My Father’s Detention
By Cynthia Lim
When my father was killed in a plane crash in 1964, I was seven and left with a hole in my life that never got filled. His rags to riches story became family lore: immigrating from China as a boy, hopping a box car from San Francisco to work in a meat market in central California in his teens, then owning his own grocery stores. He learned to speak English fluently and as the family expanded to five children, he embraced American life with vigor. He danced the rumba and cha-cha-cha, taught me to spell my name, drove us to doctor’s appointments in his Cadillac DeVille, and attended parent-teacher conferences.
After his death, my world in Salinas became more Chinese and insular, sheltered by my mother and maternal grandmother who spoke limited English. Yet growing up, I wasn’t interested in my lineage—I wanted to be immersed in American culture. I went to college in Santa Barbara, then married a Jewish man and raised two sons in Los Angeles.
By 2017, now retired, I wanted to learn more about my family history. I discovered my father’s immigration file at the National Archives in San Francisco, including the circumstances surrounding his entry into America. I was enthralled by the interview transcripts, photographs and forms that documented every action made by the government when he arrived in 1941. I was excited to find out more.
Wonder turned to indignation as I read. He arrived unaccompanied on the 20-day voyage from China via steamship. Only 14 years old, he was held in a detention center for 43 days before the Board of Special Inquiry would determine whether he met an exemption of the Chinese Exclusion Act. Passed in 1882 and in effect until 1943, the act barred the entry of Chinese laborers. Diplomats, students, teachers, merchants and sons of native-born U.S. citizens were exempt. My father was entering as the descendant of a native-born citizen.
At the detention facility on Silver Avenue in San Francisco, he was given a physical examination to detect diseases and to record physical features to track his identity. Every part of his body was inspected and noted: “pit scar lower right temple; scar front of right ear; scar back of right hand.”
For 43 days, he waited until he was called before a panel of two immigration inspectors and a typist who would decide if he should be legally admitted to the United States. The only other Chinese face in the room was an interpreter who spoke his dialect of Sze Yup Cantonese but had no authority in the case.
He was asked about familial relationships, village life and the names, dates of birth and marriage for grandparents, siblings, uncles and cousins. My father’s story was laced with lies. His great-uncle had immigrated in 1894 and convinced the courts that he had been born in the United States. This great-uncle then claimed my grandfather as his son who was able to enter in 1921 as the son of a native-born citizen.
Immigration authorities did not have resources to investigate every case. The interrogation was designed to weed out those who were lying. As they worked through 112 questions one day and 57 more two days later, the exchanges became testier.
“If you are a native of this village, as you claim, why can’t you answer a simple question like that in a positive manner?” asked one inspector.
I could imagine the tension in the room, the clacking of the typewriter keys that recorded my father’s responses and the incessant questioning. I could picture him, vulnerable and uncertain, sweating through the obvious lies. He had rehearsed his answers in China, following in the footsteps of those who had prepared him for the interrogation.
My father’s testimony was corroborated by my grandfather and another cousin of the clan in separate interviews. After he was questioned for a third time, the inspectors concluded that my father could be admitted to the United States but wrote that he “could not be considered to be of the average intelligence of boys of his age….”
“The transcripts brought me closer to knowing who my father was and what he had endured. But I also experienced grief over losing him again, this time mixed with regret.”
Tears stung my eyes when I read those words. The transcripts brought me closer to knowing who my father was and what he had endured. But I also experienced grief over losing him again, this time mixed with regret. I mourned for that 14-year-old held in detention for 43 days, who faced inspectors able to send him back to China at any moment for one wrong answer.
I mourned for the father who never saw his children grow into adults and never met his grandchildren. Yes, the hole in my life would remain empty, but I was grateful to know more about the truth of his life and the life he made possible for me.
This is the first in a series of snapshot essays entitled “Days of Displacement.”
Cynthia Lim is the author of Wherever You Are: A Memoir of Love, Marriage, and Brain Injury. She lives in Los Angeles and is working on a book about her family’s immigration from China.