Early Childhood

My first memory is of mung beans sprouting from a skillet on the stove. In their gnarled and unfurling presence, my heart pounded as I tried to make sense of those disgusting, alien forms. I recall wailing inconsolably as soon as I realized they were indeed there, a pan of sprouts. That memory would come racing from the labyrinth of my mind nearly twenty years later, along with a cascade of other random recollections, during what I was convinced were my last moments of life. Fortunately, death wasn’t due that day. The thought of death has driven me to multiple suicide attempts and several ideations over the years. But I’m still here.

Dad and Mom conceived me shortly after their wedding in December 1978. Given that I was born in the middle of September 1979, it’s possible I came to life even before the nuptials. I was an accident, as were my two younger brothers; eventually, Mom had her tubes tied. We moved from Taiwan to Houston, Texas by way of a brief stay in Columbus, Ohio when I was three years old. Despite the oppressive Gulf Coast heat and pests such as fire ants and mosquitoes, I fondly remember swinging off the tree in the front yard and eagerly waiting for the garbage truck to make its weekly rounds. We children learned Mandarin first, while Dad and Mom struggled to improve their broken English in a new country. Houston during the 1980’s wasn’t as diverse as it is today, so one of my brothers was conferred his English name by preschool staff whose only familiarity with China was kungfu. Named after a celebrity martial artist, my brother was incessantly bullied as a youth to showcase his strength. My youngest brother, the last accident, was nicknamed DuoDuo, which translates to Extra. I was six when he was born and had convinced myself that I finally had a little sister until his baby member made itself known during a routine diaper change. I was devastated to have another brother.

Kindergarten was a difficult experience, full of misunderstandings as I learned English at school and communicated in Mandarin at home. By first grade, however, I was a teacher’s pet who could be depended on to rat on any mischief. I’m still astounded to this day as to why our first-grade class of English-learners was expected to understand the tragedy of the Challenger disaster: a rocket flies into the sky and then disintegrates into a trail of smoke and flames. This was broadcast over and over to us on television without any age-appropriate context. I was more concerned about our move to Alhambra, California that summer, especially since I would be leaving behind a new friend.