I'm Not Chinese. Raymond M. Wong

on the crowded street, I watched my uncle and Ming. They walked together, my cousin’s small hand wrapped in his father’s. Earlier, we had taken a ferry to dine at the Jumbo Floating Restaurant, an imperial seafood palace that seemed to literally float on the water. Uncle Chun-Kwok kept putting more food in his son’s bowl, and Ming kept eating. I tapped my mother’s shoulder and asked her to tell my uncle it was amazing that Ming possessed such a healthy appetite.

      Uncle Chun-Kwok smiled and talked in a manner that conveyed a profound regard for his children.

      “He say Ming eat good, will grow big and strong. Jing-Wei more picky, but she going to be very smart. He say lucky for them to have boy and girl, good balance.” She paused and added, “I remember they marry and want to have kids, but no have luck first few years. They so happy when they have Jing-Wei.”

      Aunt Poi Yee, who had gone ahead with her daughter, called to us, and my uncle strode faster to catch up.

      My mom said, “If Uncle Chun-Kwok stay in China, can only have one kid, so good for him come here.”

      “I can’t imagine China being more crowded than this.”

      “But here nobody tell you how many kids can have.”

      After a silence, I said, “Is that why a lot of Chinese people escape into Hong Kong?”

      She nodded.

      “How are they able to do that?”

      “Sometimes, they come visit, not go back.”

      “They don’t check documents here?”

      “’Course. Police ask for I.D. card. You not have, they take you back.”

      “So what did my uncle do?” I asked, knowing the answer would divulge much about how she fled China.

      “He hide. Need place to live, so good he know me.”

      I glanced ahead to keep track of our group. “So Uncle Chun-Kwok used your house.”

      “Yes. He find work and get Hong Kong I.D.”

      “People will hire you?”

      “You work hard, they give job.”

      Not so different from San Diego, where a major political issue involved undocumented Mexicans crossing the border. The bigwigs poured funds into beefing up the Border Patrol and building fences, but as long as employers were willing to hire, there would be no shortage of undocumented labor. The issue proved delicate, however, when it came to light that some of the most vocal proponents of anti-immigration legislation had employed cheap, undocumented workers themselves.

      Both my parents and my uncle had escaped from China. It made me want to see what they were running from.

      “We’re going to China, right?” I asked.

      “If enough money, we go. See how much we spend here first.”

      “We’re so close. We should—”

      At the entrance of a restaurant, Uncle Chun-Kwok gestured toward the double glass doors. He pushed through to hold one side open for us. My aunt and her children waited in the lobby.

      I stepped in and felt my heart hammering at the thought of my father being there. I drew a deep breath, saw Ming, and felt a sudden urge to rub my hand against his stubby hair.

      I did so, and he spun and stared at me as if I had just snatched the chocolate lava cake from his dessert bowl.

      His short hair showed his widely protruding ears and the bulb shape of his head. He didn’t look too different from pictures of me at his age, although the neon strobes flashing in the clear, cushiony heels of his tennis shoes weren’t around then.

      I mussed his hair again, and this time, he poked me in the stomach.

      I turned to Aunt Poi Yee, who smiled. I watched my uncle, walking with his hand on Jing-Wei’s shoulder. Ming kept craning his head back to keep his eye on me as we climbed the stairs to the restaurant above.

      ***

      At the top of the stairs, the maitre d’ led us through a spacious and formal dining area. Long, vertical plate-glass windows looked out on the bustle of pedestrians and vehicles in the streets below. Groups of patrons engaged in loud, animated discussions at round tables draped in white linen, and no empty stations could be seen.

      We passed two huge water tanks, one with an array of live fish, the other crawling in shellfish. Ming stopped to gawk at the underwater creatures, and my uncle nudged him to keep going.

      I became conscious of the other diners—men with silk ties and designer wool suits and women in sequin-beaded dresses and flashy high heels—while I wore a T-shirt and jeans. Why, after all these years, did my father bring me to such a fancy restaurant? Had he been in touch with my mom? Did he even know anything about me?

      My father was a forbidden subject, like adultery or alcoholism. My mother never mentioned him, as if he didn’t exist, and I never asked.

      I fixed on the flashing red lights in the heels of Ming’s shoes and followed them. The host directed us to the middle of the restaurant where a gathering awaited us at a gigantic table. I saw my father, his wispy, thinning black hair, the restaurant’s fluorescent light casting a glow off his forehead’s dove-white skin, his dark eyes half-hidden, almost shuttered by the narrow slats of his eyelids. He wore a pale, oversized button-down print shirt that hung loose on his hunched, spiny shoulders. He got up to greet us, and at full height, he stood a shade over five feet. Still, he was taller than my mom. He pulled out the chair next to him, and the host guided me there.

      My mother sat on my right. To my father’s left, a woman with short, straight hair bounced a baby in a fuzzy yellow sleeper on her lap. A toddler occupied a booster seat alongside her. I recognized my cousin Hoy, sporting a white muscle T-shirt and a carefree grin. The man adjacent to Hoy resembled my uncle, but was thinner, with a narrow, jutting jaw and a chipmunk-shaped mouth. Sunken pockets under his eyes made him look tired. Next came a chubby teenage boy with wide bulging eyes, magnified by thick glasses, giving his face the impression of shock or dismay. He sat with another boy, a little younger and thinner. A girl with straight hair parted off center, about the same age as Jing-Wei, remained expressionless by the two boys. And finally, a woman, with flabby cheeks and a mole on her chin, smiled at us. Uncle Chun-Kwok and his family settled into the empty seats near this woman.

      I whispered to my mom, “Who are all these people?”

      “Maybe that his family.” She stared at the woman holding the infant.

      “His wife?”

      “Could be.”

      “I have a stepmother?”

      She shrugged.

      My father introduced my mom and me to the others at our table. She greeted each one, and I nodded, smiled, and waved.

      Then she said, “The woman with the little girl and baby, she Hoy’s wife.”

      Relief swept over me. Hard enough to meet a father I didn’t know. Thank God I didn’t have to deal with a stepmother too.

      “The one by Hoy, he Huang Fu. He also your uncle, youngest brother to your father. He one of seven sons in family.”

      “Seven?”

      “Yes. Your father have two older brothers, number one, number two in China. Your father number three. Number four in China too. Number five die last year. Chun-Kwok, we stay with him, he number six. Huang Fu number seven.”

      It felt like the first day at work, when they introduced you to the one hundred and thirty-six people in your department.

      She pointed to Hoy. “He the son to Number One.”

      I nodded.

      “The girl and two boys belong to Number Seven. The woman with, how you say, spot, moling on face? She the one his wife.”

      “Got