MEMOIR | THE NARRATIVE ARC

A man of few words, my 89-year-old father has remained characteristically quiet during our drive around San Francisco. As we pass the Financial District, his voice jolts me.

"I was detained in that building."

"Say that again, Dad?"

"When I arrived in the U.S., I was held over there, on Washington Street."

Having spent the better part of my career in the high-rises that populate this area, I try to reconcile my memories with those that my Chinese immigrant father is sharing.

"You were held here? For how long?"

"43 days."

"What?!"

"I was fine."

I've long known the general arc of Dad's journey. With limited funds and English skills, he left his rural village at age fifteen, transited through Hong Kong, and sailed for weeks before reaching America. Working as a houseboy, he managed to attend high school and ultimately enrolled at Cal.

Yet gaps in his story remain. For example, I had always assumed he came through Angel Island, the historic immigration station in San Francisco Bay.

After learning that it had closed before his arrival, I asked him about this discrepancy. He responded simply that he had been processed in the city.

Until today, I hadn't known where this part of his journey had taken place—or that he had ever been detained.

Conversations between my father and me have never flowed freely. A child of the suburbs, I am decidedly American and can only speak broken Cantonese. Given our differences in upbringing and culture, my father and I occupy separate planes—often causing our words to shoot past one another.

Especially as I've explored my roots, I notice that my parents prefer to look ahead versus dwell on the past. I surmise it's immigrant survival instincts at play: There's no going back after taking a giant leap across the Pacific.

Reminding myself to be patient, I collect the drips of information as they come, adding them to the murky mix of what I know. Over time, I hope to find clarity.

An online search confirms the location of a U.S. immigration services building at the corner of Washington and Sansome, four blocks from my former office. The government center still operates today.

It's hard to fathom that as I fretted over spreadsheets and PowerPoint decks, I was minutes away from the facility where my father, then a mere child, had waited in detention for six weeks.

It was my idea to take my parents to Angel Island.

With the water temporarily being shut off at their apartment complex, Mom asked if they could spend the day with me. Given they had never visited Angel Island, I saw a chance for us to learn and connect.

Although it closed as an immigration station in 1940, Angel Island plays a key role in my family's history. My paternal grandfather left China for San Francisco before World War II, when Dad was a toddler. It's almost certain that Gong Gong's first steps in America were on this island.

The Wait

Our day starts early: I pick up my parents ahead of the 7 a.m. shutdown and bring them back to my house, where we'll wait a few hours before heading to San Francisco.

Sitting across the kitchen table from my father, I take the opportunity to interrogate him.

"Given Gong Gong had left for America before you, did you know him well?"

Dad focuses not on me but rather on the slice of banana bread before him. He slowly takes a bite and swallows before responding.

"No. My mother raised us by herself. She worked hard. Using the money Gong Gong sent back from America, she bought land and grew food so we wouldn't starve."

Until now, I hadn't given much thought to my father's relationship with Gong Gong. Separated for at least a decade, they were practically strangers when the two finally reunited in America.

By contrast, my father has been a constant in my life; I couldn't imagine growing up without him. Perhaps the distance between us isn't as wide as I think.

"Now tell me about your time in Hong Kong after you left the village. How long were you there?"

"Two years."

"Two years?!"

I've always assumed that Hong Kong was a brief pit stop until the next steamship arrived. By extending his journey's timeline, I realize now that my father left home at an even younger age—I guess thirteen—and lived away from both of his parents for a far longer period.

I can't contain my curiosity.

Who did you live with? "The daughter of my aunt."

Where did you sleep? "In a bunk bed."

Did you go to school? "Yes."

Why did you have to wait two years? "That's how long it took for the paperwork to be approved."

The back and forth fatigues us both. He retreats to the couch, while I go upstairs to lie down until it's time to leave.

The Journey

While alert and spry, my parents have slowed noticeably in recent years. Getting around these days requires planning and patience.

I learned about this new reality firsthand when the three of us took a memorable but exhausting trip to Asia four months ago. Every step we climbed, every mode of transport we took, and every site we visited, I was at their side, ready to catch them if they slipped.

While today's itinerary is far simpler, I still anticipate a trek. After my wife drops us off at the train station, we confront our first challenge: descending the stairs to the underground platform.

As expected, my father shoos away my arm and grabs the railing instead for balance.

"I'm okay, I'm okay."

It's a common refrain of my father's. He fiercely protects his independence, even after having fallen and injured himself a couple of times.

I'm reminded of our car ride in San Francisco, when he described his lengthy detention: "I was fine."

I start to see my father's obstinacy in new light. I can only imagine the anxieties and pressures he faced, thousands of miles away from home and two years into his voyage abroad. How did he cope being held captive in a foreign land?

I see him reassuring himself, with the promise of America and a reunion with his father waiting for him outside the facility's four walls.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," he tells himself.

At the iconic Ferry Building, we board the boat and select an empty bench on the upper deck. The skies are clear and sunny, prompting my parents to don their matching bucket hats.

En route, we enjoy spectacular views of Treasure Island and the Bay Bridge on our right and the Golden Gate Bridge on our left.

As the winds pick up midway through the ride, we start to shiver. At my suggestion, we retreat to the ferry's warm interior. I'm sure that if I hadn't initiated the move, my parents would have stayed put. They seemingly have in their DNA the ability to endure tough conditions.

Today's ride is brief, just 30 minutes. I note that, by comparison, my father's journey across the ocean took three weeks.

The Arrival

From a distance, Angel Island appears uninhabited, with low-lying hills covered with trees and fields of yellow grass. As we approach the dock, historic buildings come into view. These barebones structures stand in contrast to the Marin County mansions that line the hills across the strait.

Making our way to shore, we immediately board a tram, which winds its way up the road to China Cove. Once dropped off at the base of the immigration station, we see remnants of a dock that once jutted out into the water. On display is a massive bell that was used to guide arriving ships safely through the fog.

I take a photo of my smiling parents in front of the bell, which my father playfully rings. I imagine these clangs are the first sounds of America that Gong Gong heard as his boat neared the dock.

To reach the detention barracks, we ascend a steep hill and an arduous flight of stairs. Minding each step, we eventually make our way to the entrance.

The plain and poorly lit building immediately takes us back in time.

We find ourselves in the Chinese men's dormitory; immigrants were separated by gender and by race, with other Asians and Europeans residing in another section of the complex.

Metal bunk beds, stacked three high, give us a sense of the minimal space allocated to each person. My father places his hand on a cot, as if to see if it is real. He notes its similarity to the one he slept in while staying at the detention center in San Francisco.

Turning our focus to the walls, we can detect faint etchings of Chinese characters. Interpretive displays explain that detainees, many of whom were held for months if not years, carved these poems to express frustration and to protest their treatment.

I find a poem by someone who shares our name and ancestral region, Yee of Taishan. He writes:

The floating clouds, the fog, darken the sky.

The moon shines faintly as the insects chirp.

Grief and bitterness entwined are heaven sent.

The sad person sits alone, leaning by a window.

One of the most striking parts of the spartan barracks are the views. Through the windows and their mesh-wire coverings, I see blue skies and waters—and also land, all enticingly within arm's reach.

As my parents peruse the exhibits, I'm busily using my phone. A display has directed me to a website where I can retrieve detailed ship manifests.

With my heart racing, I search for my grandfather, applying a series of filters. Sadly, I'm unable to find someone with the right combination of name, time, and location.

But then another idea strikes me. I enter a new set of search parameters.

I find it.

My father's name, along with other vital information about his journey:

From Hong Kong 8/6/51. Arriving San Francisco 8/24/51. SS President Wilson. Age 14, male, single.

He was younger than I previously thought, leaving his village before he was even a teenager. The President Wilson, which he boarded in Hong Kong, had gone into service in 1948 and had a capacity of 579 passengers. The voyage took 18 days, and he arrived in San Francisco in the summertime.

While still murky, the water starts to become a little clearer.

The Release

Back near the ferry dock, we sit at a patio table, quietly eating sandwiches from the cafe. It's only 1:30 p.m. but we're tired.

I remove a Tupperware container from my backpack and offer leftover banana bread to my parents.

"How was today's visit, Dad?"

"It was good."

"What came to mind as you walked around?"

He finishes a bite before speaking.

"Hardship."

It's a word I don't recall him saying before. I'm unclear whose hardship he's referring to.

"Can you say more?"

He proceeds to talk about arriving in the U.S. and attending school despite knowing little English. He recalls staying up until the wee hours reading and rereading texts. He excelled in high school but then confronted academic challenges at Cal, where everyone was so smart.

It's a brief window of connection that soon closes. Our conversation switches to our next trip together, an Alaskan cruise later this summer.

We clean up our trash and prepare for the return trip. My parents are anxious about missing the ferry even though the dock is in our line of sight.

As we wait, I imagine the day when Gong Gong was released from the barracks. Like us, he stands on the pier, awaiting a vessel to transport him to San Francisco. He'll find a job as a cook and send his earnings back to Taishan. In addition, he'll start the long process of getting his family—including his second-born son—to join him in America.

Mom mentions that she's received good news via text: Water is once again flowing in their apartment.

"Finally," she says, "we're free to go home."

Thanks for reading.