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FROM The Asian American Literary Review
My father played blackjack all night in Atlantic City. He did not stop to eat or go to the bathroom or ask where his family was. My father owned a Chinese American take-out restaurant on the Jersey Shore and he will lose this one asset from gambling. He did not dither in that red velvet world of his. When we drove home from Atlantic City together, my father glowed over his winnings. He flailed an arm back in that poorly won BMW and tossed a couple of $20 bills at us. “Liar,” my mother said, staring out the window. “You lost. You always lose.” The new leather burned our thighs as we watched the Parkway smokestacks grow exponentially. This story is not about small enterprises. This story expands like an oil spill; it touches the fins of every faraway shore. This is a story poor immigrants share, like those packed bunk beds shared with false uncles and aunts. Just to be clear: We are targeted. This is no mistake. This can’t be boiled down to “cultural proclivity for luck.” Casino buses roll into Chinatowns across the country like ice cream trucks for a reason.
Hex the executives who can’t see beyond their golden watches, hex the cigarette smoke that swarms around each gleaming video poker machine. May the casino turn into a window, a seat at the dinner table, a swing set where a daughter and father can laugh endlessly toward the sky.