Sex, Love and Sweet Suicide E-Book

Chin

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Chinese by birth but spiritually Italian, Chin's strength and tenacity to overcome drugs, liquor, promiscuity and the very real attraction of suicide is a compelling read. Survival is innate as her abandonment in childhood teaches her to do whatever it takes to live. Her adventures take her across America and Canada as a young girl on her own; through the wild disco days, through a myriad of careers - from becoming a mother and wife to her multitude of lovers. And finally, to who she is now - still re-inventing herself.Sex, Love and Sweet Suicide charts Chin's life from the age of 2. She was abandoned by her mother when her Chinese father died and was left to fend for herself whilst being allegedly 'cared' for by various charitable institutions until she was fostered by a loving family aged around 7, but this too did not last. Her many early traumatic experiences: found in an apartment beside the dead body of a Chinese man and working as a runner for an opium den at the age of 5, are only two examples of many such episodes which indelibly marked her attitude to life and love. She spent her teenage years as a singer, a go-go dancer and the lover of many men, always moving on or running away when life got tough, as it inevitably did. Living a chaotic lifestyle was her norm until, aged 40, she decided her life had to change. Even then life did not run smoothly. This is a hard-hitting, true account of a difficult life yet it manages to convey hope and humour too. As Chin herself says, she is a survivor."

Leseprobe

Sex, Love and Sweet Suicide

by Chin

Publisher’s Foreword

Chin has written the story of her life, from being orphaned inNew Yorkat the age of two, to her life at age 55.

It is an amazingly honest and brave book, with tales that were heart-wrenching to write, and are gripping and sometimes shocking to read.

At one point, we thought it should carry Clive James’ slogan: “What seems fictitious is true and what seems true is fictitious,” but we think this is all true, within the normal limits of human memory.

Names of some people, places and companies have been amended for the avoidance of embarrassment and in order to protect the identities of those people who may not wish to be known.

© Chin 2011

The author asserts the moral right to be identified

as the author of the work in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Fledgling Press Ltd,

7 Lennox St.,Edinburgh,EH4 1QB

Published by Fledgling Press, 2011

www.fledglingpress.co.uk

Cover design by Melissa Wood

ISBN: 9781905916405

Dedication

This book would not have been written without the support of my very loving, giving children and wonderful friends. This book would never been finished without the kindness of my publisher and caring editor who guided me through each step. I thank them and dedicate my book to them with the deepest of love and affection.

Despite the craziness of my life, despite the despairs and suicide attempts, I am here with a new found hope in my heart. Remember to laugh daily and find the small things in life a pleasure. I hope that anyone who reads my book finds the hope they need to survive a world that is ablaze in turmoil.

Chin, 2011

When the world says, “Give up,”

Hope whispers, “Try it one more time.”

~Author Unknown

Chapter 1 : A Street Urchin’s Life

I was a hungry five year old street kid who’d do pretty much anything for food. I did what I thought was intelligent at the time. Stealing from pushcarts and open grocery stands was part of my daily activity. I wasn’t a bad kid. I’d share with other abandoned kids if I took too much. Some foods spoiled so it was either toss it or share it. I was never one to toss anything out. It was also a game sometimes to see how much I could steal but first it was survival. It wasn’t like the foster homes didn’t feed me but it was only two meals a day and if you didn’t eat fast enough the other bigger kids took your food. There were no second helpings. There was no one to complain to about someone taking your meal. That was just the way it was. Pretty soon you learn to gulp down half-chewed food or take from other less competitive smaller kids. I was, and am, a survivor.

There’s an epic Chinese legend over 2,000 years old handed down from mother to child, written in poems, essays, and operas and still studied in Chinese schools today. It is the legend of a girl who goes to war in place of her elderly father. She fights in a bloody campaign for several years and when it’s over, the emperor ofChinainvites her to court. He wants to reward her for her outstanding heroic service but all she asks for is a good horse to return home. Once home she discards her warring manly clothes and dons her silk woman’s clothes much to the astonishment of all her war comrades. Her name was Mu Lan and I was named after her, after my father’s last opera. I believe he wanted me to emulate this warrior woman, to be strong and resilient. I believe my own elderly father knew he would not live long enough to guide me through life and he left me the only legacy he could, my name.

There was strong pungent Chinese incense burning in front of a large black and white professionally-taken photograph of an elderly gentleman; in the small tenement apartment crowded with people, some crying, some talking; lamenting the gentleman’s death. Besides the smell, the sounds that I remember most are heavy sobs and a humming hush that stayed inside me through the years, a dream image that never leaves; though the image has faded over the decades it’s there none the less. I think I was two but I’ve no recollection before that image and only a brief memory at three. The large photograph is of my father.

My father was an opera star, deep baritone or so I was told by old men at the Tung On Association, one of the three major triads that once ruledNew York City’sChinatown. Men at the association knew him back inChinaor saw my father perform and all spoke highly of him as a gentleman and star performer.

He was an amateur photographer and left me a few black and white photos of himself. In almost all of the photos my father looks handsome, arrogant, and debonair in his expensive well-tailored three piece suit. He’s balding with a moustache and stands with a sexy attitude that clearly comes across even in old photos. Is it indecent to think that one’s father is sexy? If so, well, I guess I’m guilty.

One large portrait with crumpled yellow edges shows two couples, a Caucasian man and woman and my father and mother. The Caucasian woman holds me aged two on her lap. This photo shows a different man, much older, sickly thin and haggard. What was he suffering from and how did he get this way? I suppose in those days there wasn’t any health insurance for immigrants. Actually, there still isn’t health insurance for the people who come to thisUnited Statesto escape whatever horrors there are in their homeland.

The Caucasian couple were Italian and eventually changed my life. They helped my parents name me, Rose Maria Isabella, and even got me baptized in the Catholic Church.

That’s all I have, a few photos of my father. Images I used to stare at and caress as a young inquisitive child, often wondering what it’d be like to have this arrogant and handsome man for a father or just to have a father who would stand by me, guide me through life. I wondered as an adult what type of father he would have been and what kind of daughter would I have been to him. I wonder if I haven’t canonized my father but then that’s what we do sometimes when we’ve lost loved ones. There must have been bad habits that drove others mad or maybe this father of mine was too good to be true. I have often thought about this man and how different my future would have been, enfolded in his love, his touch and kind wisdom. Daydreams. That’s all it is, daydreams.

I never thought much about the woman in the photos, my mother, but I could see there was love between my parents. It’s all in their eyes. I don’t know her real name, where she was born or how she came to be with my father. Someone once told me that she was a groupie and followed my father around the country but I don’t really know the truth. I don’t even know her real age or if she had family back inChina. She abandoned me when father died and I never knew why but I blamed myself for his death and her leaving me. In some photos she’d be smiling wide with her hands resting on his shoulders as he sat posing for the photo. You could see he was definitely the dominant one. In some photos she looks really put upon, as if she didn’t want to be bothered being photographed or maybe she was angry about something in her life. She was a beautiful woman, angry or not, and twenty years his junior but I didn’t know much about her until I’d meet her later at age ten. There’s something in these black and white photos that captures the essence of the man I wish I had known at least for a little while, just long enough to remember a hug, his scent or the sound of his operatic voice.

My parents came to this country with an opera troupe despite the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, which removed immigration and most civil rights from Chinese until 1943. The Chinese couldn’t be naturalized or own property or businesses. Most people don’t even know about it or that there was even such a law. The Chinese Exclusion Act lasted from 1882 and was finally suspended in1965, atotal of 83 yearsin this country. During that time you could come here if you had wealth or position and I think my father had both. I don’t know the specifics of the type of visas they used but I do know that my mother had false papers with a fake name - Mary Wong – and her false papers said she was a seamstress. Most immigrants coming over here had false papers with fake names and backgrounds. It was the only way to get into the States, or the immigration people misread their names, for instance the Chinese use their last names first, like mine is Chong Mu Lan, last name first.

A story told by the old association men was that my mother was my father’s fifth wife, as you could have more than one wife inChinaback in the late 1930s as long as you could support them. According to tales told by the association men, father was rich and famous with many homes, wives and children but they all perished whenJapaninvaded and occupiedChinafor a decade, butchering over 250,000 Chinese in a short ten week period. That horrid war was bought to the attention of some by a few authors but the most famous was Iris Chang who wrote “The Rape of Nanking”, and recently a movie/documentary was made – “Nanking” – which featured major movie stars as missionaries who worked inChinawhen it first got invaded. One major movie, one major book about the Chinese during that time period, that’s all.

My father died inChinawhile performing on stage and all my life I thought he died in a fire. I grew up deathly afraid that I would die the same way, burned to death. It wasn’t until I came across an old Chinese newspaper clipping that I found out he died from a massive stroke. Over many moves and life changes I lost the clipping and since I can’t read or write Chinese I don’t really know his real name or even his stage name. Not knowing played havoc in my early brain.

Maybe I was born here inNYC,USA,so they could stay in this country, as a person born here was an automatic citizen and therefore the parents could stay. Mother must have had an extremely difficult time in a strange country with its strange language and culture. I don’t know where she went after my father died. It isn’t until now that I realize that it was she who paid for my foster care and schooling. I guess the pain of losing the man she adored was too much and I must have been a reminder of her loss or . . . she just didn’t want me anymore.

I was a lost child, an invisible small being that tourists passed by without notice. I was an unapologetic child who fought and usually won because I fought without thinking whether I lived or died, it didn’t matter. I was a child who knew no grace; unruly with no manners and not knowing she should have any. Hygiene was fairly absent except for the weekly baths given in the foster care tenement kitchen. Most Chinese living inChinatownpretended we didn’t exist. There weren’t that many of us kids. I think in total we added up to about eight or so in foster care, all of us unwanted for one reason or another. A few children were born into too large households and given away to wealthy childless couples. A few who had no one to protect them were sold to lonely old men as servants. I noticed early that obedient and pretty girls never stayed around long and I took care to stay dirty, to be as foulmouthed as possible and never to behave. I used kitchen shears to cut off my own hair. I wasn’t going to be a girl that disappears.

I remember being three or four and an old man named Bossy Ho took care of me. I remember his scent as he held me, his laughter that made me laugh. I remember sweet treats that he placed in my mouth to please me. I don’t know anything else about him, or how I got to live with him. I do remember that he died sitting on the toilet. I remember cringing in a corner unable to leave, too small to reach and turn the lock. I don’t know how long it took before the cops broke down the door and took me out. I don’t remember where I went to next or how I wound up where I did. I do remember that Bossy Ho cared for me and loved me.

I remember a bath shared with another girl in one of the foster homes. I liked her toy and grabbed it from her. She grabbed it back and then held my head under water. I watched my air bubbles rise up through the calm warm water. I watched them slowly and softly swirl away from me in a quiet that was not part of my young life. I liked it. It felt like an embracing peace under water and I wanted to stay beneath there forever. Suddenly arms reached down and pulled me out. I got a beating for taking the girl’s toy but somehow I didn’t mind since it was my first taste of sweet suicide and near-death. I was five.

My suicidal ideation began in that bathtub. I knew instinctively that it would be my only means of escape from a world of beatings, abandonment, neglect and hunger. It would be a way of shedding my pain forever and I craved it. I was weary of this world and learned to shut down my emotions. If I felt nothing, then nothing could hurt me.

Money And School

On a sunny spring day in the park, I’m five and hungry as usual. I see a well-dressed man in a pinstriped gray suit, middle aged, balding and on the chubby side. He’s sitting on a park bench eating a sandwich. He unwraps the sandwich and places it on the bench, picks up half and starts to eat. I’m thinking how long it’ll take him to eat it. I’m thinking how fast can I run after I grab that other half and the best direction to run. I take a deep breath and make a run for it, grab that sandwich and run as fast as a rat with his tail on fire. By the time he realized what happened I was out of the park and running up the hill. I ducked into the church on top of the hill and devoured it, sitting quietly, peacefully dangling my feet on a wooden pew with the scent of sweet burning candles. That candle scent still quiets my life to this day.

The following day the same man appeared with another sandwich and I smiled and thought this was going to be easy. I ran, grabbed the sandwich off the bench but the wily man was waiting and grabbed my hand. I wiggled and squirmed and shouted for him to let me go. He smiled and said to sit down, offering the sandwich to me. As I ate, he introduced himself as Master Lee, owner of thePell Streetgambling den and said that he needed fast runners to deliver Chinese lotto. The pay was a quarter a run and I wouldn’t have to steal food from strangers again. I took it.

His gambling den already had three other runners around my age. We’d deliver the Chinese lotto papers for customers to burn small holes of their choices with a punk and then deliver them back to the den with the money. The daily pay came to about one dollar for four runs which bought a lot of food back then. It was definitely a windfall. The only problems were cops but they couldn’t arrest us since we were so young. They did chase us sometimes and if they got hold of us would scare us with threats of beating us up, which they rarely did.

Another problem was customers who’d curse me for their bad luck. The best part was customers who won. Lucky money, a tip for delivering their winnings, could be as much as a whole day’s wages. Once a customer won big and tipped me ten dollars. I immediately walked toDelancey Streetwhich had discount stores with the cheapest clothes and purchased ten pairs of one-dollar shoes. It never occurred to me to buy one new pair that fitted properly. I gave away half the shoes since they were too big for me. Getting a large tip was always a cause for celebration. I would buy small toys or a used comic book for a nickel at Shea’s, a small soda pop shop that sold other sundries as well. The owner was one of the sweetest men around and his shop felt closer to home than any place else I knew while living as a street rat.

When I turned five the old woman who ran the foster home put me in theTransfigurationCatholicSchooland actually took me there on the first day along with two other kids who were already enrolled. In kindergarten I stank since I hated baths, didn’t like having my hair washed nor did I brush my teeth. My clothes were ragged and loose and my shoes a size too big. The kids were all white and spoke English while I only understood Cantonese. I didn’t have to understand their language: their stares were enough for me to understand that I wasn’t one of them and never would be. When I started school they called me by my American name, Rose Marie but when not in school I was still called by my Chinese name, Lonnie. It was as if I was two people, the American one and the Chinese one and seldom the two met.

They had strange rituals, placing their hands over their left side and staring at a flag mumbling something. They also put their hands together with fingers pointing to the sky and mumbled something else. I followed their moves. I can’t recall how long I was going to school and running numbers afterwards, but one morning a tall fair-haired man with exotic blue eyes arrived in class. His smile was wide and warm as he went from child to child saying good morning and how were they doing. When he reached me he spoke but I only smiled back, not understanding a word he said. Then unexpectedly this fair-faced man spoke to me in Cantonese. I blinked and stared at him as he asked my name and where I lived and how I liked school. I smiled and almost laughed. The man might as well have been a fairy from a book.

The fair haired man was Father John D. Moore, a Maryknoll priest who lived many years inChina. Father Moore asked about my home life. He was well aware of the street kids and no stranger to poverty. He noticed that I strained my eyes to see him and asked if I had problems seeing. I did but didn’t know it. He asked when my last meal was. It was last night. He wanted to know when I last had a bath or brushed my teeth. I had a bath last week and I don’t know anything about brushing teeth. The man asked question after question but I didn’t feel bad answering them.

The following morning Father Moore took me out of class to an optometrist onCanal Street, the dividing line betweenChinatownand Little Italy. After I received glasses my world amazingly appeared. Suddenly I saw him clearly, his white, clean, fair face with tiny brown spots across his large nose, and sparkling eyes that were the color of sky, with thinning yellow hair, large hands and his big black-clad feet, and most of all I liked his warm, loving smile. He laughed as he watched me inspect him. This was the first time I was so close to a white man and he was good to me. Father Moore returned me to class and said that afterwards he wanted to take me to visit some nuns who lived near the school. I said I couldn’t since I worked those hours but the next day I might be able to. He nodded yes. I think I fell in love for the first time then but didn’t know that it was love.

Next day after school I went with Father Moore to a building that was on a hill across the street from school. He said that this was the nuns’ home that smelled just like the church. Two nuns greeted us. One went off to speak with Father Moore while the other took me into a room with a gigantic cloth-covered table and many chairs around it.

I was given a large of bowl of white gruel, a spoon and the nun said she’d be right back. I shovelled a spoonful into my mouth and my mouth glued shut. These people were going to kill me. That’s why that priest brought me here. I had to get away quick. Suddenly before I could escape the nun returned and poured some white liquid over the gruel, added a spoonful of white grains on top, mixed it all together and handed me the spoon motioning me to eat. I hesitated. I stared at her and then at the bowl, unable to decide if I should eat and meet my death. I took a breath and shoved the spoon in. It was good, very good and I beamed. She smiled and called for others to join her in what must have been a very strange sight. A tiny dirty bedraggled child eating her first bowl of oatmeal with her glasses sliding down her flat nose but I didn’t care if they stared, I had food.

Father Moore came back and explained in Cantonese what I was eating and that I could have breakfast daily before school here in the convent. He said the nuns would like to give me a bath but didn’t know if that would be alright with me. I said no but finally relented. They ran water, poured some thick liquid into the tub and bubbles appeared, my first bubble bath. There were many things those Maryknoll nuns showed me besides their kind smiles and open generosity. I never felt like an intruder or that I overstayed my welcome. They couldn’t feed me enough and over time I almost grew to care for them but was cautious. The same was true for Father Moore. The man was beyond kind and giving and I would have liked to care back, give a little back, but I didn’t know how and again, part of me held my distance.

It’s the people who come into your life who change you and you don’t even know it. The priest, Father Moore changed me, gave me sight and fed me. He drifted in and out of my young life, always appearing when I needed him. Of course, I didn’t understand his humanitarian care or that he, being a priest, was a man devoted to God. I didn’t stay in touch with Father Moore out of my own selfishness, a child even as an adult. I think they call it emotional immaturity. Funny, I think there are more people with this disorder than there are emotionally mature people.

In An Opium Den

It is just before my sixth birthday and I’m climbing up dark stairs. My eyes strain to see the image of an ancient man in a black cheongsam, a Chinese high-collared long gown with slits on both sides, sitting by the door. I have money concealed in my tiny waistband, winnings from Chinese lotto. The bookie’s instructions are simple: carry the winnings through the streets ofChinatownswiftly, hand it over to the winner and no one else. Never speak to anyone along the way and do not stop to play. If I am caught I must not reveal the bookie’s address or I will be severely punished.

This time the winner is the owner of the opium den at Chinatown Fair. The old man sitting by the door is a silent alarm who gets rid of inquisitive strangers. He has a small gong by his side to signal any unscheduled police raids to people inside. Oftentimes the police will schedule raids to show they’re doing their jobs. When a raid is announced, the wealthier men leave and are replaced by men who are paid to sit there and get arrested. The old man wants the money but I won’t release it to him. I tell him I must hand it over only to the owner. After cursing me, he reluctantly lets me into the inner sanctum.

There is a small foyer, almost closet size, a small wooden desk with a tiny lamp on it. A young man dressed in western garb of white shirt and dark trousers carries a small gun in his waistband. He sits smoking a cigarette and tells me that I’m forbidden beyond that point. I am only a child and a worthless girl child at that, he says in disgust. Chinese girls had no value in the eyes of Chinese men except as wives, and only if they had money and came from a prestigious family, but if you were poor you were a plaything.

If I leave the money with anyone other than the winner I will be cheated out of good luck money. That wasn’t going to happen to me. I started to cry loudly, stomping my feet and causing a giant ruckus. Many came running for I was disturbing opium’s tranquillity.

Among those who came to see what the noise was about was the owner, venerable Old Man Chang. I recognized him and bowed, holding his money up with both of my tiny hands. In this posture I showed him that I revered his powerful position in the community and that I was but a humble servant. Old Man Chang grinned and told me to stand up straight. He wanted to see the child who dared to cause such commotion in his establishment.

I looked him straight in the eye. I was a street urchin but totally fearless. No one and nothing frightened me for I had nothing to lose. If he decided to beat me, that would not be anything new and I had gotten used to it anyway. He smiled. I did not. I waited for my lucky money so I could depart. He kept on smiling and spoke to the others. What spunk I had for a girl child. What loud lungs for someone so tiny. A thought came to me then. I asked if he could use this miserable girl child to help in his opium den, for a price that is. He laughed loudly; they all laughed but stopped when they realized that I was serious. I drew in a deep breath, gathering my strength, and repeated my proposal.

I could do many things. I was an experienced runner for Master Lee and had been working for him for a year. I knew when to be silent. I knew what to do without being told. I was obedient, as he had seen when I would not release his money to anyone else but him. I learned quickly, I was strong and dependable. I worked hard and knew my place. I asked for work, I was not begging for work.

Old Man Chang said he would think about it. He would speak to Master Lee to confirm all I said and would leave word with him about his decision. Old Man Chang handed me a generous five-dollar bill and nodded to the young man to let me go. I left hopeful.

Only men visited opium dens back then. Women were forbidden but since I was not really a full-grown woman and didn’t have the “curse” I was allowed to enter that sanctuary. On my first day at work Old Man Chang walked me around himself, which was a big honor. He didn’t care where I came from or where I went as long as I was on time each day.

Old Man Chang did not want me to become an addict so only allowed me to work an hour a day. If I became addicted, I’d be useless to him. He sought notoriety by having the only den inChinatownwith a girl child working. My hours werethree to four pmduring the short time in which restaurants were closed before dinner hour, ornine to ten pmafter theChinatownstores had closed: the choice was mine. The opium den was usually filled to capacity with thin men living in substandard conditions while their families lived on the other side of the world. This was their only refuge from a foreign society that could never accept them. They lit pipes to forget loneliness. They lit pipes to kill the hunger for female companionship. They lit pipes so they could feel omnipotent.

My job was emptying spittoons, giving out warm towels, filling and lighting opium bowls, filling teacups, cleaning up messes left from sick patrons. I’d also alert the man in the foyer if a patron died. Anything I made on the side was mine. For a quarter I’d let the men feel me up and a quarter is a quarter. If there was a raid and I didn’t run out in time, I was to tell them I was visiting an old uncle and nothing else. The pay was a dollar for one hour’s work.

The opium den was sparsely lit with twenty or forty-watt bulbs. I could barely see the grimy walls. The windowless room was the size of two large living rooms and dining rooms together. The atmosphere was dense with the sweet scents of opium smoke filling the air, filling my lungs. Chinese music played softly in the background with momentary murmurs and coughing from men living in their smoke world. People rarely spoke, caught in opiate apparitions.

Rows of triple-tiered bunk beds ran along four walls and in the center of the room. There were small double-tiered wood tables on the side of each bunk bed. Each table held matches and an ashtray. Next to the tables on the floor were cheap metal spittoons. In the back of the room there was a small kitchen where tea and coffee were constantly being brewed. An icebox held Nedick orange soda, Coca Cola and some fruit. There was a gray Formica table with five mismatched chairs, three tall white cabinets and a large chopping-block table. A washing machine with a top wringer stood near the double sink and wooden racks next to it to dry towels. A huge chest the size of a small icebox held the opium. I was never allowed near it.

School was out for the summer but I still ate breakfast at the convent with the nuns. I worked in the opium den an hour in the early evenings and the rest of the time at the bookie place onPell Street. In between I’d grab a bowl of noodles or other cheap eats at a cheap restaurant and sit on the curb before returning to the roach and rat infested tenement apartment or find some other place to sleep.

I hid my money in a small niche in a narrow tunnel in the back of a building onMott Street; the tunnel bricks were loose and easy to remove. You walked past the garbage cans, down a flight of stairs into a back alley to the airshaft and then up another flight to the street. I used to hide and sleep there in warm weather. If nothing else, I was a resourceful child.

Old Man Chang was kind to me, as was Master Lee. They often fed me tidbits of food or gave me an extra coin. They never reprimanded or hit me if I did something wrong. Old Man Chang knew that patrons gave me extra money sometimes and never asked why or how much. He knew that many of his patrons liked little girls. They were as addicted to an unformed body as to the opium, and paid me for their lecherous touches. He turned a blind eye towards these acts for I was a commodity but he was not as generous to others. He’d have them beaten, kicked and punched mercilessly for any small infraction.

While I worked for Old Man Chang and Master Lee I was protected from street gangs and other hoodlums who used to beat or harass me. My masters’ power and money in the community were legendary, even to the American police force. I had money. I had work. I ate. I lived.

When I worked in the den my mind floated into dreams. The best of all daydreams was to belong to someone, part of a family like the ones I saw passing onChinatownstreets. Perhaps it was the opium smoke that sent me into that euphoric bliss. It was my only escape from a world that never saw a child whose eyes were glazed from opium smoke. Certainly nobody would care if I disappeared. I was always hyper-vigilant which kept me alive and safe in a world that wanted no part of me.

I learned in an opium den that there are lives much worse than mine. I could have succumbed to their debauchery. I could have been seduced by money. I could have turned into a street whore on dope. Instead I found small bits of hope and security in an opium den.

Clams in the sun

That summer I was invited by Master Lee for a week’s stay out in hisLong Beachgambling house with more rooms than I could have ever imagined. At least a dozen men stayed there from time to time. There was even a large backyard with grass, trees and flowers. The basement had tables near the walls set up for games of mah-jong and fan-tan and craps. A huge kitchen in the back had a full time cook and helper. I had proven myself to be a good, industrious and honest worker and the owners of the opium and gambling den rewarded me generously.

My bed was in a tiny attic room with a small window and I didn’t have to share. It was clean, the sheets smelled sweet and the pillow was new. I thought I was in paradise. I had no chores except to take care of myself. Across the street was a wooden pier that overhung the canal and a little walk away there was a large body of water where the men would gather to pick clams and gather crabs at night with their lanterns shining, fooling the crabs into thinking it was daylight and tricking them into swimming to the surface.

Tow Sook, whose American name was Bill, taught me how to hunt for clams with my toes, digging into the sand beneath the water. When I found a clam I’d hold my nose, dive under and get it. Then find another the same way, crack the two together, breaking the shells and eating them fresh out of the water. There was nothing more delectable than those summer clams and eating, eating, eating until I was full. In the evenings when everyone was gambling, Uncle Bill played music and danced with a pretend partner in the living room. He caught me one night watching, took me into his arms and introduced me to the seduction of music. He taught me the fox trot, cha cha and mambo. I learned to get lost inside the rhythms, in the sounds that carried me away, far far away from the world. I loved music, getting lost in the drum beat and it followed me through the rest of my life.

One of the co-owners of the summer house was named George who, out of respect for his status, I called Uncle. He was a handsome man and during quiet lulls he took me to the beach and taught me how to swim by throwing me into the water with a small tube around my body. I swam chasing his toe until in a few days I was swimming without the tube. He even borrowed a child’s bike from the next door neighbor and taught me how to ride it. Unfortunately, I got into an accident the very next day and fell, pulling the skin right off my knee. Afraid that they’d send me back if I was damaged, I told no one and hid my bloody knee with lots of tissues and band-aids under long pants. Uncle George gave names to the stars that shone in themidnightskies and taught me how to bait a crab trap. He was a wealthy man but never married and had no children.

Sometimes I’d eat alone in the upstairs kitchen during the day. It was on one of those days that a gambler who I had seen aroundChinatowncame to me and placed a quarter on the counter next to where I was eating. He said I could have that quarter if I’d be a good girl and let him touch me. I continued eating as if he wasn’t there, his hands feeling my unformed breasts and body. He left; I put the quarter in my pocket. Afterwards I went into the nearby town and bought two comic books.

It happened a few more times and I thought nothing of it. I felt nothing, no right or wrong, only money. One day while I was in my room Uncle George came to ask if I wanted to go for a walk down to the water and saw my bloody knee and the comic books. He asked how and when I had hurt myself and then asked about the comics. I told him that I fell a few days ago but didn’t want to tell anyone because I was afraid I’d be sent home. I also told him nonchalantly about the gambler who was feeling me up while I ate lunch. I remember his face turning red. I remember how his hands became fists. I remember that he excused himself and told me to stay in my room until he returned and patted me on the head as he left.

He returned with bandages and iodine, patched my knee and said we were going to a movie in town then dinner and dessert in a real restaurant because I was such a brave girl. My very first movie was “The Wizard of Oz” and our dinner of meatballs and spaghetti was at a small Italian restaurant near theLong Beachboardwalk. It was late by the time we got home and I was half asleep from the late hour and too much food.

The next day, the groping gambler was gone. I did not inquire about him. I danced with Uncle Bill that night and the following afternoon left that beach heaven and reluctantly returned toNew York Cityand my reality.

I still have a tender spot forLong Beachand go there whenever I can. It’s not just the sea air that draws me but the wonderful free life I had there for one week. One week of no worries, no work, no running, and two men who cared for me as if I were their own.

A Taste Of Hate

Back home Father Moore took it upon himself to be my guardian angel. He looked after me as much as he could. The priest knew I slept in the park during the summer and in a hidden back alley when the weather got cold, or down in a basement where the furnace melted the snow off my clothes. He knew I ran numbers for a local bookie and emptied spittoons in an opium den. There was nothing he could do about any of it but he never once condemned me.

My last foster home was onBayard Street, on the second floor facing the street; there were two bedrooms, a medium size eat-in kitchen with a bathroom off to the left and a living room in the front. A mother and father, two sisters and two brothers shared the place. I got frequent baths, three meals a day, shared a bed with one of the sisters, and when school began I had clothes and shoes that fitted. The sisters were kind and worked from nine to five along with their father and the older brother. Only the mother and younger son Sam and I stayed home. I had stopped working in both dens by then since that family fed me.

Sam didn’t take to me. He rarely spoke and when no one was looking he’d pinch or kick me. I ignored him but purposely did things that irritated him like taking his things and hiding them.

Sam came home unexpectedly one day when I was playing with his special autographed baseball, which I was told never to touch. I didn’t hear or see him come into the living room but he saw me, screamed, his cigarette falling from his lips to the floor, and ran towards me. I jumped over a chair to get away. I fell, hearing the crack in my left arm; he leapt onto me, slapped my face and grabbed his cigarette, holding it close to my face. I felt the hot heat, smelled the stink of my own flesh burn as Sam pressed his cigarette into my cheek. I kicked him with all my strength, jabbed at his eyes and ran, arm dangling, face burning, smouldering. I ran to the church to hide, more afraid of being caught than of the pain. Pain was no stranger to me.

There, in the dim cool quiet, between the wooden pews, sitting on the marble floor, my arm throbbed, my face was on fire but I refused to cry. I barely breathed in case Sam had followed me into the church. My throat was dry. I felt hate rising, consuming me. Hate for Sam. A priest came out from the rectory, genuflected in front of the altar and came down the altar stairs. I stayed perfectly still. He walked past but came back after catching a glimpse of me hiding. He was the head monsignor and was always kind but when he saw me his eyes grew wide with horror. The monsignor tried to grab me but I screamed from the pain. He shouted for help and two altar boys and a nun came out. I’m taken to a nearby doctor who plasters up my arm, puts salve on my cheek and gives me aspirins to ease the pain. Back in the rectory I sat in the office licking a lime lollipop, my favorite. Father Moore came and he and the monsignor stood outside the door. I knew they were talking about me but couldn’t hear the words.

A Home at Last

I sat in the rectory for a long time with my shopping bag filled with my things that Father Moore retrieved from that foster home. He arranged for a new place for me to live. They happened to be the same couple who lived next door to my parents, the same people who had had me baptized. They were Marion and Tony Cappelli, a middle-aged Italian couple. I was asked to put my things away and I did, tossing the paper bag into the drawer. After all, I wasn’t going to be there long. Marionshowed me the proper way, taking each piece of clothing out and placing some neatly in the drawer, some she threw in the trash. I thought this was a waste of time. This sweet-smiling couple, different from anyone I had ever met, had rules for every aspect of life and I balked at every one of them. I didn’t know much about anything and didn’t care if I ever learned.

I couldn’t pronounceMarionand called her Miyon. There were a lot of English words I couldn’t pronounce since Cantonese was my first language. The Cappellis spoke Italian and English but more often spoke Italian. In school they spoke only English. I began to speak Cantonese, English and Italian all in one sentence. Needless to say, no one understood me. The Cappellis stopped speaking to me in Italian which I regret to this day.

Marionactually was Irish and had married Tony, an Italian, but knew his language. How, I don’t really know. She had whitish-blonde, medium-length hair that she let me brush into wild tangles, never complaining. Her blue eyes sparkled whenever she called me her sweet potato pie as I cuddled in her warm soft lap. She had a busty build with flawless milk white freckled skin and lulled me to sleep with Irish lullabies, gently patting my tiny behind. Her voice, that patting, stayed with me throughout my life and whenever I got sick I’d rock myself and hear her voice inside my head until I fell asleep.

Marionwas a cleaning fanatic, washing the worn linoleum floors daily, along with dusting and she even shined the plastic cover on the Castro convertible couch. I loved entering the kitchen via the bedroom, under the bed of course; and she started to mop that particular part of the floor twice a day. I also took to walking on the rooftop and walking down the fire escape to their apartment. That didn’t last long when I realizedMarionwas scared out of her wits watching me climb through the window, knocking plants onto her clean floor and sometimes pulling down the heavy living room drapery rods right out of the wall. For the first time I felt bad that I hurt someone and told her I’d never do it again.

I had no job now and stole the Cappellis’ money out of their glass piggy bank and from the cupboard. That money was earmarked for rent and food but I didn’t know. I really thought it was just extra cash. I did it twice and made her cry. I never did it again. For the first time I was happy making someone else happy.

Marioncooked a fantastic pot of Sunday gravy with meatballs, braciole and sausages that simmered all Sunday morning. Afterwards Tony would take me over to the Italian social club where I was treated to a shot or two of tap beer.

The social club was onMulberry Streetin the Italian section. Three men, two burly and one extremely thin, sat outside sipping espresso with their pinky fingers up in the air; one man tipped his fedora hat as Tony and I approached. Tony nodded back in recognition. Tony introduced me as his godchild, his bella bambina, I smiled wide and they nodded back. The social club had a small window front with gold Italian lettering that I couldn’t read and through the front door there was a small bar with round tables leaning against wood panelled walls. The smell of smoke and liquor along with wafts of Italian gravy from the back kitchen deliciously filled the air and my nose. Italian music floated through the smoky space.

At first the men stared at me. Some stopped their domino game and shrugged their shoulders quizzically. Here I was, a little Chinese girl with this big white man holding my hand tightly. Introductions as his godchild eased their stare and most said hi although some turned their backs as if I didn’t exist. It wasn’t a typical thing to do. Firstly I was a girl in their private bar and secondly I was an Asian invading their very Italian space. It didn’t really bother me as long as Tony was with me. Tony held my hand and walked me around, patting men on the back and then introducing me. Most of the men didn’t speak English and were immigrants but their smiles spoke of acceptance.

I didn’t realize until I was an adult that Tony must have had some kind of status in the Italian community. Exactly what I don’t know, but men tipped their hats his way all the time and women would smile and say buon giorno. Pushcart peddlers would offer me a piece of fruit or candy and you could feel their respect for him.

Tony was a handsome and burly man, tall with a full head of shocking white hair and dark blue eyes. His voice was gravelly and strong and his bottom lip jutted out just a bit. Unfortunately, Tony liked his Sunday drink and then he’d pass out with his head on the kitchen table or stumble into bed snoring. He always ate in his tee shirt and shorts andMarionhad to have all his meals ready for him as he walked through the door daily at seven. Not much was said between the two of them. Sometimes they’d fight andMarionwould go to the bathroom and cry. I would hear her through the closed door but she wouldn’t let me in. The only time they went out together was to his family inNew Jersey, once a year in the summer.

Aunt Claire was Tony’s younger sister, married to Uncle Joey. I was told to call them that and they welcomed me with warm smiles into their ranch styleJerseyhome. They had one teenaged son, Joey Jr. who was always on his way out whenever we came over, which wasn’t often. Uncle Joey’s father who lived with them made wine from the grapes hanging all over the back yard. Uncle Joey’s father gave me some but it made me dizzy andMarionyelled at him and took it away. I can still see them all sitting around the wooden picnic table shouting happily about this and that, and me giggling, chasing birds off their bird bath. The feeling of family warmed my young heart. I still love the sounds of loud laughter and everyone talking. I still love the feel of family, now with my own children and loving friends.

Christmas time and a tiny tree stood brightly lit in the small living room. I had never seen such a beautiful sight and grinned all day and night. I was asked to water the tree but didn’t know better and tossed a large pot of water onto the tree, short-circuiting everything.

Being a good Catholic Marion took me to Sunday church. She wanted to show me the right way to live. In the back and on the far left of the church was a small manger, not much, just a symbol of the meaning of Christmas and of the fact that Baby Jesus took care of all of us.

Monday came and I cut school, crept into the church, genuflected as a good Catholic should, went up to the manger and found Baby Jesus tucked away in the back. He wouldn’t appear in the manger until Christmas day but I didn’t know that. I had a huge sack, the one I used to put stolen goodies in, but today, today life was different.

I climbed up the railing and spoke to Jesus. I said my life was better. My life was nice. Told him how I ate food all the time and never even thought about stealing anymore and apologized for taking the couple’s rent money, apologized for beating up those kids and for letting those opium guys feel me up; it never felt right but money bought me food.

“I want to give you a home, the same as me. I don’t want you living alone and in the cold because I know how that can be.” I lifted baby Jesus and slid him into my sack. He was so heavy but I knew this was right.

Up the four flights of the tenement steps I climbed cautiously and slowly. Baby Jesus was almost my size and half my weight. I rang the bell and when Marion who loved me so well saw me she got alarmed. Marionwanted to know why I wasn’t in school. I said I had something I wanted to give her. I opened the sack and showed her the lovely Baby Jesus. She gasped, “Oh no.” I stole the statue from church.

“You said that Baby Jesus took care of us all but who takes care of Him?” I asked. “He was all alone and cold, probably hungry too. I took Him home so He can be with us and never be like I was. We can take care of Him.” Marion’s eyes filled with tears and she hugged me close. She tried to explain as best she could why Baby Jesus had to be returned.

We went to church with the Baby Jesus and placed Him in the manger, in his crib, near the statue of His parents, Mary and Joseph. I thought it’d be all right as long as others were near and took care of Him the wayMariontook care of me. I felt satisfied and told Baby Jesus I’d return to see Him tomorrow, blowing Him a kiss likeMariondid to me when I left for school.

Things we learn as kids don’t seem like we’re learning at all but I was learning through the actions of Father Moore and my Italian godparents. They showed me that giving was more important than taking, which I had been doing all throughout my early childhood. Most of all I remember their love for me, unconditional love. There were so many ways they showed me that love over the short time I lived with them.

The couple’s icebox was just an insulated wood box about four feet high and2 feetwide. Tony the iceman delivered a monster chunk of ice that was put into the top part of the icebox every three days. It didn’t hold much but whatever was in there was mine to consume. I tested them. Tony was watching television,Marionhanging laundry in the air shaft. I had been living with them for a week or two. I opened the icebox, peered in, and then slammed it shut several times. Tony came into the kitchen with hands on hips and stared down at me. I covered my face to keep from getting hit but he didn’t hit me. He didn’t scream. He didn’t threaten. Instead he sighed loud, opened the icebox and took all the food out, loading up the entire Formica table. He turned to me and said with a smile, “Mangia bambina, mangia.” What better way to my heart but through my hungry stomach.

Mariontook me uptown on days she cleaned apartments on the sly because Tony didn’t allow his wife to work. It was there, in those rich apartments that I saw how other people lived. I never understood why two people needed so many rooms. I thought it was kind of fun to sit at a large formal dining table that sat twelve, eating my snacks, or peer through books I could barely lift and couldn’t read, sitting on luxurious leather sofas in the library, or to run, up and down the duplex winding stairs that led to the family room. I liked to use all three bathrooms whenever I was there even if I didn’t really have to go.

Mariontrusted me to hold the glass dome that covered a real skull while she filled a small glass of water to keep the skull moist. Weird. I was told there were lampshades made from human skin in the den. More weird. There were closets larger than the kitchen and living room at home and so organized that it looked like a department store. Weirdest.

In the early fifties the Chinese and the Italians marked their territory with the line drawn at Canal Street. Mott and parallel Mulberry Street were the main streets where Italians opened restaurants, bars, social clubs, bakeries and grocery stores. Marion would take me shopping daily for the night’s repast. This was uniquely New York in the late fifties.There was Mary Macaroni whose grocery store sold main staples such as pasta and other household items. Carmine, the butcher, sold tender meats and fowl. Frankie Fish's push cart was always swamped on Fridays, the day Catholics weren’t allowed to eat meat. Fresh produce was sold at Johnny Dogs. Why they called him that I have no idea because he didn’t sell any dogs that I could see. Poppalotto’s hot crusty Italian bread came out of the oven at exactly 3:07 daily. Sometimes Marion and I ate an entire loaf on the way home and had to walk back to get another loaf for dinner.

Prior to moving in with the Cappellis I had the misfortune to venture past the demarcation mark into Little Italy. I guess I was around five and was just curious as to what was on the other side. A bunch of older kids soon surrounded me not even one block in and told me to get lost,

“Go back where you come from, you Chinky-eyed rat.”

I started to run with them fast on my heels, not back towards Chinatown which would have made more sense but further into Little Italy. Not that I was defying them, I was just lost. I only got shoved around and punched on the arm but I didn’t see a need to do it again since my curiosity was satisfied. Over the years I heard many rumours about how the Italians beat up any Chinese kids that crossed over into their territory.

Tony gave me my first pair of roller skates, the good ones with ball bearings. I wore them climbing up the three flights of marble stairs once, rolling down a hill into traffic and clanking my way onto the church marble floors. I loved that sound, metal hitting marble and the loud echo that seemed to go on forever in church. All the priests in the confessionals knew it was me clanking on my skates and gave me extra penance but it was well worth it and never stopped me from doing it again.

Tony on weekends was a different man. Too much beer and whatever cold quiet war raged between him and Marion trembled in the air. I tried to blend into the walls when they had their arguments that sent her crying into the bathroom, slamming the door shut, closing out Tony’s rage. To me, that was the first taste of a marriage and one that I never wanted to have.

Seasons changed on Mott Street. There were ice carts filled with various sweet syrups for a nickel during hot summers. The syrup always found its way onto my shirt as I licked it as fast as I could. Winter brought out the chestnut man and I always burned at least one finger peeling the chestnuts. Fall was the sweet potato guy whose potato bundles in brown paper would steam up into my nose as I’d slowly unwrap them. There was Suzy Drugstore who knew your entire family history and often prescribed medication that turned out to be better than any doctor’s meds. In the front of the drugstore was a big tall white scale on which you could weigh yourself for a penny and get a free fortune card too. Once in a while I’d be out in the street playing and Marion would send down a basket with money to pick up a quart of milk or something small like that. It felt like I had fallen into a weird wonderful paradise.

I hadn’t worked for the bookie and the opium den in a while. I stopped stealing and didn’t miss the cops chasing me across the roof. I would go to the park and not have to worry if the park guard would remember to leave the window open for me so I could sleep at night. There were no more black eyes, broken bones or cigarette burns and I didn’t worry about someone jabbing me with a pencil when I wasn’t looking. I ate as much as I wanted when I wanted and slept in my own clean clothes on clean sheets after a warm bath. No one chased me out of the library because I stunk or threw things at me in the street. Kids stopped picking on me so much. I had a home. I got hugs and kisses and hands to hold and I loved being told how much they loved me as they called me their sweet little Bella.

Daily sounds of the church bells at 7:00 pm found Marion lighting a tall red vigil candle and together we would genuflect, make the sign of the cross in front of the small saint shrines in the bedroom. Within moments Tony would arrive home from work in his suit, with the newspaper under his arm and supper began. It was the same menu weekly with only a variation of fish on Fridays. I loved the consistency of life. I loved the feel of routine. I loved how they loved me unconditionally. Once in a while Father Moore would stop by and see how I was doing. He and Marion would send me out of the room and whisper things but I could tell by the look of both their faces that they were pleased with me and I’d smile.

Life was fine, actually great for this seven-year-old tomboy, with daily meals in a clean home and a family, but inside I was still a dark mess. Still a fighter. Still depressed. Still a manipulator, a schemer but only with those I didn’t know. Marion guarded me most of the time so I couldn’t get into too many fights. She was everything a mother should be: kind, loving, generous and always forgiving. Marion’s unconditional love saved me throughout the rest of my life. I was almost a normal kid. Structured living, rules, schedules, Sunday mass, night prayers, lots of food, baths and of course love, made me want to be good.