Chapter 66: A Tragedy in the Era of Great Change

This little butterfly named Su Mu ultimately stirred up a tempest, changing the course of the world in subtle but profound ways.

He had never truly met Zhang Mazi; their paths crossed only briefly at William Hill's betting house. When Boss Han placed his bet, that fellow was present as well, and they exchanged a few casual words. Such a fleeting connection, yet it brought Zhang Mazi’s life to an abrupt end.

Five days earlier, Zhang Mazi had gambled himself into a mountain of debt—over forty thousand dollars. His initial plan was to disappear with whatever possessions he could carry, hoping to evade his creditors. But he was forced, in the end, to leap from a building, his back marked by the wounds of a blade.

The world was in chaos, especially in the impoverished quarters of Chinatown. In the fifties and sixties, hoodlums were everywhere; street brawls resembled scenes from grandiose films, hundreds on either side clashing with real violence. The police would stand by, mere onlookers, and within the confusion, it was common for someone to be stabbed—so many times that the perpetrator was impossible to find, and the matter would often be left unresolved.

These were real events, witnessed firsthand by Su Dingcai. Only in recent years had there been some semblance of order. The wealthy, understanding the dangers of the area, were quick to move out the moment they could afford it. Only those like the Su family, with no other choice, remained behind in their old homes.

By the early eighties, such large-scale brawls had waned, but loan-sharking, underground casinos, and organized prostitution remained rampant. Even drug trafficking and human smuggling were not uncommon. Zhang Mazi himself was far from innocent—a small-time crook at society’s margins. His death, however, dragged many others down with him.

It had nothing to do with Su Mu directly; he knew nothing of it at first. He thought the immigration officers were merely conducting a routine inspection. Two days later, he realized INS had begun a sweeping census in Chinatown, with reinforcements suggesting a determination to deport every overstayer and illegal immigrant in the district.

The Su family was also inspected, but as they were all legal residents, the INS agents quickly moved on.

Only after did Su Mu learn the true origins of this crackdown—a cargo ship was at the heart of it. Zhang Mazi, having built some connections, had started smuggling immigrants two years prior. Just days before, a cargo ship carrying over a hundred stowaways had anchored off the American coast, waiting for his men to ferry them ashore. But with Zhang Mazi’s sudden death, there was no one left to oversee the operation.

The coastguard was on patrol, and the ship’s captain, stricken with fear and running low on food and fuel, could not risk returning to China.

So, with no regard for the stowaways’ lives, they were forced off the ship at gunpoint, more than ten kilometers from the shore. Twenty life jackets and lifebuoys were tossed into the sea, and the people were left to swim for their lives.

Most of these Chinese stowaways were men and women under forty, desperate for a better life in America—some officials and businessmen fleeing with their fortunes, a few with families, hoping to settle for good.

The cargo ship sailed away, abandoning more than a hundred souls to the waves. Fights broke out over the precious life-saving equipment; those who could not swim sank immediately. After two days and a night, only about thirty survived, discovered barely alive by a fishing boat. Later, more than a dozen bodies washed up on California’s coast, the youngest a child of just four.

When the journalists reported on the tragedy, it caused a sensation. The ensuing purge was unstoppable; even the president issued orders. It was not only the Chinese who suffered—every Asian and Mexican community was affected. In a single day, the jails were filled with illegal immigrants awaiting deportation. The media dubbed it the “901 Massacre.”

Hearing the news, Su Mu’s feelings were mixed. In recent years, China’s policies had changed, and there were indeed more illegal immigrants in Chinatown. The locals resented them, feeling their jobs were being stolen, and cheered on the crackdown.

America has never been a paradise. For the rich, perhaps it is; for the poor, certainly not.

Judging by the news on the radio, China seemed destined for a bright future. It was a pity, Su Mu thought, that if those compatriots had not risked their lives to come here, they might have prospered at home. He understood that the rise of a nation was always accompanied by innumerable opportunities to make a fortune.

To be honest, children like Su Mu, born in America, were not truly familiar with the country across the Pacific. All he knew were bits of the Great Wall and the Forbidden City, things the elders often spoke of. Sometimes he dabbled in traditional culture, but only superficially. Su Mu was a little better; he liked reading ancient poetry, miscellaneous books, and biographies of historic figures, though he often struggled to understand and had no one to ask for guidance, so he muddled through as best he could.

Most American-born Chinese did possess a sense of homeland identity, but having never set eyes on the ancestral land where their forebears lived and died, their feelings could hardly be deep.

Lately, Su Mu had found himself longing to see it for himself, curious about what China was like now, that so many would brave death to seek their fortune in America.

It was not just a few—it was tens of thousands flooding into Los Angeles, driving rents in Chinatown sky-high and throwing the neighborhood into chaos. In places like New York and San Francisco, the numbers were even greater.

According to recent statements by INS officials, the number of immigrants from China in recent years far exceeded the twenty thousand quota. Additionally, about twenty-five thousand illegal immigrants arrived each year, and a new crackdown was beginning—those caught would be deported.

News traveled slowly in those days. Even the reports in newspapers and on television about China were mostly negative, as each nation had its own perspective. Su Mu felt only by seeing with his own eyes could he know the truth.

He was deeply interested in the land where his ancestors had lived. But in recent years, life there seemed hard, and when he thought of the Chinese in America, their lives were not much better. Garbage piled like mountains on the streets; whole families crowded into tiny apartments in infamous slums. Mentioning Chinatown to most white Americans conjured words like “dirty” and “chaotic”—it held no status in society.

Perhaps those across the ocean were constructing fantasies, or spreading rumors of America’s “beauty.” The Su family was considered well-off by Chinatown standards, earning enough to make many stowaways envious, yet their life was barely manageable—prosperity was a foreign word. Most Chinese in America could not earn enough to cover daily expenses; one person’s wages supported an entire family, never enough.

Setting aside the wave of immigration sparked by the opening-up policy—some might indeed make money—the vast majority only wasted their efforts. Some sold homes in Shanghai’s city center, others sold courtyard houses on Chang’an Avenue, bringing their money to America for a new life. In this era, it seemed reasonable.

Yet, unlike America, which had developed for over two centuries and was already stable, China was advancing at a breathtaking speed. People like Su Mu were beginning to sense the opportunities that might lie therein…

On the morning of September 3rd, Su Mu boarded a Greyhound bus, carrying more than twenty thousand dollars left from his lottery winnings and eight hundred dollars for living expenses from his family, on his way to attend Menlo Park High School. The previous night, they had feasted again; his stomach was unsettled, and he felt weary and listless.

His mother saw him off, unable to hold back her tears, while Old Su grinned with satisfaction.

Su Dingcai, busy with his business at home, did not accompany his son to school. After all, Menlo Park was still in California; they could see each other on weekends. There was no need to worry too much…