She fell in love with a red-haired boy who leads her away from the family, blocking out her family's vision of an arranged marriage in Hong Kong; eventually, alone she arrived in Harvard and a new future.
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I did not take offense. I grew up in a Chinatown of sorts, an insular ethnic community whose locale only happened to be in Denver, Colorado, smack-dab in the middle of the United States. Our isolation was defined by culture, rather than city blocks. None of the adults in my parents' generation spoke much English. Every year we celebrated lunar calendar holidays at a social club whose banquets were an excuse for gambling. And until I, myself, left for college, I didn't even know that university-educated Chinese American professionals existed. How could my mother understand the life I've discovered since then? How could my friends understand the life I lived before?
I wrote this book because I got tired of lying about who I am, because I wanted to give voice to a community that has been silent, because I wanted to tell my family that I have not forgotten.
Although she can't read the words, I sent my mother several copies. She called last week to tell me that she'd received them. "I only recognize one word," she said, and pronounced very carefully, in English, "daugh-ter."
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