Dear Diary,
I'm not fond of diaries. I'm lucky to have found this old notebook while cleaning out the children's old things. Belinda used to take notes in this, but she hasn't used it for years. I now mark this as my diary, I suppose.
They laughed. Those Irish men...men like my husband. Seeing them there, I seriously had trouble believing they came from the same land as Gerald.
I simply was walking to the market when I stopped in the Chinatown district, on Canal Street, to visit. I remember the place very well; I once lived there. After Father died in that riverboat accident, not long after Thomas died, Mother decided we must move to New York. She couldn't afford a trek west, though she badly wished to return to San Francisco. So we rode the train east to Manhattan, where plenty of Chinese bachelors wished to find a wife. Mother didn't remarry; I don't think she had the time to meet any guys!
Anyway, I forgot mention I'm half-Asian. Father was Jewish, but Mother came from China with her widowed father in 1849 to dig for gold near San Francisco. They didn't find any gold, and her father was killed by a robber they day she turned seventeen. Mother stowed away on a train headed east; she disembarked in Missouri, where no one cared for a China-woman except for evil purposes. She dressed a boy to find work on the river; that's how Father found her. He was a cub pilot at the time. They fell in love. He kept her secret and taught her how to steer a riverboat; she taught him how to speak Cantonese. They married soon after he graduated to pro pilot.
It's a happy story on the surface, but there's much sorrow woven in. Neither of my parents felt very welcome in Missouri; Mother couldn't convince people not to hate yellows while Father didn't let anyone but us know his Jewish ancestry. I still can see him sneaking off to the synagogue each Saturday evening so no one would find out. Then my brother Thomas died at sixteen; he'd been training as a cub pilot when the engine exploded. My family never truly recovered; Father perished under similar circumstances only a year afterwards.
Mother herded Lillian and me to New York; she managed as a laundress while we attended school. I hated New York at first, but life went on. I even met Gerald, a young Irish lad attempting to drown himself over his lost mother; we found common ground.
I don't look very Chinese. Lillian sort of does. Out of all of us, Thomas resembled Mother the best. Yes he had red hair and freckles like Papa, but he also possessed Mama's small rounded eyes, her short eyelashes, her build... I miss my brother very much. I resemble Father; you would never guess I am my mother's daughter except for my eyes. I got them from her.
Enough of that. I was visiting my old neighbor while delivering his laundry, Mr. An Sung. He's a friendly old man that helped us settle in Chinatown. I offered to take him for a walk, since he needs to get out more, so he agreed. While we strolled down Canal Street these goons show up to make fun of our eyes.
Chink, they said. Chink as in our eyes. One of them burst into Irish, so I know they're my husband's people. Still, how could they hurt us so? Mr. Sung said nothing, but I saw him starting to tear up. I felt relieved my children weren't with; I cannot let them feel inferior. I am fierce, proud, grateful- I wear my mother's eyes with joy.
Why can't I be half-Asian without folks ogling at me? I stick out like a sore thumb among the Asian fellows, although several have taken Irish wives due to the lack of women. But whites ridicule my people, my mother's people. I feel so lost.
I'm glad for my husband and my children, but I don't know if he'll understand when I tell him about this. I must keep this shame bottled up, so I write. Why can't I be accepted? Why is America like this? I'M SO MAD THAT I WANNA SCREAM AND BREAK EVERYTHING!
Your miserable confidant,
Matilda Jyun Sau Kelly