring, Dad and Fulya decided that the entire family including
me was going to try biking. I knew nothing about biking, and I immediately doubted
whether Id be coordinated enough to balance myself on two wheels. Dad and Fulya
presumably both knew how to bike. Dad lived in China for most of his previous life, where
a bicycle was a necessity for almost ev ery Chinese citizen. Fulyas life circumstances back
in Turkey also meant that she had to learn how to ride one. I, however, was deprived of
this ability, so Dad made it clear that he was determined to teach me.
First, all three of us had to get our own bikes. Dad, Fulya, and I drove to a bicycle
shop on Merrick road near my elementary school. There was a large sign on the overhang
that read SCHWINN BICYCLES, and I figured this must be the place. Dad opened the
door for us, and we walked inside, admiring the shiny two-wheeled monstrosities that I
would learn how to ride. A man greeted us as we came in, asking whether we needed any
help. He was bald and had a white mustache, and he spoke in a gruff tone. Fulya brushed
him off and said we were okay for now.
Looking around at all of the bicycles in the store, I didnt know how anyone could
possibly distinguish and nitpick among so many options. Apparently feeling the same way
herself, Fulya asked the bearded sales associate for help again.
What kinda bikes you lookin for? he asked.
Well, said Fulya, we just want casual, family bikes to ride together. Nothing
fancy or professional. Just something that we can ride for fun.
And how about this young fella? the man said as he looked at me. Does he know
how to ride yet?
No, so thats why we also need something comfortable and easy for him.
The associate nodded and scratched his beard thoughtfully. He then led us to a
section of bikes that seemed a bit different from the ones at the front of the store. These
had thicker wheels and straight handlebars, as opposed to the curved handlebars on the
other bikes at the entrance.
These are more for family use, he said. Pick whichever ones you want.
After a period of browsing, Dad said he liked the one that hung on the very top
rack. It was an all-black bike with red and white stripes and minimal lettering. Fulya picked
out a blue womens bike that was on the opposite rack. I was still undecided, but since my
favorite color at the time was yellow, I gravitated toward a bright yellow bike with black
lettering. It was quite expensive, but Fulya said if I promised not to let it sit in the garage
and atrophy, shed let me have it. I took the oath, and Dad paid the bill.
A few days later, Dad and Fulya took me out to the park to finally learn how to ride
my newly acquired bicycle. We went to the closest park about a mile away. Id sometimes

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gone there with Mom to walk along the trail and look at the ducks in the center pond. There
were also tennis courts, where Mom took me to practice. The park was now a symbol of
Moms presence and a reservoir of the memories we shared together.
When we got to the park, it turned out that we didnt even need to go inside. The
parking lot was almost empty, so Dad decided to let me test out my bicycle there. I was
scared because the lot was on a hill, and I knew there was only one way I could ride on that
hill as a beginner. Dad took a look at the hill and turned towards me. Were going up
there, he said.
I couldnt find a solid reason to object besides the fact that I was scared out of my
pants; besides, I had always wanted to learn how to ride a bicycle. Dad, Fulya, and I each
walked our bikes to the top of the hill, and once I was at the top, I saw the way down as a
roller coaster ride that I knew I wouldnt be able to handle. I grasped my bike tightly.
Dad recognized my anxiety and put his hand on my shoulder. Dont worry, he
said, Ill hold you down the first couple of times, but after that, youre on your own.
Fortunately, Dad kept to his word as he escorted me down the hill the first five
times. I was barely riding yet, but I was getting less deathly afraid of the hill with each ride
down. I enjoyed the mild wind blowing in my face, and I loved the freedom of a two-
wheeled bike.
After the fifth time Dad accompanied me down the hill, we both knew what would
come next. Dad looked at me confidently from the bottom of and gave me a thumbs-up as
I walked to the top. Ill be here to catch you if anything happens, he said. Fulya was
waiting for me at the top of the hill with her radiant and supportive smile.
Dont worry about it, she nudged me playfully, youll be fine!
From the top, I glanced down at the terrifying path I was about to take. Without
Dad there, the concrete seemed all the more vicious and unforgiving, ever ready to scrape
the flesh off of my thin, dainty legs. I said a short prayer to Mom: Dont let me fall dont
let me fall dont let me fall.
With one leg on the pedal and my sweaty hands clenching the handlebars, I pushed
forward just enough to let the bike roll down the hill. I still had my balance, and I noticed
I wasnt falling. I wasnt falling! I started to pedal frantically at the lowest gear, not
realizing how little I was actually contributing to the motion of the bike, but I was moving
and I hadnt fallen off yet. Dad saw me successfully coming down the hill and started
laughing and clapping. I wasnt confident enough to look behind me to see what Fulya was
doing, but I was sure she was equally as happy.
Dad, look! I said on the way down. Im going, Im going!
As soon as I reached the bottom of the hill, I hopped off the bike and into my
fathers arms, both of us laughing at the success of the day. Dad kissed me on the forehead
and said, Were all so proud of you, erzi. Mom would be proud, too. And I looked up at
the sky and smiled. Yes, Mom would be proud.
***
A few days after Id gotten used to the feel of my new bicycle, Dad and Fulya asked
me to run an errand for them. There was a Hess gas station just down the street on
Woodlawn Avenue, and Fulya asked me if I would buy a bottle of milk for the house. Of
course, she could have easily done it herself, but she and her kind soul wanted me to feel
even more accomplished and useful than I already did. I zealously agreed to it and was

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already getting the bicycle out of the garage by the time she came downstairs to check on
me.
I pedaled less than a minute down the street to the gas station and parked my bike
near the front entrance of the convenience store. As I entered, a whiff of air freshener hit
me and confused my senses. At the same time, I tripped at the entrance and stumbled into
the store like a drunkard.
Hey Chino, you all right? asked a voice from behind the counter. I looked up to
see a tall, bearded man wearing a beanie. He had thick eyelashes, and he spoke with a thick,
Hispanic accent. I didnt know what Chino even meant, but I nodded halfheartedly and
smiled as I proceeded to look for the milk. I found it in a refrigerator in the back where all
the beverages were stored, and I took it to the counter to pay.
The bearded cashier took the milk and scanned it. He looked at me, whose head
barely reached the top of the counter, and he asked, Kiddo, how old are you?
Im 9, I answered timidly.
Ooh, I remember when I was 9. Actually, nah, I dont. He chuckled to himself as
he finished his sentence. Anyway, whatchu doin biking here like this?
Well, I dont live far away, I explained. And Im getting milk for my family?
Oh, for your Mommy, huh? he asked.
I nodded.
Well, tell your Mommy this ones on me, he said. Youre one heck of an
independent kid, you know. Go on now.
I asked him if he was sure, and he told me to scram before he changed his mind.
I thanked him graciously and took the plastic bag containing the milk and hung it from my
handlebar. I biked back to my house and entered from the side. Fulya asked why I hadnt
spent any money, and I explained what happened with the bearded man and the free milk.
Sounds like a nice guy, she said. Lets just hope the milk isnt expired!
After giving Fulya the milk, I went to the living room and turned on the television,
but the thought of the man at the gas station kept reappearing in my mind. As that quart of
milk sat in the refrigerator, I thought about what the man had said. Hed told me to give
the milk to my Mommy, but I didnt have a Mommy anymore. She passed away last year,
and now I was Mommy-less. Is Fulya now supposed to be my new Mommy? No, I thought,
she cant be. She cant replace my mother so quickly; I dont even know if I love her yet.
But the question still remained. Who was Mommy?

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