At sixteen, he developed the expensive habits and fantasies of the rich. He read books on China’s political reform and chewed tea leaves to sweeten his peasant garlic breath. An ideal life, he told others, would be to “compose poems under blossoming plum trees,” far away from the “greedy material world.” Instead of returning home, Papa traveled the country, making his parents pay the bills. One day he received a message from his mother. The message informed him that his father and brothers were gravely ill and near death from an infectious disease that had swept through his hometown.

Papa rushed home, but the funeral was already over. Soon enough, his house was possessed by the debt seekers. NaiNai and Papa fell into poverty and became coolies. Although NaiNai vowed to regain their former prosperity, she was no longer healthy. By the time I was born, NaiNai suffered from an incurable intestinal disease.

Papa struggled to keep his “intellectual dignity.” He continued to write poems. He even composed a piece titled “The Sweet Scent of Books” for my mother’s funeral. Invoking a newfound spirituality, he insisted that his words would make better gifts than jewelry and diamonds to accompany his wife in her next life. Although Papa was no different from a beggar in terms of possessions, he made sure that he was lice-free. He kept his appearance by trimming his beard and never missed a chance to mention his “honorable past.”

Papa’s honorable past didn’t mean anything to me. For the first years of my young life, food was the only thing on my mind. I would wake hungry every morning and go to sleep hungry every night. Sometimes the clawing in my stomach would keep me from sleeping. Having to constantly scavenge for scraps, I existed in a delirium. Unexpected luck or a good harvest might bring food for a while, but the hunger would always return.

By the time I was seven, in 1897, things had only gotten worse. Although NaiNai’s health had continued to deteriorate, she was determined to do something to better our lot.