San Francisco Boy

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  San Francisco Boy

  Lois Lenski

  For

  my Chinese children,

  with love

  CONTENTS

  I A Walk in the City

  II A Friend and a Job

  III A Day in the Country

  IV A Day at the Factory

  V The Lost Dog

  VI A Day for Growing Up

  VII A Walk in the Park

  VIII A Day to Go Fishing

  IX A Day of Trouble

  X A Day of Understanding

  XI A Day of New Beginnings

  A Biography of Lois Lenski

  There was presented to me a plum

  And I gave back a precious stone—

  Not as a return for it

  But that our friendship might be lasting.

  —Old Chinese friendship song

  FOREWORD

  Out on the west coast lies a beautiful city on many hills, San Francisco, surrounded by the waters of the Pacific. In the heart of the city, within a few crowded city blocks, an age-old civilization flourishes. Here East meets West in Chinatown.

  Fourth-grade children in Commodore Stockton School, under the guidance of Mrs. Dina Gianni, their teacher, wrote me in December 1952, as follows:

  “We have been reading the Roundabout America books you have written, which tell how the children live, work and play in other parts of our country. We are Chinese children and live in Chinatown. We eat our rice and other foods with chopsticks and it is a lot of fun. We wear our Chinese costumes on certain days, for parades, for Chinese New Year, and for parties. Some of the children work after school. Some children work in the jeans factory, cutting threads off jeans and folding them. Others wash glasses and dishes in their parents’ restaurants. Some children work in the laundry. They deliver, count and fold towels, put paper and cardboard on shirts and wrap bundles. Others count wrapping paper and stock baskets in the art stores. We go to Chinese school after American school and learn how to read, write and spell in Chinese.

  “Would you like to know more about us? Then come and visit us. Do you think other children would like to know how we live in Chinatown? We think it would be a good idea for you to write a book about us. We wish you good luck and good health.”

  What a wonderful invitation this was! Other letters followed during 1953–54, accompanied by beautiful drawings and paintings, depicting all phases of the children’s daily lives. Not only were the Chinese children gifted in writing, but they were instinctive artists as well. I felt highly honored when they named their Book Club after me, and when it became an inspiration and stimulus to the reading of good books.

  I visited San Francisco in June, 1954, and through the children came to know their parents and visit in their homes. I spent many happy days on the streets of Chinatown, observing, asking questions, filling notebook and sketchbook. I never lacked for a personal guide. Wherever I went, I could always hear a child calling, “Oh, Miss Lenski, can I show you Chinatown?” The children took me into the art shops, bakeries, grocery, fish and poultry stores, factories and homes. I always had an interpreter, and because the children were my friends, I drank many cups of tea and always met a warm welcome. I saw Chinatown from the point of view of the children who make their homes there. With their help, this book has been written.

  It is no small task to study the background of an ancient culture as rich as the Chinese, and I make no claim of having done so. I have tried to understand the compromise between the old and the new, so intelligently worked out by the modern Chinese. I wonder why many of their customs and their basic philosophy of living, proven to be effective centuries ago, have not been adopted by the West. They long ago learned the art of living together and of easing the frictions of daily living. We still have much to learn from them.

  The Chinese in San Francisco speak of themselves as “Chinese” and of the Caucasians who surround them as “Americans.” I have followed this local custom. In my book, the word “Chinese” means “Chinese-American citizen.”

  Lois Lenski

  Lutean Shores

  Tarpon Springs, Florida

  December 1, 1954

  CHAPTER I

  A Walk in the City

  “Oh, look!” cried Mei Gwen. “There’s the shop where Grandmother buys her fish.”

  Mei Gwen pulled her two younger brothers across the street. Frankie was seven and Freddie six. Every day after school, Mei Gwen met them in the schoolyard and took them to the jeans factory where their mother worked. Her elder brother, Felix, walked ahead. It was hard to keep up with him, for the streets of Chinatown were very crowded. The children stopped in front of the Yet Sang Fish Shop. Mei Gwen held her nose. She did not like the smell of fish.

  Mei Gwen, who was nine, wore her black hair in two braids, with bangs in front. Her sweater was bright red and her wool skirt was pleated. Her face was serious as she kept her eyes on her younger brothers.

  They looked in the show window. Strange-looking fish, large and small, were lying on platters and hanging from hooks. Below the show window, inside the tile-covered walls, were two glass-fronted tanks, low on the sidewalk. In one were live frogs, in the other, live turtles. Frankie and Freddie crouched down to look. They pointed their fingers at the turtles. Felix knelt in front.

  “Do you remember the turtle I had in Alameda?” he asked.

  “No, Elder Brother,” said Mei Gwen. “That was so long ago.”

  “I will tell you how I found it,” said Felix. “One day I was walking in my garden near the tomato plants. I kicked up some dirt and what do you think I saw?”

  The little boys’ eyes opened wide with wonder.

  “I saw a turtle sleeping. I picked it up,” Felix went on. “I touched its back—its shell was very hot. It was hot, I guess, from sleeping in the sun. It looked like an old turtle.”

  “Was it as big as these?” asked Freddie, pointing.

  “Yes, it was a big one,” said Felix. “It was about eight inches long.”

  “Where did it come from?” asked Frankie.

  “I don’t know,” said Felix. “It must have crawled into my garden during the night from some other place. Maybe it came through a crack in the fence.”

  “Did I see it?” asked Frankie.

  “Yes, I showed it to you,” said Felix. “I put the poor turtle in water to cool it off. I put it in the pool with the fish.” He looked up at his sister. “Remember I told you we had a fishpool in our yard?”

  “Yes,” said Mei Gwen, “I remember. You talk about it all the time. What happened to your turtle? Did you eat it?”

  “No,” said Felix sadly. “About six months later my turtle died. I buried it under the cherry tree because I found it near the tree. The tomato plants were near the tree, too. I was so sorry and very sad. I had so much fun with my turtle and he was such a good pet.”

  “People don’t make pets of turtles in the city,” said Mei Gwen. “They buy them and eat them. They make soup out of them.”

  “But I don’t want you to forget Alameda and the fishpond,” said Felix.

  The little boys pointed their fingers at the frogs in the next tank. They clapped their hands to make the frogs jump. One large frog sat very still and did not move.

  “Look at him,” said Mei Gwen. “How mean and angry he is. He’s staring at me.”

  Suddenly the frog puffed out its cheeks, made a loud noise and jumped. The boys laughed.

  “He wants to get after me,” cried Mei Gwen. “Make him stop.” The frog sat still again and did not move. “He’s staring at me, I tell you.”

  �
��He won’t hurt you,” said Felix. “He can’t get out.”

  Mr. Ben Lum, the fish man, came to the door and smiled.

  “Tell that frog to stop staring at me, Mr. Lum,” said Mei Gwen.

  “It’s your red sweater,” said the fish man. “Frogs don’t like red. Better go home and change it.”

  Mei Gwen smiled. Was Mr. Lum teasing her? “If I wear my old yellow one, will he stare at me then?”

  “No,” said Ben Lum, grinning. He went indoors, put a glove on his hand, reached into the tank and picked up the frog.

  “Come, let’s go!” cried Mei Gwen hastily. “He’s taking the frog out! He’s going to put it on top of me!”

  “Don’t be so scared,” said Felix. “The poor frog won’t hurt you. He’s just putting it somewhere else.”

  “Come, let’s go.” Mei Gwen took the little boys by the hand and hurried along the street.

  “Frogs won’t hurt you,” said Felix, catching up. “Once I had some tadpoles …”

  “Oh, stop talking about your old fishpond,” said Mei Gwen. “I’m tired of hearing about it. You and all your pets out there in Alameda! We’re in San Francisco now, and everything is different.”

  “I like it better in the country,” said Felix. He walked slowly, his hands buried deep in his pants pockets.

  “Alameda is not country,” said Mei Gwen. “It’s a town—the houses are close together there. Mother told me so.”

  “To me it was like country,” said Felix sadly. “They always have grass in the country.…”

  “Grass? Who wants grass?” asked Mei Gwen.

  A man from the Lotus Garden Restaurant passed by, balancing a trayful of food on top of his head. He entered the door of an office and went up the stairs. He was taking a hot meal to some of the workers.

  The children came to the Sang Sang Poultry Shop and stopped. Live pigeons strutted back and forth in one show window, and dressed chickens hung from hooks in another. At the curb, a man was lifting crates of live chickens down from a truck. On the side of the truck a sign read: SANG SANG POULTRY RANCH, Walnut Creek, California. The man carried the crates into the open door and piled them on top of each other against the wall. Loud clucking and cackling could be heard, as feathers flew.

  “Let’s look at the pigeons,” cried Freddie.

  “I want to see the chickens,” said Frankie.

  “No,” said Mei Gwen firmly. “We must turn back now.” She pulled her little brothers along. “We cannot stop and look in every window. Mother will be waiting for us. She will say we are late again.”

  The children made their way slowly through the crowded street. Grant Avenue was a fascinating place. Gift shops, butcher shops, stationery and bookstores, groceries and herb stores stood side by side, with open wall-shops and flower stands at the street corners. Pagoda-like cornices in bright reds and greens towered above the jutting balconies on upper floors.

  Mei Gwen knew all the shops, although she had lived in the city for so short a time. All summer long she had gone shopping with Grandmother Yee and had carried things home in Grandmother’s shopping bag. Grandmother said that a girl of nine was old enough to learn housekeeping, and the first part of housekeeping was buying supplies.

  Mei Gwen loved to look in the windows as much as any one. She knew the Wah On Herb Shop where Dr. Low sold Grandmother the medicine when Frankie had a bad cold. She knew the Art Goods Shop where Aunty Rose bought her imported Chinese costume and embroidered slippers. She knew the bookshop where Father bought Chinese writing books, brushes and ink box for Felix when he started to Chinese school. She knew the Importers Shop where Aunty Kate’s friends bought Chinese vases for Christmas and wedding presents. And she knew which grocery store had the best Chinese vegetables. But she could not take time to show the little boys all these things.

  “I’m hungry,” said Freddie.

  “I’m hungry too,” said Frankie.

  “We will make only one more stop today,” said Mei Gwen. She led the boys around the corner into a narrow alley. “Do you smell something good?”

  “Um! Um!” sniffed Frankie.

  The Wo Lee Noodle Shop faced on the narrow alley. As the children walked in the open door, Mr. Roy Jung came to greet them. He was a good friend of Father’s and knew the children well. He wore a white cap and apron, and his face, arms and clothes were dusty with white flour. He greeted the children and filled their hands with Fortune cookies. Each rolled-up cookie, when broken open, held a tiny paper with a “fortune” printed on it. The children opened theirs and Felix read them:

  “It is better to keep a friend than to have a dollar.”

  “Good sense is the master of human life.”

  “Better not to speak at all than to say what is useless.”

  “Good! Good!” chuckled Mr. Jung, as he went back to his work. He and a helper were dusting a long, wide strip of dough with cornstarch, then folding it up in a neat pile, ready to be cut by hand with a large knife into noodles. The children thanked Mr. Jung and walked out.

  “Let’s go see Father,” said Freddie.

  “Just for a minute,” said Mei Gwen.

  A rear door to the Lotus Garden Restaurant, where Father worked, stood open in the alley just beyond. The little boys ran over and entered.

  “Fish!” sniffed Mei Gwen, holding her nose. “They’re always cooking fish. Oh, how I hate the smell of it.”

  The restaurant kitchen was a busy place, neat and spotlessly clean. Many tables held plates on each of which lay an uncooked fish. Baskets and bowls in orderly rows contained chopped-up vegetables, meats, seasonings and sauces, ready for special orders. Waiters in white coats passed back and forth, their arms loaded with filled porcelain and pewter bowls and dishes. At the huge stove in a far corner, the children saw Father busy at work. He was head cook and could not be interrupted. When one of the waiters spoke to him, he turned, smiled at the children, and lifting his hand, pointed to a clock on the wall.

  “He wants you to go to the jeans factory, Younger Sister,” said Felix. “And it’s time for me to go to Chinese school.”

  The children came out of the narrow alley into the street again. Hand in hand they stood at the corner waiting for the traffic light to change.

  Suddenly a girl a little younger than Mei Gwen passed by. She, too, had younger children in tow, a brother and sister. In Chinatown, the older children are always responsible for the younger ones. The girl stared at Mei Gwen, then lifted her chin and walked on ahead.

  “Who is she?” asked Felix.

  “Oh, that’s the girl we pass on the stairs at home every day,” said Mei Gwen. “They live on the second floor in our apartment house. Her father works at the Sun Sun Laundry on Mason Street. I’ve seen her lots of times, but she never speaks to me.”

  “People in the city are not friendly,” said Felix. “Even those in our own apartment house never speak to us. Nobody tries to be kind to us. That’s why I like Alameda better.”

  At the next corner, the children turned south, walked along by Portsmouth Square, turned again and came into Commercial Street. Felix waited at the corner until he saw Mei Gwen and the little boys go in at the door of Aunty Rose’s jeans factory. Then he turned back, retracing his steps.

  He had three long blocks to go, up Clay Street which was very steep, back to Stockton Street, where the Chinese school was located. Clay Street was not as steep as Sacramento, where the public playground was. Felix was learning the names of the streets at last. But he still hated the city, the crowds and all the noise. He still had no friends. The boys in public school and the boys in Chinese school did not like him. Even though he now knew the names of many of the streets, he was still afraid he might get lost. But, of course, he never told any one that.

  The whole city was crowded and Chinatown most of all. There were too many people. Felix was always pushing into them, or being pushed off the sidewalk. At home, the Fongs’ tiny apartment was overcrowded. Only three rooms for seven people. Felix did
not like it. Chinese school was crowded too, and noisy. There was no peace and quiet at all. There were no trees to climb.

  As he came into the schoolyard, Felix saw that all the boys were there. They were bouncing balls against the bare walls of the high buildings around the yard. They were running, jumping, batting and yelling. When a noisy gong sounded, they all crowded to the door. Some went to upper rooms and some to lower. Felix stood in line with boys of his age. They went into a dark basement room, filled with large desks. Boys sat in two rows at one side, girls opposite. After all the pupils took their places, Mr. Ling, the teacher, passed out writing books. The room became quiet as they settled down to work.

  Each pupil had a camel’s hair brush for writing, and a brass ink box into which Chinese ink had been poured over silk floss, making a spongy moist cake. A printed copy sheet with Chinese characters on it was inserted between double rice-paper sheets in the writing books.

  Felix held his brush in a vertical position between thumb and first finger. The other fingers grasped the handle, while the ball of his hand rested on the table. He breathed deeply, working hard to trace the strokes carefully. Each symbol was different, and there were thousands of them to be memorized. There was no alphabet making words as in public school, where he had learned to read English.

  Felix Fong grew very discouraged. Would he ever learn to write? It was hard to have to read and write two languages. But Father said a Chinese boy could not do business in or out of Chinatown unless he knew both languages.

  Suddenly out of the corner of his eye, Felix saw something moving. The boy in the next seat was passing something over to him. Felix reached out and took it. It was a comic book. Dared he look at it, while the teacher’s back was turned? Mr. Ling was writing Chinese characters on the blackboard and explaining the order in which the strokes should be made. From across the hall, Felix could hear a din of voices. Children in another grade were reciting a lesson aloud in unison. This was the way they learned to read.