Chapter 44: The Generation Gap

After a long, busy day, they went out that evening to distribute flyers. Young men and women were the target demographic chosen by Sumu and Du Zhong, since compared to the middle-aged, they tended to show more enthusiasm for charitable causes. Yet reality proved that even among young Chinese, most lived by the principle of “mind your own business,” making a living without getting involved. Many glanced at the flyers and tossed them away; Du Zhong often grumbled under his breath as he picked them up.

Accompanying Sumu to chase down the relief fund had brought clarity to Du Zhong, who had once been willful and naive. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, Du Zhong finally saw that the world was not as beautiful as he had imagined—he matured in an instant.

Distributing flyers wasn’t exhausting; most energy went into explaining their cause. By the time Sumu got home, his voice was hoarse. His father, feeling sorry for him, went out especially to buy pears and rock sugar, making a soothing broth for Sumu to drink.

Recently, Sumu had been leaving the house mysteriously, doing who-knows-what. In the eyes of Old Su, it was all just wasting time. The most important thing should be preparing for interviews, not worrying about Mrs. Lin’s relief money—his grandson’s education mattered most. That was the only thing on the old man’s mind these days.

Sumu hadn’t told his family about winning the lottery or investing in the supermarket. The contract he signed with Boss Han was hidden away. Originally, Boss Han had insisted Sumu inform his family, but then reconsidered—if Sumu’s parents disagreed, it would disrupt his plans, and finding other partners would be troublesome. Who would hold the reins later would also become an issue, so he decided not to push the matter. He respected his young partner and would not reveal their collaboration until Sumu was ready.

Old Su thought his grandson, after quitting his job, was just idly wandering about. Seeing Sumu exhausted, he was both annoyed and concerned, lecturing him, “Didn’t you already help her secure future relief funds? Why are you still meddling? Rallying a group for protests—what if something goes wrong? If trouble breaks out, you’ll have yourself to blame! Just after work, at the entrance to the alley, your Uncle Song was talking about the flyers. That’s enough. Mrs. Lin has already thanked you, being able to get four hundred dollars a month is more than enough.”

Sumu had his own thoughts. Adding ice cubes to his bowl before taking a sip—still too hot—he continued adding ice, then replied hoarsely, “That’s not the point. Why… cough… why should the money from the past twenty years just disappear without explanation? I need answers. This isn’t just about her anymore—many elderly haven’t received their relief funds. What would you do if it were you? Besides, I was laughed at by someone from the Social Security Administration, even threatened. If I don’t get even, I won’t feel right—I don’t even want to go to the interview, so please stop persuading me.”

That last line was a threat, and Old Su nearly jumped up in anger. After considering his grandson’s words, he retorted, “How could I not get relief funds? When I turn sixty-five, I’ll have them. But some haven’t received theirs, because their tax records and Social Security numbers can’t be found. They didn’t register back then, and now they can’t even buy pension insurance. Many people are like this—it’s not your concern.”

Sumu wanted to argue, but his throat was sore, and he understood that each generation’s outlook was marked by its era—he could never make his grandfather understand his perspective. It would be pointless to try. He muttered, “I’ll give it a try,” and, bowl in hand, retreated to his room, no longer wanting to discuss it.

Phrases like “everyone’s the same,” “not just me,” “all of us”—they seemed to be the best medicine for Chinese people. No matter how hard or bitter life got, seeing others in the same situation brought psychological balance. Rarely did anyone feel compelled to fight for anything; even when their own interests were at stake, many hid at home, hoping to snatch the fruits of victory later.

If they could unite, Sumu believed Chinatown would be far better off. Many benefits had never truly been implemented. For instance, Sumu’s aunt was fired last year and never fought back. She worked diligently, but was let go for requesting leave due to pregnancy—a clear violation of laws protecting women’s rights. Yet his aunt accepted it as normal.

Chinese in America were called the “model minority.” Unlike Black Americans, they didn’t fight loudly for their rights. Even when faced with workplace discrimination, most endured it in silence. According to a 1980 survey by the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, forty-two percent of Chinese experienced discrimination at work, higher than the thirty percent for Black Americans, yet almost none sought legal recourse.

Sumu didn’t know how others felt, but he refused to be that kind of “minority.” He was doing his utmost to help Mrs. Lin and other elderly, lonely people.

And so, the night passed.

The next morning, Sumu slept until after eight. The time set on the flyer for gathering was three in the afternoon, to set out together for the Social Security Administration. Sumu considered hiring a car to take everyone to the City Hall downtown, paying out of pocket. His lottery winnings hadn’t yet been taxed—the deadline was April 15th each year—so he wasn’t in a hurry. His account still had over twenty thousand dollars.

But the distance was too great and too troublesome. He decided instead to go to the Social Security Administration and march to its entrance. Yesterday, the two of them went and no one paid attention; today, he thought to call for more people.

The prize money would eventually be taxed heavily. Sumu had asked Boss Han for advice: if he didn’t want to do business, he could pretend not to know about it, but if he wanted to have better prospects, it was best not to cross the IRS. They were known as “America’s most terrifying organization.” Even a company’s omission of a few dozen cents in taxes could be found and punished, let alone tens of thousands of dollars. They could easily trace the source of income. If nothing happened, fine, but if something did, it would be a huge headache. Sumu decided to pay the taxes before April next year.

He ate a bowl of porridge in the morning. When his mother sent him out, she smiled and encouraged him. Though she hadn’t studied much, she was undoubtedly an outstanding woman.

Rushing to Du Zhong’s house, Sumu found the flyers much diminished. Surprised, he asked, “Where are the rest?”

Du Zhong shrugged. “I hired a newspaper delivery guy to tuck the pamphlets into today’s papers. I’ve done my best. For the next week, you’ll have to support me—otherwise, I’ll starve.”

Sumu laughed, “That’s a great idea. There are still so many left—we must hand them all out today. With so many people in Chinatown, surely someone will support us…”