North America 1: California Notes

Around 1181 CE, in the Italian city of Assisi, a baby came crying into the world. His merchant father loved French culture, and when he returned from doing business he named the child Francesco, meaning "Frenchman." This child would later become the famous founder of the Franciscan order, honored as Saint Francis of Assisi, San Francesco d'Assisi in Italian.

During the Age of Discovery, Spanish explorers and missionaries gradually entered the western part of America, today's California. In 1776, Spanish missionaries established a mission near today's Golden Gate Bridge and named it after Saint Francis's Spanish name, San Francisco de Asis. The city gradually developed around the mission, and the name was simplified to San Francisco.

In 1821, after Mexico gained independence from the Spanish Empire, California became part of Mexico. Not long afterward, the United States and Mexico went to war over territorial disputes. In early 1848, California was split in two, and the northern part, including San Francisco and Los Angeles, was assigned to the United States, becoming California in the usual sense. Perhaps by providence, in 1848, California, newly washed by war, discovered gold and set off the Gold Rush. Large numbers of workers from Guangdong came thousands of miles to California. San Francisco, as the main landing point, was called "Gold Mountain." Later, gold mines were also discovered in Melbourne, Australia. To distinguish the two, Melbourne was called "New Gold Mountain," while San Francisco became "Old Gold Mountain."

......

2025.

After the summer research program ended, I left the Korean Peninsula by plane from Seoul. Ten hours later I landed in San Francisco, setting foot on North American soil for the first time. In East Asia, when July and August are mentioned, they always make one think of a scorching midsummer. Yet in the same summer season, California's temperature stayed below 20 degrees Celsius. When I took my first breath of American air, what I felt was not any so-called "fresh sweetness," but a coolness that entered through my lungs and spread through my whole body.

Unless self-media had exaggerated too much, or perhaps I was simply too lucky: the imagined customs interrogation, beating in a small dark room, and being shot the moment I left the airport did not happen. At border control, I handed over my passport and I-20 form. The officer asked, "Your courses will begin soon, right?" I nodded, and passed inspection.

The Uber drove toward Berkeley along broad roads. In the distance, continuous mountains rose and fell, while nearby, colorful villas passed by outside the window. In my ears came the local driver's small talk. Only at that moment did I really feel that I was on the far side of the ocean. The road signs that entered my view were written in English yet did not look like English; they were Spanish road names passed down from the colonial period. Driving past the docks, many Americans living in "dire misery" were jogging and walking dogs, and the driver would always wait unhurriedly for pedestrians to go first. America exists with a richness and leisure that is hard for East Asians to imagine. Passing through Downtown Berkeley, Black people who had finished smoking marijuana wandered aimlessly on the street, and poorly dressed homeless people sat on the ground in busy areas. America also exists with a disorder and indulgence that is hard for East Asians to imagine.

A hell for the fallen, a heaven for adventurers: this was the first impression California gave me, just as it must have impressed Spanish explorers four or five hundred years ago. Four or five hundred years later, satellite positioning and Google Maps have replaced the compass and parchment, but exploration has never stopped. Young faces from around the world still stream endlessly to Berkeley and Stanford, to the rows of technology-company headquarters in Silicon Valley. A classmate asked whether I wanted to visit Google. I declined politely: this time, as an adventurer, I was not yet qualified; this time, I would honestly come to take three weeks of summer classes.

In class, topics always began with the expressive Americans and ended with the reserved East Asians. When handouts were distributed, Chinese, Japanese, and Korean students received them with both hands, while American students took them absentmindedly with one hand. The Cali Girl in the class used "like" as a comma when she spoke, but even with so many commas I still could not understand a sentence. When analyzing the materials, Japanese students said, "...interesting"; Korean students said, "we also have..."; Chinese students explained, "because..."; American students said, "I hate..." For the first time, I felt the charm of statistics through stereotypes.

After the exam ended, everyone went their separate ways, never to meet again. On the way to the airport, I passed one last time by a homeless person collapsed on the ground. I curled my lip, and in my heart, as usual, felt contempt: why not work? Why not receive relief? Why can one still survive like this? In the next moment, however, I saw an American, full of kindness, hand him a few coins.

Only then did I realize that this soul of mine from East Asia had long since been riddled with wounds.