Arcade of Hope

This was from when I visited Virginia in sophomore year summer. It was also the feeling of closing this chapter of my life as I head into college, reflecting on my parent and my journey.

       With only a couple wads of green American bills, a hungry stomach, three knitted clothes worn to holes, herbal tea grandma insisted he take, and the promise of the American Dream, my Dad first stepped foot into the green wilderness of Virginia. For days, he slept on the cat-smelling, itchy lime-green sofa of a friends’, rising up before light to walk to school in the bitter East Coast winter, gnawing on a dollar bagel and chewing it slowly to savor the feeling of something filling in his mouth. Then studying to the last dregs of daylight as the sun sizzled out and midnight consumed his world. Although, as the elder brother in his family, he had been the more independent figure, never had he been so alone.

Stripped of country, of any friendly, familiar space. Without money, language, connection, and friendships or love, to build a life from his bare hands and scraps of his fading dream. Yet the world was not dark for him, each day he woke, he saw that shining disc of hope. His chance, no matter how slim, renewed and inflated with each glorious morning that he breathed in luxurious lungfuls of America. The country he has fought to arrive with sweat and tears, for it was the land of freedom, and reinvention of a man and his future.

And so despite the hardships, the odds stacked against his success, the voices and numbers that didn’t add up, each day he slipped his arcade coin into the slot of life, fate, and all things good in this world, wishing for his fortune to turn. For the hope he harbored and nurtured so carefully.

People counted passing dates, and changing seasons, my father counted coins. He collected them, their coppery heads and silvery tails, he picked the loose change off the streets, from abandoned marble counters. At night, he would kiss each one with his heart’s bitterest yearnings, an unfillable hunger. A loved one’s face, recalling their herb-spiced hugs or brown-sugar buns, before dropping his coin-sized wishes into a makeshift piggybank of crumpled plastic. Lit by the moon, the coins glowed like river stones—like hope. It was to the metallic music of these dancing coins that he slept to each night, dreaming of 希望- h o p e.

It was a fragile thing, this hope. It glimmered then shrunk its mane of red, barely a spark, merely silver smoke. Yet my dad cultivated this hope with such pride and dedication like one would a clingy child. Fed it fuel, the smallest givings in life became impossible blessings of gratitude that swelled its fiery hues, sheltered it from the cold, the winds and punishing gales of hardships. So, despite the hollowness yawning within him, a dark emptiness that can never be filled by any amount of food, deep yearning for loved ones an oceans away; despite grappling with a new language, and having to prove his worth tooth and nail; despite being the graduating top percent in his province because of his accent, he woke each day and smiled. Smiled because of hope. Smiled because it was another day to shoot his shot.

And so, in the coin goes, and again he watches as the golden coin spirals down the metal slide and propels into the black maw of the slot machine run by fate. Who knows, today he might just collect his 7 cards, his 5,000 tickets, his American dream full and real.

希 meaning hope, admire. 望 meaning full moon. The golden disc of warmth and light, a haunting muse, a timeless object of art. The illumination guiding lost wanderers to their home. A lamp, just like hope, shining on people’s darkest days.

Together they mean: 希望. A bagel on a cold Virginian morning. Pennies in a jar. Shining sun through the window. Dancing in the rain. Songs of home. The promise of another day. A baby’s tender laugh. An immigrant couple’s dream.

Hope.

And on the starry night when I was born on the cusp of the next day, where the sky couldn’t decide between night and day, I was named 悦. My name sounding just like the word for moon. A syllable that balances on the tip of the tongue, delicate, light, and unfurls outward in a soft release. A sound that starts from a singular point and ends up more breath than voice, carrying with it a sense of wonder, in its vagueness, a magic.

Process

It was written originally as part of a larger piece, but because of word count we clipped bits and pieces together. This was inspired by my trip to Virginia visiting old acquaintances who haven’t seen me since I was a baby, and walking the streets and seeing the house I was born in 17 years ago when my parents first came to America and just seeing the contrast and passage of time so starkly and clearly in that moment from when we last left and now returning back to it. My mentor was very encouraging and supportive, helping me edit the piece. Thank you for always believing in me and my stories. I’m dedicating this to my parents.