“The tree prefers calming, but the wind keeps blowing,” my grandma told me when I was a kid and didn’t want to remember, but what’s that matter to a husband who’s in real estate and wears a pair of loafers and who’s sold more dreams than my grandma could imagine. She’s dead now. Not that I’m complaining, I am in the Vincent van Gogh Estates, so named for the softly colored brick walls located next to a newly built subway stop, which can be seen from a fancy veranda, overlooking a solitary palm tree in need of regular watering but still dying. Who would be crazy enough to plant a palm tree in a northern city, which leads me to my story? It is called Baby American Dream.
Well, it is not my story exactly. It’s my mom’s. Well, what do you expect? In any case, I am sitting on my veranda, watching the different passersby hustle into an underground tunnel (I’ve never taken a subway; we have a driver) when ma calls me. She says, “Gui–niu (that’s her name for me), do you want a Baby American Dream?”
Well, I do think the demand is strange, but do I say anything? Well, you know me, when do I ever? Well, she says to me, I know the daughter of a friend. She (the daughter) has a website. I say, that’s good. Ma gives me an address. It comes up with what else—Baby American Dream. I say, ma, I got it.
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