He was born in Hong Kong.@@@@

    During the handover, his family left and settled in the United States. Unlike other Chinese immigrants, his parents never tried to instill Chinese values or culture in him.

    His parents ran a business in Hong Kong, one he never fully understood, but it was clear that they had made a fortune.

    As a result, he never knew poverty, nor did he care to.

    He had no national pride, no sense of belonging.

    He was educated in American schools, ate American food, and grew up immersed in American culture.

    He was an American. And up until the moment he earned his PhD, he never once considered any alternative.

    But sometimes, the blood running through your veins changes your future in ways you never expect.

    He had learned to get along with people of other races, had accepted the unspoken discrimination and limitations that came with being Asian in America, and had resigned himself to it, thinking it was just the way life worked.

    But something inside him suddenly stirred, shattering that resignation.

    He picked up a pen and wrote down a single word.

    Zhonghua

    It was strange.

    His parents had taught him to speak and write in Chinese, but apart from his early childhood, he had hardly ever used it.

    Even at home, his parents spoke English. Their spacious, modern mansion had no Chinese decorations, no books, not even traditional liquor.

    They had never deeply discussed this term with him.

    Yet he still remembered it—and wrote it down effortlessly.

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