Another kid in my class also had the same birthday as me. I’d have my celebration first, then he’d have his. The kid’s name was Irvin, a Hong Kongnese-sounding name. Hong Kong parents often chose uncommon English names, selecting first names that sounded like last names, and they loved picking names with “-son” as a suffix: Anson, Carson, Eason, Hanson, Henson, Wenson. My parents named my brother Jackson. Girls got off lucky. My sister was named Cindy. Bah Ba chose Dickson for me in the hopes I’d become rich like the owner of a shop called Dickson Watch and Jewellery.
Other kids had a field day with my name. Dickson. Dick. Son. Son of a dick. Dickey Boy. Substitute teachers unknowingly added to the list when they read my name on the attendance sheet as Dickinson or Dickerson. They’d add letters for some inexplicable reason as though Dickson was not a legitimate name.
The night before the party, I snuck a peek at the soup in the fridge. I lifted the lid of the large pot. A cloudy brown pool. Under the surface, dark beans, not red but almost purple. It looked like the surface of an alien planet. I closed the lid, scared to dip my finger in for a taste. I went to bed and wrapped the blankets tight around my body like a cocoon.
At school, I returned from recess and saw my mother and father chatting with Ms. Hong. Bah Ba was dressed in jeans and a casual shirt, the same thing every day. It was strange seeing him here. The only place I’d see him outside of home was at a Chinese restaurant. My mom, on the other hand, was a regular at the school, though not in my class. She’d volunteer in the morning to stamp the hands of kids who, like me, qualified for free lunch.
“Sit down,” Ms. Hong said to the class. “You are in for a treat. Dickson’s dad brought something he made himself.”
“Dickey Boy, what’s in the pot?” Melvin whispered. He was a pudgy Chinese kid with a deep tan.
“Red bean soup,” I said.
“I hate that stuff.”
Bah Ba poured the soup into a row of paper cups. Kids rose and squinted. They recognized the soup, the class being predominately Chinese. Ms. Hong, anticipating the grumbles, pointed out that the red in the soup symbolized good luck and happiness. Two volunteers handed out the cups. Bah Ba had his arm around my mother’s shoulder. The picture struck me as odd, my mother leaning into him.
I stared at a bean floating in my cup. I scooped it out and chewed it. I pushed the cup aside. Only a few kids were still dipping their spoons into their cups.
“OK class,” Ms. Hong said, “say thank you to Mr. and Mrs. Lam.”
“Thank you,” the class said in unison.
My mother and Bah Ba slightly bowed their heads in appreciation and came over to me. “Happy Birthday,” my mother said, using her kiddy voice that she loved to use in public. “We both go to work.”
“What do you do, Mrs. Lam?” Ms. Hong said.
“Call me Ms. Lee.” My mother’s body straightened up. “I take care of three kids. Some people say, ‘you’re so beautiful, you don’t know how to clean house,’ but I sweep, I mop, I cook, I wash dishes. I give him a bath. Yeah, sure.” My mother rubbed the top of my head and hugged me. Bah Ba grabbed my shoulder and pulled me in for a light squeeze. He took my mother’s hand and with his other arm carried the empty pot.
Out they went, and in came Irvin’s mother. His mother’s hair was permed, and she wore a business outfit. She looked like someone’s boss. As she placed Irvin’s cake on the table, some of the boys oohed and aahed. A Superman cake. The Man of Steel had his left fist raised, his red cape flapping behind him. He was the real deal, even had the cowlick. Above him read “Happy Birthday Irvin!” as though Irvin and Supes were homies.
The students rushed to get their plates. I didn’t understand the hurry. I grabbed a slice and sat down. I took a small bite. Nothing super about the cake, but my classmates scarfed it down. They became animated, laughing, almost dancing in their chairs. I stuck my fork in the middle of my slice and twirled it until a crater formed, as if a meteor had struck it. To others, it would appear I’d tried to devour the cake.
red bean soup story
In middle school, by which point Bah Ba had moved out, I used the Red Bean Soup story to paint my father as the clueless immigrant, to distance myself from him and really from all Chinese immigrants. They were FOBs, dressed in knockoff clothes from Chinatown, fluent in “broken” English, an ugly reflection.
I broke from my backward views in high school after I got into Malcolm X. Saw the Spike Lee flick on opening weekend with Rob, then read Malcolm’s autobiography and all his speeches I could find. Sometimes, if I couldn’t get anyone to cut school with me, I’d play hooky to read in the main library. Sitting next to old men and homeless dudes reading newspapers on rods, I’d pour through a stack of books, J.A. Rogers’ World’s Great Men of Color, autobiographies from Black Panthers, heirs to Malcolm X. The Panthers were how I got interested in Mao, his “Little Red Book” required reading for members. Malcolm preached pride, loving yourself and where you came from. It was hard to mock my father after that.
Perhaps the seeds for my political awakening were planted a few years earlier by my older brother. I shared a room with Goh Goh, and he’d blast Boogie Down Productions, Public Enemy, Paris, and Poor Righteous Teachers, all of whom sampled Malcolm X speeches and
