Ms. Lina’s eyes were brown, same as Sadie’s. The deep brown upon brown of their mixed families. And though Ms. Lina’s eyes had seen the fire, seen the neighborhood’s rise and fall, they were rich and unfaded. Afraid that she might spoil the moment, Sadie didn’t move. It was Ms. Lina who eventually broke the gaze, taking a handkerchief out of her jeans and wiping the back of her neck.
“You’re missing some of the details,” she said. “I can help you finish this report. But I have to ask you. How do you plan to use it?”
“In whatever way you’d like me to.”
Putting the kerchief back in her pocket, Ms. Lina nodded.
It was September but still too hot. They sat on the bench, the air thickening with each minute, shadows of leaves printed on Sadie’s face. Lina would do what she needed to. The girl was not gloating; she was trying to make amends.
“I thought your grandpa still owned the building. No one told us it had been sold. We saw eviction notices on the doors, but they didn’t look real—we thought maybe Mr. Wong was trying to intimidate us. In fact, we prepared for another protest because we didn’t see any of it as legitimate.
“I used to think it was your grandfather behind all those tricks, but after reading your document, I don’t know. You show how 78 Livonia LLC is connected to all those burned-down buildings in the South Bronx, and I know how the Bronx burned back then. Worse than Brownsville.”
“I wish I could figure out exactly who these people were,” said Sadie, and Lina wished the same.
“Did your grandpa know he was selling to arsonists?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to figure it out. But if he did…” Sadie paused. “Shouldn’t my family think about how to hold ourselves accountable?”
“Hmm.” A question she’d let Sadie answer on her own.
“I’m just not sure what accountability would look like.” Sadie traced a knot on the bench with her finger. “An apology? Money? But my family isn’t wealthy. Middle class, for sure.”
“Where’s your family these days?”
“My grandmother lives in Chinatown in a co-op apartment. And my parents have a brownstone in Park Slope, and two of my aunts have houses in Long Island, and another has a home in Jersey. And the homes are valuable. Like, property values went up and we benefited, while all these other people were pushed out of the city. But I also don’t think I can convince my relatives to give away their homes.”
“I know.” Lina was imagining all the extra rooms in those suburban homes, then counting the number of people like Melvin who could have used a roof over their head.
“And I mean, it would trigger family memories—of China. My grandma always said the Communists would take away middle-class people’s property, and if they resisted, they could be killed or sent to prison.”
“Well, this isn’t Communist China.”
Lina could see Sadie spiraling. Getting lost in questions about process. Letting guilt conduct the train.
“Miss Sadie, Brownsville deserves reparations for all the evils done to it. And it wasn’t just your grandpa.”
Sadie nodded and swallowed whatever was happening in her throat.
“But I’m not asking to flip the ladder upside down, put your people at the bottom and my people at the top. It’s much bigger than that. We got to bring the whole thing down. This country has enough resources to ensure every person has a home. That’s the America I want to live in. We don’t need your guilt, you understand me, we need y’all working full-time forthatAmerica.”
Sadie’s brows settled.
“Y’all showed up in this white supremacist country and tried to get as close to white as possible. God knows some of my people have too. And I believe in financial reparations, but I don’t want people thinking they can pay us off, and that’s it. I don’t want to give people permission to forget. This country needs to remember the whole story—not just the version where they’re the heroes. And if we want a better world for our children, a world that’s not burning, and I mean burning in both senses, ’cause…” Lina wiped the sweat puddling on her temples. “It’s real hot today.”
“We can go inside if you’re uncomfortable!”
“Let’s go to St. Paul’s church—they got air-conditioning. But let me just say this. What I want is for everyone in your communities to treat us like family. No more ‘that ain’t my problem’ and ‘them white folks said I’m better’—and ‘we’re always the victims, we’re never wrong.’ No, no: you go to bat for me. No more safety just for some—reaping the benefits of this country without taking responsibility for the injustice. No, we fight side by side. Will you do that, Miss Sadie?”
THE CHINS
There could be no doubt about it: the baby in the Polaroid was a Chinese. That thick black hair, moon cheeks, eyes big but unmistakably Chinese in their shape—it was clear the Chinese genes had won. They probably would win every time, Richard thought as he sat on the porch. Popping a grape in his mouth, he once again studied the pictures that Jason had brought from the hospital. Especially if the father was Chinese. With the father’s genes, Chinese conquers all.
He lifted his head, peered out over the street, and smelled stew chicken from Mrs. Rose Louis’s kitchen. Mrs. George was bent over in the garden next door. “Garden looks great. Big tomatoes this year!” he called to her, and she thanked him and waved, smiling beneath her sun hat. He liked the Georges, his longtime neighbors. A Black family, but the nicest people, and they’d raised their kids well. The boy, Jason’s old friend, had moved to California to become a doctor.
He chuckled, thinking about a time, about a year earlier, when some cousins had visited from Taiwan. They ran a computer company and clearly, they thought they were big shots, the way they bragged endlessly about the price of their suits and their wives’ jewelry. Yet on their way through the yard into Richard’s house, they had all frozen at the sight of Mrs. George. His cousin’s wife had put her hand to her mouth and turned to Foon Wah, crying, “Hak gui! Hak gui!”
Richard and Foon Wah had quickly ushered the cousins inside, but for months after, they could not stop laughing about it. That’s how it was with the Chinese in the east, Richard had thought to himself that day: they believed they were modern and fancy, but they’d been breeding with their sisters for a thousand years. When he’d told them that his son had married a Jewish woman, the cousins asked for the details of the assumed business transaction between Richard and the Jewish parents. This, too, had made him laugh out loud.
