In the Summer of 2017, I was sixteen years old and I had the privilege of traveling with my sister to Hawaii for a Christian program called Ho’olohe Pono. This program taught me to care for the Hawaiian people by listening intently to their stories of where they came from and who they are. I learned about their culture, language, and history and it was filled with both beauty and pain. This experience was life-changing for me–I was taught of the importance of celebrating, honoring, and listening to the kupuna (the elders of a Hawaiian community). At the same time, envy came over me. I was reflecting one day on how proudly the native Hawaiians danced, sang, and rejoiced in the Lord for they were met and honored in the midst of their community and with God. But this anger and shame of my own culture seeped into my skin and jealousy of the beautiful culture masked the beauty of my own.

It was then when I first realized to myself that I was Chinese American and there was healing needed within me and my ethnic identity.

A couple years later in the Spring of 2020, I came home early since my school announced that classes would be transitioning to remote learning due to the Corona virus. Everyone around the world was trying to get creative–how are we going to make use of our time this Summer while stuck in quarantine? As I reflected on my year with my friends and family, I talked about my desire to learn more about my ethnic identity and about our history in America. I wanted to understand why I carried this shame, why I felt no pride in my Chinese identity. My ethnic identity was based on my almond shaped dark brown eyes, my long straight black hair, my almond tan skin, the food I ate, and the lai see I received on Chinese New Years. I lacked knowledge and depth in my ancestors stories and the struggle they went through that allowed me to be here. Then your grandpa conveniently decided to create a program, Ekklesiae Stories of the Prophetic (ESP) through his ministry Ekklesiae. This allowed me to go on a journey of self discovery through my ethnic identity with a community of other Asian American Christians. To the best of our abilities with the constraints of quarantine, we were learning how to listen intently to each other’s stories of where we came from and who we are. We learned from incredible people about the history of Chinese migrants in America as well as their own stories. And now it is my turn to begin my journey of learning and sharing my story. In this letter I’m honored to share your grandpa’s ancestral history, though, your grandma’s history is full of rich and beautiful stories as well.

I write this letter to you because as I learn about my ancestors, their goal to travel to America and provide a pathway for future generations to succeed, I learn also of the many sacrifices–their homeland, family, and culture. Five generations later their sacrifices paid off as I am able to live a fulfilling and fruitful life. In return I want to honor them by passing down their stories to you and end the cycle of shame that developed over generations in order to navigate America. There is much more to learn and work to do but I hope to carve a path for you to remember what they did for us.

And to remind you that even if you do not carry my Chinese blood, you were intricately woven and beautifully made by God. Your own ancestors’ stories, ethnic cultures, and history are a valuable part of who you are and you will continue the learning and healing work yourself throughout your life.

Fong Doon was a merchant immigrant who by law was qualified to enter the U.S. and was fortunate to be able to travel back and forth to China several times. He established a rattan import/export store in Hong Kong, managed by his brother. He got married and had a son, Fong Lung Bew, your great-great-grandfather. He attended Chinese School in China for eight years until his father wanted him to come to America to learn English. His father sponsored his immigration to the U.S. in 1905 when he was seventeen years old, a year younger than I am as I write this letter, and he arrived here via SS Korea.

In their time in San Francisco, Fong Lung Bew and Fong Doon were active and loyal, dedicated members of the Chinese Presbyterian Church for many years. When my grandma, Tutu, your great-grandma, compiled this history she told us that Fong Lung Bew had a lot of caucasian friends through church and business and was well respected. It was noted that a friend said,  “His character is excellent; he is one of the best young men we have in church. He had learned English well and dressed American, he was an Americanized Chinaman.” Before I move on, I need to explain to you the depth of this comment. For most, if not all Asian American immigrants, the path to achieving the ‘American Dream’ was assimilation–the process of learning and conforming to the society's dominant culture in order to achieve upward mobility and be socially accepted. Assimilation forces groups of people, such as Asian immigrants, to leave behind their home and ethnic culture; this includes clothes, language, names, food, religion etc. So once his skill in speaking English and dressing American was exceptional, Fong Lung Bew became more respected.