Lee Sing -- Samuel Lee, he reminded himself -- walked down Grant Avenue with his head held high. The January sky over San Francisco was blue and clear, and the breeze tickled Samuel’s neck. He had just left his queue and much of his black hair on the floor of the Lucky Happiness Barber Shop, where the proprietor had allowed him to change into his new suit from the Sears, Roebuck catalog. Samuel’s hard leather shoes squeaked as he walked; the soft shoes, robe and skullcap he had worn when he left the house on Waverly Place were folded tidily in the valise.
Samuel wondered what his white father would think of his 20-year-old son today. It was 1907. The City was still crawling out from the wreckage of last year’s earthquake, and Samuel had decided it was his time to be reborn as well. He would be a modern man now, with Western clothes and haircut. Perhaps he would even attend university and make something of himself. After all, he was born in California. He spoke English without an accent, as did his younger sister, Ming. She was determined to be the dutiful daughter, despite going to work for a white family on Union Street. Companion to their daughter, who was barely younger than herself. He sighed when he thought of her getting on the omnibus every day, dressed in her traditional garb, and making sure this girl got to school and back. Ming said the mother had been in theatre and the father was some kind of artist. No wonder Grandfather Lee and Mother were so concerned that she might not make a good marriage after working with such folk.
Samuel let himself into the house, closing the door as quietly as he could. He set down his valise and braced for the coming hurricane.
His mother saw him first. She slapped his face and called him a thoughtless, selfish boy who had shamed his ancestors.