The Palm Springs Issue

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The lines at New Mong Kok, a Cantonese fast-food shop, seem never ending, but nothing has changed. Standing under the cool, breezy San Francisco breeze, I feel a chill down my spine. Except this time it’s internal. It’s real.

I’m not sure what this all meant almost 200 years ago. My ancestors first moved here 70 years ago. Surely, after passing by the Golden Gate Bridge, they saw what Chinatown was. Who was Chinatown for? Was it for them? Was it for the “Americans”? 

Or was it for me?

The light, afternoon breeze rolls in. We linger outside the narrow corridors filled with remnants of mini-fireworks lit by residents past. I walk by a group of western tourists at the Golden Gate Fortune Factory. Lit up in a bright, yellow-mustard sign, it’s hard not to notice. The original fortune cookie was made here. By Americans. For Americans. Except the Americans who made it aren’t called Americans no more. They’re Chinese.

Nothing. Has. Changed.

It’s sweet and sour. Except we’ve all been sour. I then walk by Mong Kok, a popular Cantonese fast-food restaurant. The lines are long, again. Char-siu and siu-yuk for the Chinese. Orange chicken for the Americans. Real Americans. Not Chinese.

The Chinese waitress at Mong Kok pours a pot of sauce, lathering it over the freshly fried chicken. Mix it, stir it. It’s done. But it’s still nothing much. It’s just the clumps of life from the past. I don’t eat it.

I turn right, and the walls around me want to share a recipe with me for a famous Chinese dish. Do you want a recipe for the greatest dish of all time? I’ll share it with you, for after all, we share and give. Only give. We never expect anything in return. But we never get anything in return. I’ll show you. Listen up!

Its name is: “Love our people like you love our food.”

Ingredients:

  • 1 cup of accountability.

  • 2 cups of respect.

  • 5 tablespoons of understanding.

  • 3 cups of love.

  • 1 teaspoon of empathy.

  • 2 tablespoons of listening.

  • Mix well and prepare hot.

Don’t forget any ingredients! All are quite crucial. But all of these ingredients are often forgotten. Every single one. Why bother even listening to my recipe? Just don’t listen I guess.

That’s all. What a simple recipe. Did you listen? Want me to say it again? Is that too much to ask for? For hundreds of years, we’ve been living here. Who are we to you?

These foreigners stand in line for our food. Yet nothing’s changed. Are we the foreigners? We’re still… nothing. Is this so hard? 

I can’t stomach down sweet and sour chicken. Doesn’t matter if it’s from Panda Express. It’s a deliberate distraction. American Chinese food. Adapted to American tastes. But we’re still not American. Nothing’s changed. 

Moving on, I guess. People ask: “Why do you even care? It’s not even that big of a deal.” But it is, because nothing has changed.

Stockton Street. I turn my head to the right. Mural, mural on the wall. All the faces on the wall. The smiles, the hats, the hats. I am greeted with this strange site. I feel like I am them, and they are me. Perhaps, I am not so out of place. But we are.

I refocus my attention on the smiles on the wall. They seem way too ecstatic to be here. Tell me who this is for. TELL ME. Why do we need to smile? Smiling through the pain.

Are we here just for show? Who are we to you?

Karl, the fog, sets in. I’m still shivering. Cold. I am clouded, jaded. It’s never getting warm again. Nothing’s changed. I wonder how these faces are doing? 

In a city known for art, beauty, and life, here lies a great work of art. But only great to those who care. And who cares? No one does. Not at least those that should. 

I don’t know these faces. But it feels like I do. I look around and glance at the Chinese grandma in front of me. She’s dressed in a bright, neon yellow. Maybe that’s her on the wall, but maybe it’s just another person. She looks like she’s had that hat for years. She’s surrounded by the constant horn beeps, the shopkeepers hollering back and forth, and shoppers bartering for a good deal. To her, this is home. Home away from home, I guess. In a field of uncertainty, in a world where everything is against you, this is all she has.

Every street, every corner, history lets me know who I ought to be. Maybe I do know her after all. Maybe this is also my home away from home. But I can never accept this home, for I do not have one. No one recognizes me. Nothing’s changed. And perhaps I’ll keep it that way.

Words: Ethan Ye

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