Chapter 45: Visitors from Loyola

As things progressed to this point, what Su Mu sought was no longer limited to Mrs. Lin’s welfare money. Far more important was proving a point—trying to show that Chinese people could unite, could stand up for their compatriots and fight for their own interests.

It would be unfair to call his actions radical. If one had never lived in America during this era, it was hard to imagine the depth of unfairness the Chinese faced—having been oppressed for so long, Su Mu could no longer endure it.

Though the Chinese Exclusion Act, maintained for nearly a century, had been officially repealed in 1943, in California, the law prohibiting Chinese from marrying whites wasn’t abolished until 1948. Even after that, similar laws persisted in other states, only ending in 1967 when the Supreme Court unanimously decided that laws banning interracial marriage were unconstitutional.

Despite the repeal of a series of harsh exclusion acts, discrimination and exclusion continued unabated. During the years of the Exclusion Act, Chinese people in America were deprived of equal access to employment, land ownership, business opportunities, and education. Their activities were confined to Chinese communities, living concentrated in “Chinatowns,” surviving by running laundries, restaurants, and grocery stores—humble, grueling service industries.

Even now, hosts on networks like CNN, ABC, and FOX would occasionally let slip disparaging remarks about Chinese, such as “slant-eyed,” “Chinaman,” or “Wang Xiao Er from the laundry.” When Su Mu was a child, he played well with a white boy, until the boy’s father came over and, right in front of Su Mu, declared that his son shouldn’t play with Chinese. That left a deep shadow in his heart.

On a field trip, the leading teacher asked Su Mu if he was Korean; when she learned he was Chinese, her attitude immediately turned cold. His father, Dingcai Su, also recounted that when he was young and looking for work, a white person called him a rat and berated him for taking jobs that should have belonged to whites.

Countless small insults, Su Mu remembered them all. Hundreds of dollars in welfare was a small matter; no one to collect trash was a small matter; limitations on Chinese student admissions were a small matter; compatriots being shot was a small matter; police targeting Chinese for inspections was a small matter... It seemed that, unless someone pointed a gun at a Chinese person’s head, every insult was somehow deemed bearable.

No matter the election, people disliked participating, their ballots wasted, so politicians paid little attention to the Chinese community and naturally made no decisions in their favor to win their votes. The elders always said that things were much better now than before, but the younger generation, Su Mu among them, was not satisfied. He hoped for more, using this incident to vent his frustration.

In the eighties, as their homeland rose in power, it was a period when the status of Chinese worldwide began to ascend. A new middle class emerged, young Chinese people had their own ideas, started to become dissatisfied with the status quo, and began to fight for their interests—a telling feature of the era.

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At Loyola Private High School, a small but notable event recently occurred: the principal and the dean of academics began disputing over the admission of a particular student.

That student was Su Mu.

Speaking of this matter, Su Mu found himself caught in the turmoil. The old principal was set to retire in a year, while the dean—favored by the board—had just become a candidate for principal and immediately began wrestling for power, often contradicting the old principal.

This year, Loyola Private High School, eager to restore its reputation, had set aside three scholarship spots. Su Mu performed outstandingly in his studies, but his family’s situation was dire. As one of Los Angeles’ premier elite schools, there had never been such a precedent.

The dean believed the school’s standards should not be lowered. In his words, admitting “a pauper would reduce us to a third-rate school,” preferring to give the spot to the grandson of an old movie star from the Film Association.

The principal, however, insisted that admissions should be based on academic merit; otherwise, the purpose of scholarship spots would be lost, and among the candidates, Su Mu’s stellar grades made him the most qualified.

As neither side would yield, they arranged for Mr. Smith, a mutually trusted “investigator,” to assess Su Mu’s character and conduct before the interview, to determine whether he was fit to attend Loyola.

In other words, Mr. Smith’s opinion would decide whether Su Mu could secure the scholarship.

Mr. Smith was, in truth, a teacher. He wasn’t scheduled to start at the school until September, and since neither the principal nor the dean had worked with him before, both felt at ease entrusting him with the task.

Do not assume American society is entirely open-minded; every industry has its cliques, and high schools and universities are no exception. From the White House to the kindergarten, there is always someone waging a power struggle—it is human nature.

Taking on this special role for the first time, Mr. Smith felt somewhat excited today, as if he were an undercover agent in a movie—James Bond, perhaps—though his mission was simply to investigate Su Mu. It sounded straightforward, but was much trickier to handle.

Yesterday, both the principal and the dean had spoken to him privately—the former suggesting he just go through the motions, the latter urging him to find fault with “Leon Su.” Stuck between the two, Mr. Smith felt uneasy.

He knew this meant “a hard year now for a few good years later,” or “a good year now for a few hard years later,” depending on whom he sided with. There was no way to muddle through; whatever he decided, he would offend someone. In his hand was a slip of paper with Su Mu’s address and phone number. He sighed as he walked, deciding he’d better meet Su Mu first.

By coincidence, at that moment he spotted a Chinese youth distributing flyers, so he approached to ask directions. Su Mu assumed the white man was interested, handed him a flyer, and with a hoarse voice said, “Please help, for the sake of the elderly.”

After a night’s rest, Su Mu’s throat was somewhat better, though still rough; speaking loudly still hurt.

“Sorry, I have business today. Can you tell me how to get here?” Mr. Smith handed Su Mu the slip, continuing, “Don’t worry, I’m a high school teacher. Before enrollment, I want to learn about this student’s background.”

“This student’s name is Leon Su, his Chinese name is... Su Mo. Do you know him?”

The English name was spoken fluently, but the Chinese name sounded as if he had a stone lodged in his throat—awkward and mangled.

Su Mu was momentarily stunned. Seeing the writing on the slip, he was dumbfounded, thinking, “Damn... isn’t he here to find me?!”

...