“My future…” Ernest thought about his morning routine serving the other kids, who were never grateful, the monotony of always being on the outside looking in. He wished he could attend a public school with normal children, go to a real home in the evening. He was grateful for a full belly and a warm bed, content to learn, even if he had to sit in the back of the class, where he often struggled to see the blackboard and the second-class kids were never called on. But it got to the point where most had stopped trying, stopped raising their hands. To the teachers they were invisible, tolerated, but not encouraged to hope for the same things as the other kids.
“My future…” Ernest’s words drifted off the scripted page he’d memorized. He swallowed and said, “Mrs. Irvine, I’m so very appreciative of all you have done for me.” He felt his disappointment turn to frustration. “I was wondering…”
“Anything,” the elegant woman stated. “Just ask.”
Ernest breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He smiled and felt emboldened, if only for a fanciful moment. “Well, ma’am, I was wondering…” Ernest looked at his shoes. Then he looked up again. “Do you think I could leave this place? Perhaps go to another school, or even back to Dow’s Landing? I’m not looking for an easy way out, I’d be happy to sell papers on the street corner after school, to wash dishes someplace for room and board. I don’t expect anyone to adopt me proper. I was just thinking that I might have greater opportunities someplace else. I don’t suppose…”
It looked as though Mrs. Irvine had bit into her lemon.
“You don’t want to stay here?” she asked with a frown, cocking her head. “This is the most expensive school in five states, I’ve been paying your tuition…”
“It’s a wonderful school.” Ernest hoped his face wouldn’t reveal the truth. “It’s just that there’s a great big world out there, I think I could be happier…”
“Happiness is a state of mind, not something you’ll find on a map,” she snapped. Then her servant refreshed her tea and leaned in, whispering in her ear.
Ernest watched as they stood up and stepped into the hall. Through the open doorway Ernest saw a passing administrator join the conversation. The man and Mrs. Irvine bickered for a moment, talking back and forth. Then the administrator snapped his fingers and called to a secretary, who brought him a newspaper. They pointed to an article on the front page and nodded as they came to some agreement.
Ernest noticed how Mrs. Irvine’s countenance softened. Her eyes widened. She actually smiled as she came back in, but she didn’t sit. She allowed the bald man to help her with her fur coat.
“I have a better idea, young man,” she said. “Something that might suit your desire to leave my care and also fulfill a pressing need for a civic organization that I belong to.”
Ernest was relieved, but also confused.
“How do you feel about the world’s fair?” Mrs. Irvine asked. “The great big Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition that everyone is talking about. I know all of you boys are probably dying to go. I’ve been and it’s breathtaking. And there’s a unique opportunity coming up, one you would be perfectly suited for.”
Ernest could hardly believe his good fortune. He’d been reading about the AYP for weeks in the newspaper. Most of the boys had been several times, but the scholarship students rarely left the grounds. Mrs. Irvine must have seen the answer in his eyes as he practically bounced up and down with excitement.
“Perfect then.” She beamed. “I’ll take you one week hence, for your birthday—you’ll be my most special guest. Oh, and pack your things,” she said with a wave of her gloved hand. “Because when I take you, young man, you won’t be coming back.”
HEALTHY BOY, FREE
(1909)
Ernest Young was told three things by Mrs. Irvine on his twelfth birthday: that he would finally be given to a good home, that he would see the president of the United States (albeit from a distance), and that his legal name was now, in fact, Ernest Young.
The first was a surprise. He’d long since given up hope for any sort of adoptive family, especially since he wasn’t Chinese enough for an Asian family and wasn’t white enough for a Caucasian home. It was true that he didn’t look particularly Oriental, but he appeared different enough that no one would want him.
So when Mrs. Irvine told him all this on the way to the fair, Ernest had naturally been skeptical about the part involving “a good home.” The whole thing, particularly the part about being adopted—seemed too good to be real. How had this possibility materialized so suddenly? First a carriage ride—something he’d rarely experienced—and now this strange revelation.
All week long he’d puzzled over Mrs. Irvine’s parting words—where would he be going after she took him to the fair? He’d worried about being sent to a poor farm, or back to the Indian school; the best he’d hoped for was perhaps being allowed to run away with a circus—and even that was a wistful fantasy, because to tell the truth, a permanent home had always been beyond the grasp of his hopeful imagination. So with each mile, he watched the city roll by and kept waiting for the grim truth to present itself, like in the gothic fairy tales he’d read—the older, unvarnished versions, where Cinderella’s stepsisters had cut off their heels with a hatchet and chopped off their toes in hopes of fitting their feet into the glass slipper. Or where the Pied Piper hadn’t been paid for ridding the hamlet of rats and so he returned and took away all the village children, drowning them in a river.
The second thing—seeing President Taft—was exciting, sure, but not so much more than seeing the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition, where the nation’s commander in chief would be appearing. Ernest had spent months yearning to visit the AYP—Seattle’s world’s fair. He’d listened with palpable envy as the other boys returned to the dormitory on Saturday evenings, recounting tales of animal shows and carnival rides. But as Ernest arrived and followed Mrs. Irvine through the boisterous crowd at the south entrance, past all the things he’d daydreamed about—the Fairy Gorge Tickler, the Aero Plunge, and the Dizzle Dazzle—the glittery, sparkling, splendorous, musical reality was far better than the stories he’d heard or the newspaper photos he’d seen. Ernest had eagerly read the daily reviews in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. He’d weighed the possibilities and knew that there was no way the twenty-seventh president could compare to the Hindoo Mystery, the dog eaters of the Igorrotte Village, or Red Men’s Day, when hundreds had participated in a mock battle between Indians and militiamen. Ernest read that someone had died during the reenactment, shot at close range with a wax-tipped blank. He didn’t know who had been killed, but he secretly hoped that the unfortunate fellow was a soldier; Ernest had always had to wear a feather when the kids played cowboys and Indians back at Holy Word Academy. And being a onetime resident of the Tulalip school, he was partial to the plight of underdogs in general, and noble savages in particular.
The last thing he’d been told was the least surprising of all. Ernest had never forgotten his ah-ma and the Chinese name his mother had once inscribed in the book of families at the small Buddhist temple in their village near Toisan. Yet in the years since he’d arrived in Washington, he’d often seen his name written as Ernest Young. The fact that it was now official was somewhat confusing, but his new English name wasn’t.
As Mrs. Irvine guided him toward Klondike Circle, he watched a lost helium balloon careen upward, sailing above the newly planted trees—pindrow firs and digger pines, and beyond the gondola ride and the swaying cable that split the blue sky in half. That’s how he felt—soaring inside, but sharply divided between the past and the present, between his origin and his destination, caught between joy and the unknown. Still, he couldn’t help smiling as he inhaled a rainbow of scents and aromas, and his heart beat faster. He imagined the future, along with the sharp crispness of Hires root beer, waffle sandwiches, crispy and hot, and endless skeins of silky, cottony, fairy floss. Mrs. Irvine even bought a small bag and gave him a bite, which was sweet and lighter than air.