Waverly Jong
I was six when my mother taught me the art of invisible strength. It was a strategy for winning arguments, respect from others, aually, though her of us k at the time, chess games.
"Bite back your tongue," scolded my mother when I cried loudly, yanking her hand toward the store that sold bags of salted plums. At home, she said, "Wise guy, he not go against wind. In ese we say, e from South, blow with wind—poom!—North will follow. Stro wind ot be seen."
The week I bit back my tongue as we ehe store with the forbidden dies. When my mother finished her shopping, she quietly plucked a small bag of plums from the rad put it on the ter with the rest of the items.
My mother imparted her daily truths so she could help my older brothers and me rise above our circumstances. We lived in San Franciscos atown. Like most of the other ese children who played in the back alleys of restaurants and curio shops, I didnt think we were poor. My bowl was always full, three five-course meals every day, beginning with a soup full of mysterious things I didnt want to know the names of.
We lived on Waverly Place, in a warm, , two-bedroom flat that sat above a small ese bakery specializing in steamed pastries and dim sum. In the early m, when the alley was still quiet, I could smell fragrant red beans as they were cooked down to a pasty sweetness. By daybreak, our flat was heavy with the odor of fried sesame balls and sweet curried chi crests. From my bed, I would listen as my father got ready for work, then locked the door behind him, owo-three clicks.
At the end of our two-block alley was a small sandlot playground with swings and slides well-shined down the middle with use. The play area was bordered by wood-slat benches where old-try people sat crag roasted watermelon seeds with their goldeh and scattering the husks to an impatient gathering of gurgling pigeons. The best playground, however, was the dark alley itself. It was crammed with daily mysteries and adventures. My brothers and I would peer into the medial herb shop, watg old Li dole out onto a stiff sheet of white paper the right amount of i shells, saffron-colored seeds, and pu leaves for his ailing ers. It was said that he once cured a woman dying of an aral curse that had eluded the best of Ameri doctors. o the pharmacy rinter who specialized in gold-embossed wedding invitations aive red banners.
Farther dowreet ing Yuen Fish Market. The front window displayed a tank crowded with doomed fish and turtles struggling to gain footing on the slimy green-tiled sides. A hand-written sign informed tourists, "Within this store, is all for food, not for pet." Ihe butchers with their blood-stained white smocks deftly gutted the fish while ers cried out their orders and shouted, "Give me your freshest," On less crowded market days, we would ihe crates of live frogs and crabs which we were warned not to poke, boxes of dried cuttlefish, and row upon row of iced prawns, squid, and slippery fish. The sanddabs made me shiver each time; their eyes lay on one flattened side and reminded me of my mothers story of a careless girl who ran into a crowded street and was crushed by a cab. "Was smash flat," reported my mother.
At the er of the alley was Hong Sings, a four-table caf?with a recessed stairwell in front that led to a door marked "Tradesmen." My brothers and I believed the bad people emerged from this door at night. Tourists never went to Hong Sin