Chapter 1: Poverty Saps One’s Spirit

May 14th, 1984.

The weather was stifling this evening. On the school’s athletic field, students played basketball, while others practiced baseball or American football. The scene was lively and full of energy.

The cheerleaders were rehearsing nearby, clad in white cropped tops and red pleated skirts. Their youthful beauty attracted the attention of many boys, who gathered not far away, pointing, laughing, and animatedly debating which girl was the prettiest. These vibrant, spirited young women were always the most popular in the school.

On the third floor of a modest four-story white building, a boy’s face could be seen by the window. He was young, with a soft mustache above his lips. He gazed at the cheerleaders busily practicing below. The school emblem on his chest bore the name “Leon Su.” In Chinese, it was “Liang Su.”

In fact, his real name was Mu Su. On the first day of first grade, the teacher had asked all the Chinese students to choose English names—most likely so she could more easily remember her students, since Chinese names always sounded strange to her. Mu Su no longer remembered why he’d chosen “Leon.” Now, he thought names like “Jones” or “Anderson” sounded much better, but after nine years, he was used to it. Except for his family, everyone at school—teachers and classmates—called him Leon.

From a Chinese perspective, Mu Su might be considered rather handsome; at the very least, his features were pleasant enough. But this was Los Angeles, and here, those popular cheerleaders never spared him a glance. Every American-born Chinese boy was long accustomed to such things.

The academically successful Chinese students were always seen as nerdy, dull, and rigid by the others; those with poor grades were even less noticeable. It was the more athletically gifted boys who won favor at school, and Asians were at a disadvantage in this regard.

There were black or white boys who dated Chinese girls, but rarely did Chinese boys have relationships with white, black, or Mexican girls. Aside from mutual disinterest, cultural differences played a role as well.

Of course, there were always exceptions—a very few Chinese boys might date white girls, but such relationships rarely lasted.

Chinese students had their own small circles within the school, separated by an invisible barrier—not only because of differences in lifestyle, but also due to the ever-present force of racism.

In the 1960s, Martin Luther King Jr. awakened in black Americans a desire for equality, elevating their social status considerably. Meanwhile, Chinese Americans, long restricted by the various Chinese Exclusion Acts, now found their status in America even lower than that of black Americans, nearly marginalized.

What was true in society was reflected in the schools.

A black student could say, “I’m black and I’m proud,” and no one questioned it. But if a white student said, “I’m white and I’m proud,” it was considered racist. Such contradictions revealed the stark hierarchy of the country’s population—a sad reality, as the vast majority of Chinese Americans occupied the lowest rung and rarely fought for their own interests, believing it was better to avoid trouble, which only led to even more bullying.

All in all, life for Chinese Americans in this era was not easy. It hadn’t been easy before, either, and the future seemed devoid of hope.

Mu Su’s family was not wealthy, but they had managed, at least, to send their only third-generation son to a public middle school near Chinatown that was just barely adequate.

The school was called Castellar. There are many famous junior high schools in America, but “Castellar” is certainly not one of them. Most private schools with high academic standards also had high tuition barriers; even ordinary private schools were far beyond what Mu Su’s family could afford.

In his classroom sat over fifty students: some black, some Mexican, and many with Asian faces—not only Chinese, but also Japanese and Korean, though most were Chinese, since so many Chinese families lived near Chinatown.

If you didn’t already know, you’d never guess this was a school in Los Angeles—the white students were so few as to make up barely one-tenth of the student body. Any white family with a bit of money would never let their children attend such a poor school. Many white parents would rather move away than let their kids be assigned here and have their futures jeopardized.

In the eyes of most white Americans, a school with so many students of color was considered “a third-rate dump.” Those were the exact words a white student once uttered on the school bus, and Mu Su, then twelve, had overheard him.

In the days that followed, Mu Su paid closer attention and realized that even well-off Chinese families in Chinatown rarely sent their children to Castellar—take his best friend, Zhong Du, for instance, whose father was a branch manager at Citibank. After elementary school, Zhong Du went on to a beautiful private middle school.

That white student who had insulted the school on the bus would never know that his parting words made Mu Su, for the first time, feel the injustice of society. It changed the way he saw the world, and he began to mature, leaving behind the childish notion that marbles were the greatest treasure.

The injustices he saw daily made sixteen-year-old Mu Su grow up faster—being stopped on the street by police, denied insurance payouts, forbidden from entering certain restaurants… All these things weighed heavily on his heart, but there was nothing he could do. Youth is always a time of confusion.

***

Ms. Susie, the physics teacher, had hair that was already white. Her nose always bore the same black-rimmed glasses, giving her a somewhat stern appearance. She was one of the most disliked teachers in school; privately, students called her “Guinea Pig” because of her two prominent front teeth.

At that moment, Ms. Susie passed by Mu Su’s desk and, seeing him lost in thought, tapped the table to get his attention. “I know you’ve mastered all this, but class isn’t over yet. Aren’t you planning to take the SSAT next month? The exam was postponed this year after the questions were leaked, so you still have time to register. If you want, you should try. I’ll arrange a recommendation letter for you.”

Her tone was gentle enough. She had taught Mu Su since elementary school. He was a good student, active in extracurriculars, mild-tempered, and fond of reading—all qualities she liked to see. Since he’d done nothing wrong, she had no reason to lose her temper with him.

The SSAT—the Secondary School Admission Test—has lower and upper levels. Students could use their scores to apply to better private schools. If his family could afford the annual tuition of about ten thousand dollars, Mu Su would certainly have wanted to see what other schools were like. But for his family, that was a huge sum. Life was already hard enough; he didn’t wish to add to his parents’ burdens.

So he smiled and shook his head, offering an excuse to Ms. Susie. “This school is closer to home, and I think you all do a great job teaching. I don’t plan to transfer, but thank you for your kindness, Ms. Susie.”

Ms. Susie knew better than anyone the quality of education at their school. Most students here came from struggling families. Sensing what was left unsaid, she lowered her voice. “I believe you could score over 2200. If you do well, you could apply for a scholarship.”

“Those private schools aren’t exactly charitable organizations, Ms. Susie.”

Regretting that his words seemed to dismiss her good intentions too bluntly, Mu Su quickly added, “There are others who excel more than I do. I might not get the scholarship, and it would be difficult if I didn’t. Even here, I’m confident I’ll get into a good college. But thank you, truly.”

Ms. Susie wanted to say more, but the school bell rang just then. Many students, heads buried in their books, immediately looked up, stood, and began to pack up for the day, disregarding the teacher’s presence. The bell cut her off, and she sighed a little ruefully. Over the years, she had seen many outstanding students who, like Mu Su, lost out on better opportunities because of their families.

A good high school mattered, not just for academics, but for the people one met and the environment one was shaped by. In the end, she said, “I hope you’ll think it over. I’m sure your parents would support you. I’ll keep that recommendation letter for you—just in case you need it.”

Mu Su smiled and nodded, but didn’t take it to heart.

His whole family earned less than twenty thousand dollars a year, well below the national average of eighteen thousand per person. In his mind, he couldn’t just stop living in order to go to school—especially with all the extra costs at private schools. For his family’s finances, it would be an impossible burden.

Poverty stifled one’s ambitions. Mu Su was smart and did well in school, but sometimes he had to consider other realities.

…