Encounter with a Chinatown Street Musician

Guest blogger: Jialiang Dong, law student, University of San Francisco

In Chinatown in San Francisco I saw an old Chinese man with no left arm. He sat in front of the steps of an old “benevolent associations” that was formed when Chinese people were not allowed to hold property in America. He was playing a familiar and upbeat song using a wood harmonica that I guessed was a Chinese instrument.

I liked the music. I felt his song told something and he had more to tell. I talked to him. He told me he had no wife, no children, no house, no car, and no left arm. He has even less than most people who claim to have nothing.

I asked his age. He was born in 1932. I asked him where he was from. He said he was from Canton, China. I asked him how long he has lived in America. He said since 1969. I asked him if he came to America alone. He looked at me and said “Yes, this time yes. The second time I came alone, in 1969.”

You came before? I asked. “Yes.” He put down his harmonica and folded his arms. He only had his right arm. The position was awkward and strange to me, as if he didn’t lose his left arm and was only hiding it behind his back.

When did you come the first time? I asked. He moved his eyes to look at the ground, and unfolded his right arm to pull a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He offered me one. I said thank you and took it. I did not smoke.

“1938. 27th Year of the Republic.” He stated the year of the old Chinese calendar. “January. The first time I came in January 1938.” He lit his cigarette and stopped talking. He had more to say. I waited with him and said nothing. Some school children chatted as they went into the red Chinese restaurants near us, perhaps to help their parents in preparation for the busy dinner hours.

“I came with my mom and two brothers.” He said as he watched his cigarette burn. He told me it was almost impossible to get ship tickets back then, with the looming war, but he was lucky. With the white smoke rising through meandering curvatures under the gentle breeze, making the bright red decorations of Chinatown even more warm and noisy.

Why did you go back? As soon as I asked the question, I regretted asking. I should have waited. He started to smoke. The cigarette only had about a third left.

A few pigeons landed in front of us and started picking the crumbs on the ground. “They did not let us in back in 1938. My father was already in America, in here.” He pointed at a building not far. “He said he was not married to the government in the US when he got his papers. He thought they asked whether he was married here. His sons and wife certainly could not have been allowed in—where do they come from when he was never married!” He looked me and laughed, as if something truly hilarious happened right in front of us.

“We got here in January. I never got to see my dad. They put us on ship back to China in March. We got back in May. The Japanese came in October.” He paused and smoked again. “My mom died in Canton later that year. My brothers died in 1939.” He said very calmly.

“In 1969 my dad finally could bring me here.” He pointed again at the nearby building. “I had long and back hair back then. My dad lived until 1980!” He said to me with pride and astonishment. “My mom died in 1938, my brothers died in 1939. My dad never remarried.”

I did not ask how he lost his arm. I felt the arm was insignificant to him. If I did ask he would have told me he did not remember or made a joke about it. He picked up the harmonica and started playing again the same familiar and happy song.

A few tourists with grey hair and very tanned, almost coffee-colored skin stopped and appreciated the music with smiles on their faces, they were well dressed with gold-rimmed sunglasses and their teeth were neat and white, much whiter than the cigarette smoke. One of them wore a black cap with yellow lettering in all caps. “KOREAN WAR VETERAN” They politely looked at the old man and softly clapped for him while they stepped in to the busy and bright red restaurants with smiles on their faces and a sense of surprising, pleasant and exotic novelty. The old Chinese man nodded and smiled back at them with his eyes in return as he kept playing his harmonica.

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