1982

I remember 1982. I was four years old. We lived on the second floor of a rowhouse in northern Philly, the first floor being my father's fledgling pharmacy business. Our usual dinner consisted of rice, an egg, and spicy bean paste. Sometimes we would have ramen with an egg. And all four of us slept in one small room on two beds that were pushed against each other. My only inconveniences were my dad's loud snoring at night and the ridicule I received for wearing my brother's hand-me-down clothes. It never occurred to me at the time that I was poor.

I was content with baths rather than showers. And we had the luxury of owning an AC unit in one room, the cool room, I remember, the blue room, as the carpet was a light blue and the second-hand furniture my parents bought was a nylon navy blue. It was where our TV was, where we'd watch the Phillies or the news. In a matter of time, we'd be rich enough to buy an Atari unit. I remember the black joystick, with the orange button. I wasn't too good at the games, asteroids, spaced invaders, etc. Then again, I was only four.

After a couple years, my parents moved to the suburbs and bought a modest house. They nurtured the pharmacy to become a prominent business in our ethnic community. It was perhaps no surprise that when my father died over twenty years later, the business died with him. My mother sold the name, the title, the good will, the loyal customers, to a large pharmacy chain, and boarded up the signs bearing the name my father had bequeathed upon his business, his dream.

My mother still owns that building, that very building we grew up in, the one that gave us our livelihood. In 1982, I never for one moment felt poor. And now that I think about it, I realize we never were.