My ancestors, and by that I mean one or two generations ago, intersected with Chinese culture in three ways. One was Chinese food. One was the Chinese laundry. The last was fireworks. My father was a tenement kid in a Massachusetts cotton mill city, a child of the obligatory poverty-stricken immigrants. They couldn’t afford Chinese food, laundry services or fireworks. They did know a guy who owned a Chinese restaurant. “My two kid brothers and I…
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