We left Queens, New York in February of ‘78. I can still picture my grandfather, carefully tucking the backseat of my father’s huge, rusty old Cadillac with blankets and pillows. “Xiǎoxīn kāichē,” were the last words he said to my mom, though “drive safely” back then didn’t include “buckle up.” Years later my mother would tell us that she had never seen her father cry, but on that dark and frigid night, she caught a glimpse of the General’s tears, brushed quickly away by the cloud of smoke coming from his mouth as his exhales hit the cold air. Even at the age of five, I knew there was no turning back.
I distinctly remember our second stop because it was the first time I had tasted a Chao Shao Bao. We made our way into Chinatown, parked along Mott Street and watched as my father returned with a white bakery box tied up in butcher string, filled with huge, pillow-white buns and just a peek of the dark red bbq pork filling atop each one. My sisters and I peeled off the square pieces of paper from the bottoms and gnawed at the bun, while our little faces got lost in the salty goodness. I don’t remember much about that drive, I felt like we did most of it in the evening. My father didn’t want to stop, so when one of us had to go, he’d pull over the side of the highway. What I remember next is waking up in an apartment, a very cold one. “An-Yueh, turn on the heat, just a little, the kids are cold. Girls, wake up, dàojiāle, see our new home.” And just like that our lives began on Buford Highway.
Patches of images and memories jump in and out from there, those happiest and hardest are easiest to remember. One of the more painful memories, is when I had to repeat kindergarten because my birthday fell in October. None of us can recall exactly when we started school, but I think because we moved mid-year, we didn’t formally enroll until the following school year. I was nervous but felt brave as I walked onto the bus. If you’ve never been on the receiving end of staring eyeballs, you might not realize just how heavy the feeling can be. I was called chink (first time I’d ever heard that word) and though I didn’t fully understand what they were saying, I had enough street sense to understand that they weren’t trying to be friends.
The day I actually met some friends was at our apartment complex playground, inside the chain-fenced haven, lined with green turf and a long stainless steel slide, the kind that blistered like the sun on a hot summer’s day. I don’t know how much English any of us knew, but we figured out enough to start up play dates and hang out. To a couple of grade school kids, the entire complex became our playground for exploring. We designated a strip of trees that backed onto Shallowford Road, “the woods.” We spent hours laughing, making booby traps and pretending we were Charlie’s Angels. Our favorite past time during summers (which was the only season I really remember) was swimming. Between Doraville’s community pool and the one we had at the apartments, and never touching an ounce of sun block, we definitely got our vitamin Ds.
Money and how little we had, was something that we were reminded of daily, so we rarely ate out. My mother made dishes with ingredients easily found in New York groceries, but down south, nearly impossible. We drove for what felt like days to Sweet Auburn, which was one of the few places that she could buy pigs feet. And for “special” condiments, we had to drive down Buford Highway, to today’s Sydney Marcus into a tiny shop, just for soy sauce. For hard to find greens, we’d travel to West Ponce, to today’s Dekalb Farmer’s Market. No, napa cabbage was not sold at Big Star or Food Giant. We pretty much spent weekends driving around looking for ways to recreate a taste of home. Funny how the place we were trying to make home then, is the place we go back to, to find it, today.
Getting on the bus to Cary Reynolds.
At the apartment complex pool.
Me and my younger sister standing in front of our apartment. It was called Manor Ridge, today it is Legacy North.
Friends who met on a playground. Vicky and her brother Pablo Mosca, still hanging out after 40 years.