1981. A young Chinese man travels from The People's Republic of China to El Salvador
"Five years of dreaming and waiting. Five more minutes until landing. I have 7 dollars in my pocket, a big brother waiting for me at the airport and a handful of dreams to fulfill. Dreams. I want to be rich."
He sighs and smiles, the sides of his eyes wrinkles as he sees the green tropical landscape from the skies.
Landing.
Picture this: Comalapa airport in the early 1980s during the brink of the Civil War. A young Chinese man going through customs with bell bottom jeans, aviator glasses and a simple shirt. He sees his brother waiting for him on the other side. They embrace and talk. Someone from the same hometown is with his brother. Same dialect, same custom. He was my mother's brother. Little did he know that this connection would change his life.
Growing up, my father used to tell me his first impressions and stories about when he immigrated to El Salvador. How he met my mother. How he tried to save money for his first business. How he struggled to learn Spanish. Yet, in spite of so many difficulties, he always hoped for the best.
I am trying to piece every story and every anecdote together.
