Words and Light

Growing up, I took only a mild interest in my family’s history. As second-generation Chinese-Americans, my brothers and I knew the basics of how our parents’ parents had carved out their space in the U.S., but we weren’t pressured too hard to go into engineering, finance or law. (There was some pressure, but I did become a journalist and my parents still love me.) We didn’t speak Chinese at home, but my mom passed on the important lessons — remove your shoes when you enter a home, top off others’ teacups before refilling your own, education comes first — and we still got red envelopes on Lunar New Year.

But over the past couple of years, I’ve begun asserting my identity as a Chinese-American. Maybe it’s because I see my young niece and nephew and I wonder how I’ll pass on my heritage to my rhetorical children. Maybe it’s because I regret the error of my flippant childhood/adolescent/young adult attempts at pretending — or hoping — I wasn’t any different than the people I went to school with. Maybe it’s because I know my parents, uncles and one remaining grandparent aren’t getting any younger and there remain untold stories that I want to hear, but I don’t know enough to ask.

Perhaps it’s because I have a belatedly newfound appreciation for the challenges and struggles immigrants face, no matter when they came to the U.S., and I am proud of what my family has accomplished in spite of the obstacles that were strewn across their paths.

So, lately, I’ve taken a greater interest in my family’s history. A couple months ago, I got to join my grandmother on the most personal, once-in-a-lifetime trip I can imagine taking. When I haven’t been working on my print shop or moving across town or traveling once again, I’ve been culling and editing the film I shot in China with my grandmother. I finally finished going through it last night. And I apologize if this just makes me a massive jerk, but there are a few more things I need to do before I can share the film here or anywhere.

But I’m really excited.

So, in the meantime, I’m just going to share a couple photos I took in May of my dad’s home in San Francisco Chinatown, where he and my grandparents and uncle lived when they first came to the States in the 1960s.

© 2016. Near San Francisco Chinatown. Saturday, May 6, 2017. Portra 400, Pentax 6×7.

I’m sorry I’m a jerk.

The film will come.

© 2016. Near San Francisco Chinatown. Saturday, May 6, 2017. Portra 400, Pentax 6×7.