a tribute to antoinette and the fatherland

My father is still a mystery to me. It seems like every year I learn something new about him that he casually forgot to mention in my 20 years of upbringing. Growing up I always knew he was different…a little more reserved than some other dads. I remember realizing the difference in his ethnicity at a young age and deciding that that was why he didn’t cheer as loud at games or like to go and watch the comedies that were the hits of the Friday night big screens. Really race had nothing to do with that…
It wasn’t until I was in high school did I find out that he worked for the FBI. He was the youngest undercover drug officer hired at the time straight out of college. He had been held at gunpoint, he had a few big time drug busts under his belt, he had an Afro and it explained all his connections with government friends. I don’t remember why he told us but I remember the realization of why our phone number was never listed throughout my childhood.
I always knew that he came from very little. My grandparents in Hawaii have lived in the same low-income housing apartments ever since they emigrated from Hong Kong when he was 11. There are 7 children in his family and they all fit in a small 2-bedroom apartment. The siblings all attended the poor school in Honolulu known for fights and gangs. My uncle would tell us stories of them throwing stones at other boys on their way home from school.
It is funny the things that your memory decides to hold on to. I can vividly remember my dad coming home from work in his business suit when I was about 8 years old. He reached on top of the refrigerator and pulled down the movie “Return of Jafar”. My brother and I were so excited. I remember pretending that we were dancing Chinese dragons playing under our penguin-patterned blanket. I remember practicing breaking boards outside when I was training for my black belt. I remember him mowing our giant lawn and playing catch with my brother.
As I rifle through the pages of my memories I have many flashes of fun times. My nickname of “Toe” that he always called me, his yelling “ish” as he ran after us as children, his falling asleep on the couch with his mouth open wide. As I am growing up I am learning more and more about my father, slowly piecing together the puzzle that is his life. Just last week he told me that he lived in Saigon for 2 years when he was young…something that I never would have guessed if not for my visiting the port. It was something that even my mother did not know.

In Hong Kong I finally was able to learn of his beginnings. I always say that you can tell a lot from a person after seeing their home and after years of waiting I was finally able to do that. Still situated on 202 Nathan Road, my father’s old apartment was invisible to the naked eye. As the busy Chinese men in their flashy business suits walked to work weaving their way through the madness of shoppers, my father’s old home sat situated on top of what is now a cosmetics store. Without purpose, it would go unnoticed. Amidst the skyscrapers and grand architecture, the complex stood at 5 stories small. Like in the tales of Harry Potter, the door appeared hidden by magic, only waiting to be seen by those who took the time to look.
I ventured up the tight staircase wedge between two well-lit stores. The concrete was worn and begged for attention. I saw the mailboxes lining the entrance. I walked the 4 flights to peek inside the door. It is such a funny feeling to finally have placed an image of this foreign land I always pictured in my mind. Of course 40 years later time has passed and the city has changed, but still the scent is left behind.


It was such an amazing experience to walk the roads of Kowloon and to see the Peninsula Hotel where my grandpa used to play drums with his band. I feel like I have a new understanding of my past and a better grasp of where my father came from. Seeing his place just added to his success. I better understand his determination in life and his drive to provide everything possible for his family. I am so lucky to have had the opportunity to explore his home and I know that soon my brother will find the chance as well.
I am looking forward to the next bit of information that will I will randomly be dealt with- always shocking, forever interesting. One day in Hong Kong was not enough, but I am excited to know that next time I go I may be bringing someone home for visit that is long past due.

I can never live in China. It is quite the disappointing realization. My body does not agree with the haze that drapes over the colorless buildings and the Chinese snow that interlaces with the trees. This “snow”, more commonly referred to as cotton, was continually blowing with the wind and causing my nose to become very unhappy. I have never had to deal with allergies before, and I know that as long as I keep away from China I most likely won’t have to ever again. But the allergies weren’t the only depressing feature of the country. I have never been in a place that screamed COMMUNISM so blatantly. If I were to picture Russia I think I would think of China with white people. No color. Cold. Bland uniforms. Only in Russia the snow would be made from ice. Hmmm. It is interesting how my perception of the world can change so fast.