my mother was taught the ch'an concept of happiness, which was to find satisfaction in small things. i was taught to appreciate the fresh air in the morning, the colour of leaves turning red in autumn and the water's smoothness when i soaked my hands in the basin.

My mind swirled with memories of the life I had led. The constant struggle to keep up appearances, the pretenses, the smiles that had been met with tears. The long sleepless nights, the loneliness that cloaked my spirit and turned me into a true ghost.

I think about giving up. I almost do.

The self was a very strange concept to me until I came to America, and my child was born with that entitlement, and that just thrilled me.

If you can't go back to your mother's womb, you'd better learn to be a good fighter.

I was happy not to be in his place. He could command my death, but not his. But then, what kind of power was his? He was a prisoner of himself.

When Chinese get together - what's buried stays buried. We don't even discuss our embarrassing early days struggling in Chicago.