Musings on my father

A story well known in my immediate family but not frequently told involves a trip to the seaside in New Jersey. I am young, perhaps three or four years old, and my parents are with friends, a late-middleaged couple who have been in America for many years, while my parents are new immigrants, my mother from Shanghai and my father from Taipei. We are driving in my father’s white Toyota wagon, and when we park within distance of the beach, my mother fusses over helping me out of the car. My father tries to help, too, but something goes wrong. When he shuts the door, my hand is caught in the hinges.

Chaos follows. Between heartbeats, my mother turns into a demoness protecting her only child. She hurls insults at my father. She doesn’t give a fig about