#29: Being illegal: The first days in America

Recently a friend sent me a video about how three “undocumented Asian americans”, oxymoronically speaking, struggle to find their identity in their lives, and I couldn’t help but reflecting on my own experience, starting from my youth.

I grew up in Fuqian, China. I was one of the best students in my class. I was the class president since 1st grade who said “Stand Up” after the teacher said “Good Morning”, then became the president who managed other class presidents and who raised the flag during our daily exercise routine. I read Robinson Crusoe and Sherlock Holmes for fun in the bookstores. I went to Martial Arts school and took a writing class. I played mahjong, cards, dice games and big two with my grandma and her friends. We decorated the house in our village with lanterns and chun lian and made juicy dumplings during new years. In the summer we sat on bamboo beds watching Chinese drama with melting ice cream bars in our hands. I had a group of really good friends who supported one another with gifts and tributes when one of our friends’ parents died in a gas explosion. I had a cool and meaningful life even as a kid.

One day my mom asked me to come to the US. I told my mom yeah I would love to go but I had this awesome opportunity to represent my city in the state writing competition next month, my biggest honor to date. She said we couldn’t wait because the “snake” said it’s the best season, as if referring to a particular season when the fruit was most ripped. I crawled under the table just like how Silver does when she tries to resist something that I think is best for her.

We went to ShenYang, a city in China known for its bitter cold and spicy chili. I literally cried when I tried one of their spicy peppers which were on the tables of every restaurant we went to. We stayed there for two days, and then flew to Seoul, South Korea, leaving the country for the first time. It was when I learned that Korean girls are the prettiest in the world, their benign plastic surgeries apparently deceiving the then naive myself. I also thought their KFC was the best in the world – the tender, moist thighs and legs which shrouded the reality of the situation – that we were moving to America and shred our passports and never come back.

“It was when I learned that Korean girls are the prettiest in the world, their benign plastic surgeries apparently deceiving the then naive myself.”

Actually in retrospect the first month in the US was not too bad. We were taken into a custody by the immigration officials to a hotel warded by wired, stern gates that always gave you static electric shots whenever you opened the door in the winter. I was served with burgers and fries; the burger gave me congestion, the fries were great. And then I learned my first English word, Shrimp – because the Afghanistan couple who lived next to us knew the word and it was the most Asian thing that we could eat. I wished I could go back to that hotel and fully enjoyed the burgers, now that I’ve gotten accustomed to cold milk and cheese and uncooked lettuce. I had a little dog toy with me, which I forgot to take with me when I left. I remember being infatuated with Michael Jordan (it was 2001) and I was always moving around, throwing paper balls into the trash can. In the hotel we watched this movie where there were a couple kids who became so small that trudging through the grass to them was like finding their way through the muddy forest and they had to jump and down to avoid being eaten when they accidentally landed on someone’s spoon. (I think it’s called Honey, I shrunk the kids (1989)).

Little did I know that the movie was almost like a foreshadowing of my time in New York City, that I was one of the millions of tiny little creatures living among an empire city dominated by tall, gigantic corporations and its cruel way of life could crush me any time if I weren’t careful.

The reality of not being able to get a driver’s license, to fly, to go outside of the country, to apply for financial aid or scholarship, to drive, or to possibly get deported do not scare me, what frustrated me the most was I could not work despite being able to find some of the most lucrative jobs after I graduated.

You may have heard a lot of these undocumented people on the news, and their struggles. But you won’t know by looking at me that I am undocumented – honestly I sometimes couldn’t even tell if I am undocumented by looking at myself. I am your friend, your brother, and your coworker. We spend our weekends together, plan our hiking trips, and eat dinners together and pay with the same American dollars. Because fundamentally speaking, we are no different. I just lacked a 9-digit number and would grow up without it for the next 11 years.

Fast forward 14 years later. I could barely remember the first days in America. The last time the conditions reminded me of them was the first night I arrived in San Francisco from Seattle. It was like the first night we arrived in New York City. I brought Silver, my 10-month old Siberian husky, just like how my mom who brought the 10-year old me, to a city that is crowded with old, decrepit apartment buildings lining the streets in discordant heights.

“I went to work at a gigantic, historic building in downtown San Francisco, being served with free gourmet foods three times a day, items ranging from salmon, steak, lamb legs, chicken drums, to deserts and sushi.”

But other than that, life is comfortable. I went to work at a gigantic building, served with free gourmet foods three times a day, items ranging from salmon, steak, lamb legs, chicken drums, to deserts and sushi. The chicken wasn’t as tender as the ones in Korea, but still really good. My work is solving interesting large-scaled problems, problems that involve precision, creativity, and discipline. I would have done them for free if I could sustain my living.

The trauma from the first days and subsequent years was not without its scars, I’ve developed a small phobia for small apartments, dirty places, and crowded spaces. That’s why I couldn’t bring myself to like places like NYC and San Francisco. And the instinctive drive to fear and to escape were more pronounced. Also somewhere along the way I made a decision to gamble with my future. I gambled that education and a Duke diploma would pay off in the long run. During that gambling session, I had some of the deepest fears and wondered what good would it do if I couldn’t find a job after graduating from an university like Duke and ended up a $120k student loan.

Memories are like seared salmon. It’s got black strips on the side, and tender red meat in the middle. If we are not careful, we may think everything is like the burned outer strips of the salmon. If we are too optimistic, everything is rosy and palatable.

That is kind of my and everyone’s life. If viewed through the lens of redemption, mine is one. If viewed through the lens of triumph, mine is one, too. If viewed through the lens of failures, mine has plenty. But it’s the combination of the good and the bad that made it beautiful. Without the dark stuff the salmon is too raw; without the red meat it’s too dry. Seared salmon kind of life is a good, balanced life.

It’s a cliche to say I’ve come a long way. But I think the way I look at it now is I have a beautiful story to tell.

Nearly fourteen years after I was undocumented, I now work for a company whose logo is a bird who soars to the sky and finds its chirping voice echoing through the golden gate bridge and across the bay area, a reminder of the thousands of other people who came before me for a better life.