A SUPERIOR MAN MOVES SWIFTLY (1885)A SUPERIOR MAN MOVES SWIFTLY (1885)
The sternwheeler passed so close to the rocky islands between Victoria and the mainland that I almost shouted to the captain on the bridge. But no redbeard in a uniform would heed a China man squawking like a hen on the butcher block.
At the clang of the boat’s bell, sea lions on pebbly beaches rose up on flippers to watch us. The giant slugs were strange creatures, bulb eyes of an ox, nose and whiskers of a wise cat, and gleaming planks for legs. I didn’t fear them; they couldn’t move fast enough to catch me.
A redbeard retched at the railing. My never-sick stomach did me proud. Me, I was born under Earth, so my stomach stood rock-solid. Peter likely emerged under Water, setting our Elements to war and foretelling a life-long battle between us. Earth blocked and soaked up Water, but floodwaters swept away months of backbreaking work on land. Worse, Earth created Metal while Water nurtured Wood, two more deadly rivals. Metal chewed into wood, but wood wore down steel edges. Water moved faster than earth, but when the boat reached Yale, I planned to drug the boy with Rainbow’s sleeping potion, dump him with his people, and then buy the needed letter from Tai Yuen store.
I was hardly the first or only man to heave his mix-blood offspring onto the Native mother. Men—Chinese, redbeard, African—all with proud names and upright cocks, prowled this land like wolves. They came from far away, where their mothers set standards high above the talents of local women. Low-level clerks like Mister Secretary shouldn’t snigger. He and his Council superiors polished the boots of the redbeards, trying to make Chinatown shine. They wanted the Jesus men at churches to announce this scheme to help mix-blood children so that white ladies of standing would visit the fancy-goods shops of Chinatown.
When we left Victoria, the boy stayed close to me, as if he had guessed my plan. We took clean air at a side door, away from the murky stink of cattle. Wind spat stinging spray at us. The laden boat rode low and let the brat squat over the unending rush of white bubbles. For once he made no trouble. In Victoria, we had taken beds at Uncle See’s store. But the brat chased the mouser and yanked its tail; the cat ran off and never returned. The brat tracked mud over the just-washed floor and stole fruit from the patron god’s altar. Uncle See whipped him with a bamboo switch and muttered, “Young, he pilfers hens; old, he pilfers gems.” I watched for a while, pleased, but broke them apart before the boy got hurt.
Peter darted away to the middle of the boat. I shouted for him to stay. Nothing. He hadn’t said a word to me. Maybe he was mute, with secret ways to tell things to his mother. His sulky mouth worked fine, bolting meals at the cookhouse. Thank Heaven he hadn’t wailed for his mother; I would have wrung his neck, quick as killing a hen. In fact, he ate quickly, letting us escape our fellow diners and their rubbish talk.
“Give the boy to Rainbow! Your whore has no other way to get a child.”
“He’s got Hok’s eyes and nose. Grandpa will smile, even if the boy is darker.”
“Look at him gobble rice! In China, he can grow all he can eat!”
The boy stroked the calves that tottered on skinny legs and chafed at their ropes. Cables ran from the walls to the animals’ throats, pinning them in the boat’s centre. Too bad the brat wasn’t tied down the same way. Two cows bellowed and he joined in. Beasts on the other side of the boat answered. On the deck, redbeard cowhands played cards with a scrawny China man, probably their cook. A blotch of rough red skin marred his forearm, as if hot oil had scalded him. All morning he avoided my eye, fearful that I might join his game and raise the stakes beyond his reach.
The flat grey sea hinted that my coming trip to China might be smooth, but I knew better. On my trip over, rough waves rose up to delay meals—no great loss, given the slop that was served as food. Smells of shit and vomit swirled as gamblers bickered and fought. Scorpion “brotherhoods” harassed feeble men to extort cash. There were even one or two deaths. The trick was to spot the bodies before their fragrance seeped into the bunk as a lasting stink. Typhoons churning through the China Sea almost overturned the ship. In a month’s time from now, when I reached Hong Kong, there would be hurly-burly crowds at the docks and in the streets. For Grandmother and Younger Sister, I needed to buy gold earrings, heavy enough to impress the neighbours but not too costly.
I didn’t want to buy a gift for Younger Brother or answer his questions. I planned to ignore them. The sojourners who returned to our village never talked about life abroad. Instead they chased local news. Who died? Whose sons and daughters got married? Which fields changed hands and for how much money? What new shops opened in town?
Day after day, they asked the same questions, as if checking for liars, as if they trusted no one to tell the truth, as if what played out in front of them wasn’t real life but a scene from the opera. The comforts of long-ago lives were lost. They had been coolies abroad but came home with no honours. They squatted in the market and waved at people, no matter how slight the acquaintance, or joined the tail end of conversations. Me, I planned to tell lofty tales to impress loyal followers.
This Fraser River, for example, swallowed harmless landlubbers as well as mangled corpses hurled overboard by boiler explosions. Hot-headed captains ordered stokers to shovel in fuel in order to fight the current, to brag about new records for speed of passage. But too much coal burnt too quickly, and boilers failed to contain the rising pressure. Villagers would laugh to hear about redbeard stupidity.
At the river’s mouth, the sudden rush of water almost spun the boat around. The giant circle of paddles beat faster as black clouds burst from the smokestack. The brown river held trees with tangled roots, planks green with mold, lopsided branches, even a heavy wooden wheel. The debris floated past miners who mumbled to themselves as they shovelled river sludge into sluice boxes, sifting for grains of gold. These grizzled China men refused to believe that the gold was all gone. Truth was, if any treasure was left, then you would see greedy redbeards working right beside them, cursing and belching.
Flocks of ducks and geese lifted like dark nets, honking over the marshes. Along both shores, Native people landed fish with spears and nets, and hung the orange meat on racks. Dugouts with soaring prows were beached beside nimble canoes. Every summer, vast numbers of Native men and women passed through Victoria heading for these fishing grounds. They stopped again on their way home and were welcomed by redbeard and Chinese merchants alike. At New Westminster’s waterfront, sailboats brought in gleaming fish. Fearless seagulls swooped down to the canneries to feast on the bloody, stinking offal. This was odd about Gold Mountain: no one should starve amid its abundance, yet jobless rail hands were too weak to fish and too poor to buy the needed tools.
At the foredeck, the boy waved and called to Native children on the shore helping to fish and picking berries. Toddlers skipped out from makeshift lean-tos, clutching food to their mouths. At least I knew now that my son could speak. Too bad it was not Chinese. He wanted these would-be playmates to turn sour on themselves and envy his travel. To their credit, they stared back, unmoved, and watched the upper decks of the boat where redbeard men flaunted brocade vests and ladies swayed in hooped skirts. I waited for a gust of river wind to snag those cloth bells, lift the women like kites, and show everyone their underpants.
A piercing whistle trilled over a train’s steady chugging. Its long black engine swung into view, spewing smoke while pistons thrust and fell at the wheels, stroke after stroke, pushing and pulling the spokes. The cars that trundled behind were square and flat, meek as slaves cowed by a tyrant master. A train grew longer when cars were added, then shrank when they were removed. It was a snake that could not be killed, even after being hacked to pieces. After the train vanished around a bend, its dark fog lingered.
“Don’t attack a snake if you can’t kill it,” Grandfather had warned. “It will tail you for a hundred years.”
“Hey, you!”
A cowboy waved at me. His cigar hung over a grey beard, flecked with bits of straw.
His friend, sullen from losses, stomped away. Grey Beard grinned through his bushy whiskers. He took me for an ox-skin lantern, dim and thick. I had watched them from afar and seen no cheating. I went over and squatted into the smells of machine oil, fish, and redbeard sweat.
“Watch out!” he shouted.
I turned. The boy had fallen off. Grey Beard hurled himself across the deck. His friends leapt up and yelled at the bridge.
A bell clanged.
Grey Beard tore off his boots and dived into the river.
The boat lurched and slid backward at downriver speed. Sharp hooves clattered as cows bellowed. Passengers on the middle deck gripped their fancy hats, leaning out for a better view. Crewmen ran onto a ledge and launched a small boat.
I flattened myself against the wall. No swimmer, I was useless as a fart. Did the redbeards know the boy was mix-blood? The dogs at their feet got treated better. They were idiots to think they were saving one of their own. They would complain that I fooled them and then demand payment for the bother.
“Couldn’t you watch your boy?” demanded the cook. “I was winning.”
Mister Secretary and the Council in Victoria would laugh at me if I told them about my boy drowning, even though children fell off boats all the time and this river was known for death. In Gold Mountain, mud smothered even honest stories.
The boy lived by clinging to river debris. Passengers cheered the rowboat’s return, waving hats and handkerchiefs as if the sailors were a winning army. Then they swung around as one to send me a look of fused disgust. In Mary’s absence, I soaked up the blame.
In China, no one ever panicked about river drownings. People might throw out a rope, but no one ever leapt into the water. They feared how fierce ghosts under the surface tugging at a thrashing victim might grab the would-be rescuer and pull him down instead.
“Bring a wet dog to shore and it will bite you!” Grandmother had told us children many times.
A crewman thrust a bottle of whisky at Grey Beard and pointed to the upper deck. Men raised their flasks and hollered praise. Grey Beard yelled back, laughing, as the sternwheeler resumed its trip.
The sailors brought me the brat, wrapped in a coarse blanket. I clenched my fists to keep from slapping him. My faults were exposed in public. I had lost face. I had failed to watch my child and failed to rescue him. I didn’t know how to swim. I was a shining example for the redbeards’ claim that China men brought no value to Gold Mountain.
The brat couldn’t avoid trouble for half a second. The blanket belonged to the boat. It needed to be returned. He would go ashore naked.
He cried and whimpered, burying his face into my neck. I wanted to push him away but sat and held him. The China man brought a mug of hot water and told me to keep the boy warm, as if I had no common sense. He asked who the mother was and where we were going. I didn’t answer, knowing he would dash into Chinatown’s teahouses to shout this tale with his big cannon mouth.
Yale’s China men would shake their heads. “A redbeard risked his life to rescue a China man’s mix-blood child? You’re dreaming! Those people hate anyone who’s not their colour.”
I went and thanked Grey Beard, who was also wrapped in a stiff blanket. He offered his bottle to me, but I shook my head and looked for signs of madness in him.
The brat seemed fated to live. Or maybe some cruel god had toyed with him, providing a bit of luck for now that would only be yanked away later. Maybe the boy’s stepfather had taught him how to stay above the river. I was truly grateful to Grey Beard. If the boy had vanished into the water, then I would be doomed to spend the rest of my life glancing over my shoulder for the lad’s half ghost, half shadow. At any time, a young man could stop at my table at a teahouse, kneel, and cry “Father!” to claim his birthright. If this happened in front of my trueborn children or my wife’s family, then my face could never be recovered.
I carried the boy off the boat into the swampy reek of fresh fish. Crates of shiny salmon, their blue-grey eyes stilled, were waiting to be loaded onto a steamer. The same dull gaze clouded the eyes of Chinese rail hands who squatted nearby. They were as thin and pinched as their fellow Chinese in Victoria. Loose rags hid bony frames. Some wore flimsy straw sandals. Here, living near forest and river, these men enjoyed one small benefit. They could go shoeless without townsfolk looking down their noses and calling them savages.
They didn’t turn to watch me carry a naked Native child in my jacket. Those who crouched by the main road lifted grimy palms, seeking alms. I strode by without stopping. These fools needed to see that this town was too small, too poor to help them. Yale had been the hub of railway work but the road was finished. Soon skies would darken with rain and snow. The cold of a Gold Mountain winter crept in as quiet and deadly as an assassin. At least our Victoria merchants were pompous enough to seek help from China’s Consul stationed in San Francisco. I doubted they would succeed: the emperor didn’t sit high enough to see across the ocean.
A swirl of familiar voices and smells swept me to Chinatown. We bumped against giant draft horses pulling wagons over gouged roads. Flat roofs shot out from shops and saloons to shelter pedestrians from the weather. Windows were boarded over, and the paint on many walls and signs was faded and peeling. At a cookhouse, the sizzle of oil and garlic and black beans made my mouth water and brought China to mind. I wanted to dump the boy in a back alley and dash back to the boat.
Men rushed onto the road, hooting and shouting. They pointed to a second-floor porch with a wooden sign painted in black, red, and gold.
Clouds Clear Tower was Soohoo’s building.
Soohoo last year brought in a woman who sparked a storm of dizzy glee, even in distant Victoria. Men dubbed her, in awe, Goddess. Her fame was due to her perfection. Raised since childhood in Guangzhou’s most lavish brothel, she had been dismissed from the ranks of the elite courtesans after the Governor accused her of laughing at his “little precious” with her friends. At that time, Goddess’s skills were not mature; otherwise her owners never would have banished her. Like the rest of us, she too was second-rate goods sent abroad.
Her secret talent was being able to sense when a man approached climax. She then forestalled it. She shifted her grip. She stroked his eggs. She twisted away. She kept his hands from gaining release. The detour was always blissful. Then she smiled and re-engaged, extending the session until the man gasped and begged for mercy. Men left Clouds Clear Tower beaming and smiling because no spurting meant keeping the male yang essence that prolonged life and produced sons.
The men in the road yelled and pranced like schoolboys at end of term. A woman emerged in bright silks but her bound feet tottered away from the broken railing. I craned my neck and caught a glint of golden jewellery. The brat’s wriggling stopped me from seeing. Her tinkling voice teased us but vanished under a torrent of lewd remarks.
She was a prize tale for home, for men in teahouses, for idlers squatting around the market. Returned sojourners would revisit moments spent in her bed, summon memories to restore saliva to their now dry mouths. She alone soothed years of anguish in Gold Mountain because coolies could never afford a woman of her high calibre in China. Her day was just starting; the bed-sheets and her wit should be fresh.
I had to find a place to dump the boy.
She withdrew and a road packed with men’s jutting hopes emptied out.
Any worm would gladly watch the boy for a few pennies, but a smart one might sell the boy for thirty cents.
The dry goods store was dark as a latrine with a dank, airless smell. Pricks of light glowed from incense sticks. The house gods stood duty on their gilded altar, calmly watching the piled-up canvas, stacked blankets, and shelves of dishes and tools. By the door, when I hefted a grindstone, its shadow left sharp lines in the thick dust. What did this fool storekeeper think he was doing? Hoarding rice until a famine came along to raise his prices?
He prodded us to the back, crowing that no other shop in Chinatown sold children’s clothing. “All Native people come here because redbeard shops scorn their business. Look at those people: lots of children running everywhere.”
I used Mother’s words to show my expertise. “Only well-sewn clothing, with room for growing.”
“This your son?” The merchant beamed. “Strong ox, tall horse.”
“I take him to his people.”
“A superior man!”
“No choice.” I mentioned Council’s new rule.
“They’re not the emperor.” He would boost me onto his shoulders and wipe my shit-hole if asked to do so.
The brat shook his head at the shirts and pants that the merchant put against him. He grabbed brighter colours with thicker cloth and higher prices.
“How can I find his mother?” I asked. “She is near Lytton.”
“Native people are angry there. Redbeards steal their land.”
“Who can help me?”
“Everyone is leaving.”
“And Soohoo?”
“He has time to die but no time to get sick. Go see Goddess and enjoy yourself.”
Too bad I had just made a solemn vow to the boy, during the last leg of the boat trip. It was an about-turn. I planned to learn where Mary lived and take the boy there.
Not right away. My pole bobbed up at the prospect of Goddess. Good thing I wore snug western pants. If not, everyone would have seen my jut and known my eagerness.
“You can trust me.” The merchant grinned. “Native women leave their children here while they visit the other stores.”
I went off.
When the brat had napped on the boat, I didn’t lay him down for fear of waking him. His breath was soft and steady as a maid fanning a tyrant mistress. He kicked and stirred in his sleep, thick eyelashes twitching. He smelled of river mud and fish. In China, village grannies used colourful sashes to sling grandchildren on their backs with heavy, dozing heads. The women stayed in the shade and avoided the river.
My son, my bone and flesh, would be dead if not for Grey Beard. That cowboy saved a life; he acted as a superior man. When places lack law, heroes emerge tall.
The redbeards here owned no dogs that would lick up smelly shit. Instead, they found scrawny cats like us for the dirty job. They claimed that fleas with diseases leapt from our clothes to infect everyone. They hated how we ate pickles from China instead of chewing local beef. They called us heathens for bowing to ancestors instead of singing songs to their Heavenly Father. They said our lower wages cheated redbeards of their rightful jobs.
Screw their mothers, we told ourselves. Our people had rules for trade and business, clan and country. Redbeards prospered in China; why shouldn’t we do the same here? We knew hard work, and how to open a shop with scraped-together capital.
But, when Grey Beard had jumped overboard, all such thoughts flapped off like a startled bird. Up to that moment, I was set on getting rid of the boy. Even if I had known how to swim, I would have backed away and muttered good riddance. That brat had entered my life suddenly; he could leave it in the same way.
Now, I needed to become a superior man and soar with the gods. Had I learned nothing from five years in Gold Mountain? Did I want to bring home nothing but the shit stains inside my pants? Didn’t I want to be better than the shit-hole redbeards? This would be the best story to tell, the one with a great surprise. The boy must be raised well, safe from spiteful stepmothers. He shouldn’t be taunted about his Chinese father. He ought to be embraced by those aunts and uncles who loved him. He should be fed well, and have warm clothes to wear. The best and only person to do this was Mary.
The merchant proved honest about Goddess but not his child-minding skill.
“He ran off! I rushed outside but didn’t know which way to go. His people live over there!”
China men were leery of Native villages, fearful of sudden death, or worse, being outsmarted by the locals. I hurried around cabins and plots of vegetables. A black chicken with a bright red comb scuttled through fresh laundry hanging among wood smoke. At weather-beaten sheds I smelled straw and dung, heard horses stirring. The village was quiet. People were fishing at the river. Maybe the boy had come here with his mother and knew people he could hide with.
I called out.
Did the brat even know that he had an English name? Good thing it was one that I could pronounce.
An old woman sat in front of a house, weaving a basket. A nearby dog barked and lunged at me, but its sturdy leash held.
I greeted the woman in Chinook. She calmed the dog and dismissed me with a wave.
By the river, I spotted the red and blue of Peter’s new clothes. Children were pitching pebbles into a ring of white stones. With every toss, a child shouted.
I went from behind to nab the brat with one swoop and avoid trouble. His shoulder was thin as paper; his shirt was gritty with sand.
“We go eat.” I spoke in Chinook, cheerful as possible.
He pulled away. His dark eyes hardened.
“We go to Mother,” I said. “Go home.”
I scooped him up. He screamed and punched my face. I twisted my head from side to side, wanting to slam him to the ground. How dare he hit an adult? Was he loose in the brain? This demon!
A man ran up, shouting in Chinook. “Put down! Let boy go!”
“My son,” I declared.
“Boy not China.”
He yanked the boy away and set him on his feet. I shoved the man aside and took the brat’s hand. As we headed off, the man leapt from behind and threw me to the ground. We sprawled onto the rocky sand, hands clawing at each other’s neck, bucking to get on top. The children squealed in delight. I rammed my fist into his face. He slammed his elbow into my gut. He was bigger and stronger than most China men. We grappled and twisted, panting with effort. He smelled of sweat and fish.
I was still trying to flatten him when the dry-goods merchant shouted, “Sam, this man buy clothes for boy! Sam, this man buy clothes for boy!”
We rolled away, cursing each other, as the children danced off. I grabbed the boy and checked my clothes for rips and tears. He brought nothing but trouble.
New voices arose farther down the river, where Chinese rail hands and Native men shoved and shouted, fighting over something. With faces painted red and yellow, the Native men and their beast-skin clothes were fearsome. They towered over my people, brandishing stone-head clubs that took both arms to wield. They could have saved their strength; sledgehammers weren’t needed to smash sparrow eggs. My attacker ran to join them. Clearly the fool enjoyed fights. The China men backed off.
I dragged the boy away from the water. At the Chinese camp overlooking the beach, rail hands had emerged from makeshift tents.
One barefoot fellow muttered, “Hungry dogs fight for vomit.”
“Whose vomit?” I asked.
Bare Feet opened his mouth, but a sudden wracking cough bent him over.
“Another stupid thing ‘ran off,’” said a second man.
“The Natives, they don’t care about us,” I pointed out.
“Their river is holy. They keep it clean.”
He pointed. A beam from a collapsed dock had snagged a corpse by a shirt sleeve. It floated face down, its pigtail sliding on the water surface like an eel. The feet were bloated and dark. Wide pant legs flattened out like oars.
“Last week, some stupid thing filled his pockets with stones, tied a rock to his neck, and walked into the river. Two brothers carried him onto land and buried him. Four days later, one of the brothers ‘got fragrant,’ even though he had been eating well and laughing. Now, another stupid thing ran off. Of course, no one will touch the body.”
“They need to pay someone,” I said.
“It’s fish season. Any Native who touches something dirty can’t go near the river.”
“Three gone in one week means angry ghosts all around,” said Bare Feet. “You don’t know who sleeps beside you, a man or a piece of wood.”
“Me, I like salted fish,” I said.
“Don’t call them that, you pig head,” he said. “Those who run off, they have clout. Back home, my landlord passed away smoking opium in town. The grannies said, ‘Dirty things will follow him to the village.’ ‘Hold the funeral outside the gates,’ said the elders. But the landlord’s people pushed their way in and brawled at the funeral. Everyone lost face. Then, three women gave birth and each baby died before a full month.”
In my village, the pigs and chickens sickened and died, one year. The feng-shui man blamed a family after one of its members threw out corpse-washing water by the bridge. After a long quarrel, that family hired a priest to cleanse the village. Only then had the livestock flourished.
At the river, the China men tried to leave, but the Natives blocked the way. As the shouting and shoving resumed, two old women hurried up, grumbling and shaking their walking-sticks.
I recalled my friend Poy and said, “A superior man doesn’t fear the dead.”
“That’s why they’re so few,” Bare Feet sneered.
I marched the boy to the beach. The tallest China man wore a mashed brown hat.
“Let me handle that.” I pointed to the river. “How much will you pay?”
Mashed Hat backed away, his eyes darting and wary. The Native men stared at Peter as though he was a three-legged chicken. They chatted and gestured among themselves. The boy tugged at me to go but I stood firm, unafraid to fight again.
“Your lucky day!” Someone clapped Mashed Hat on the shoulder. “This one isn’t scared to touch corpses.”
The man called Sam spoke fluent Chinese.
He wasn’t Native, he was jaap jung, mix-blood. He seemed to know Mashed Hat, or at least how to get him to take action on the matter.
“Get the big wheelbarrow. Let him bury that thing. Look at the sky, it darkens. But you need money to pay.”
“How much?” Mashed Hat asked me.
“A dollar.”
“No one has money.”
“Something must be paid. You know that.” I tightened my grip on the brat’s hand. To slap him in front of his people would only bring me grief.
“Anyone with money has left already,” said Mashed Hat.
“My shovel goes deep,” I said. “I put heavy rocks on top.”
“A dollar, it’s too much.”
“Animals won’t dig up anything. The one who ran off, for sure he’ll approve.” I was certain of winning.
“No one takes a day to dig a grave.”
“These people will harass you until you do something. Pock-face lady looks in a mirror; the more she looks, the madder she gets. It’s time to put an end to this.”
“Bury him,” said another rail hand. “I’ll go ask men in the stores to donate.”
The crowd dispersed. I looked Sam up and down and said, “Who’s your father?”
He squatted to talk to the brat, and patted his head before stomping off without answering.
Another win for me.
My friends and I often asked mix-bloods that question. We looked past the man facing us and inquired instead about his father, that man’s name and village, and when he had come to Canada. All mouth and no heart, we pretended to have known his father, or kinsmen from his home village, or stories they had told. But both sides knew full well that most such fathers were long gone with little left behind.
Mashed Hat’s men brought a cart rolling on a wheel squeaky enough to waken centuries of the dead. With a scarf around my nose, I waded into the water, using a rope and rake to snare the corpse. I held my breath against the stench. Even wet, the man weighed no more than a head of lettuce.
I loaded the cart and called for the boy. He didn’t move, as if he was deaf. Chinese children knew better than to dawdle, knowing that a tight slap or hard knuckle waited close by. I looped a rope around my waist, tied the other end to the boy’s wrist, and yanked him toward the graveyard.
I thought about telling this burial tale at home, in the market. People would cringe and slip away, of course, ever fearful of killing airs. But they also respected sojourners, who were hearts and lungs for families crushed by debts or crippled by bad luck. People knew full well that life abroad was bruised and swollen with the anguish of their men. Those lives were wrapped in far too much shame to ever be discussed, aloud or in whispers. It was much easier to listen to an account of a no-name stranger and picture his tragic end.
The China men at the camp scurried away, seeing ghosts ahead and thieves behind, so scared that they never thanked me for diverting the anger of the Native people. I should have let the Natives beat them soundly. Maybe the China men wanted that: bloody deaths instead of ones by starvation.
Victoria was home to mix-blood men and women like Sam. They looked more sullen than their mothers’ people, whose men eked a life from fishing and chopping wood, whose women went door to door, selling berries and handmade baskets. Redbeard children hurled mud balls and rocks at them, and then ran to hide behind their parents.
The mix-bloods who lived among us had swaggered about with their noses high in the air. Some had Chinese faces but they never asked about China. I kicked them out of the game hall because they never had much money. Wong Jun hired one to tend his horses, but the fellow kept staring at the ground, as though fearful of seeing his own face among the men of Chinatown. He lasted two weeks at the job and left without asking for his wages.
Redbeards loudly disdained the Chinese as being one and the same as Native people. We China men never let that pass. They didn’t weave cotton or silk but wore animal skins. They didn’t grow rice or wheat to make noodles or bread. They ate instead whatever grew wild. Without earthenware, they served food on mats. Without writing, they didn’t make books. Mind you, our esteemed homeland produced plenty of fancy cloths and dishware but couldn’t stop the redbeards from trouncing us at war. We weren’t even strong enough to piss at them.