In a narrow alley clogged with rats and motorists behind Nai Nai's apartment on Guangfu Road is a shabby stand selling the best zongzi in Taipei. People come from all over the city, from every hood and hidden quarter, to eat them. They come even in typhoon season, addicted to the taste of glutinous rice steamed in an industrial steamer (not the old-fashioned bamboo baskets the Amas use), the unctuous filling of braised pork, salted egg, jujube. 

            Lao Ma won't let me eat at the zongzi stand. She's saving every penny for our move to California. She calls it the Golden State. "In the Golden State I'll only eat pancakes and caviar. No more peasant food," she says, already showing an immigrant's disdain for her native culture. What will I eat? "With an American education," she scolds, "you can do whatever you want." Nai Nai snorts, returns to chopping water spinach.

            After Mami leaves for work Nai Nai takes me to run errands. A parting gift, reminding me where I come from, a humbler version of who I am. We pick long beans from the grocer's vat, holding them in our hands one by one until they make a lime green bouquet. We choose a chicken from the butcher, the quietest bird who will put up the least fuss when its neck is laid on the chopping block. We pay our monthly visit to Skyscraper Rose, Nai Nai's only living relation, whose real name is better left, like the Mainland, in the past. When Nai Nai tells her that I'm moving she reaches into her handbag and pulls out five hundred yuan. Nai Nai protests, Big Sister's being too generous. She's just a stupid little girl. What will she do with all that money? But Great Auntie discards her protests like a useless mahjong tile. "It's small change! If she doesn't need it she can throw it away." And to me, "Use your brains, if you have any, to turn it into a treasure that will really make your grandmother uncomfortable." She hands me the bill, wrinkled and naked, not even a red envelope to hide her pity.

 

            I don't remember Taipei anymore. Not the seductive smell of zongzi in the courtyard. Not the reckless motorcyclists running down pedestrians for sport. Not the indignity of Skyscraper Rose's wealth, and the limits of Nai Nai's pride. 

 

            Ma and I move to Sacramento and when school starts I ditch second grade for the Capital Arcade. I watch my new American friends become addicted to video games I refuse to play, even after they call me a FOB. When they've spent their last quarter I offer them a loan, with interest. Then I walk home toward the horizon, the merciless sunlight gilding the pavement.