A Shattered American Dream

In 1976, having decided to seek their fortunes in America, my parents left me and my two brothers in the care of my maternal grandmother. I was 15 then, and my brothers were 13 and 11.

My father's father never wavered in his opposition to my parents' plan. "America, America," he sneered, "are its streets paved with gold?" Dad turned blue in the face but stuck to his plan of following Mom to America. She "jumped plane," skipping out on her return flight and the conditions of her tourist visa. Dad then "jumped ship." Bidding adieu to his days as a sailor while his boat was docked in Florida, he went ashore and hurried to New York to meet up with Mom.

In Chinatown, they rented a small room and worked hard, stifling days as laborers. They ended up working in different states, and often two or three weeks would pass before they had a chance to meet. Once a month they would phone us, and when we asked them when they would get green cards and bring us over, they would always say, "Soon."

This photo was taken in Chinatown in 1976. Mom was wearing fashionable bell-bottoms, and her hair was beautifully styled. She always cared a lot for her appearance, and did her best to tend to her looks in America. But later she told me that she was working as a waitress when the photo was taken. Carting around trays full of dishes all day made for sore arms and legs, but she put on the high heels for the camera. Dad had just arrived in New York, and his American dream hadn't been shattered yet. He had left his good clothes behind but his face still beamed. A bright dandy in Taiwan, he would grow dingy and dispirited in the kitchens of stateside Chinese restaurants.

My father wouldn't get his green card until eight years after he arrived, and so my youngest brother went from 11 until 18 without seeing him. That year my brother was admitted to Taiwan University, and the family was reunited at the two-month army training camp for the college-bound. We cried amid a green sea of military uniforms. I used up several packets of tissues blowing my nose.

When I turned 24, I went to New Jersey to be with Dad. In March it was still cold on the east coast of America, and sleet fell outside. In the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant my father showed a well-practiced dexterity at lifting heavy woks from the fierce flames. The spatula clanked as it hit the woks, and beads of sweat covered his body. It was the first time I had seen my father do this kind of work, and I had to stifle tears. Dad didn't notice, but I was really shaken up. He should have been something more than a cook.

Nothing went as planned for my father in America. But then three years ago Grandpa passed away, leaving land in the mountains to Dad and his brothers, and now they've all become "landed gentry."

Grandpa's doubts turned out to be well founded. For Dad the streets of America weren't paved with gold. Instead, Grandpa left him gold on the steep slopes of his homeland.