Lair of Dreams

Future of America Exhibition


in New York City.



On-screen, the great Jake Marlowe’s lips moved silently as he spoke into a microphone before a large crowd gathered downtown. The scene shifted to black again:

“Once, great men sailed uncertain seas in search of what was possible.

We know what is possible.

We have built what many said was impossible.

It is called America.

And we are the stewards of her brave future— a future of vision, of democracy, and of the exceptional.”

For a moment, Ling allowed herself to imagine another newsreel that might play someday, in which she was one of those giants of science shaking hands with great men like Jake Marlowe while her parents looked on, proud. And she was starting to think that her dream walking just might hold the key to the scientific discovery that would make her imaginings reality. For if she and Henry could travel to another dimension of dreams and create within that nebulous world, perhaps time and space and, yes, even matter itself were nothing more than constructs of the human mind. Perhaps there was no limit to what they could do or where they could go once they’d learned to see differently.

The organist launched into a zippy tune, signaling the start of The Kid Brother. Ling placed her gray hat securely over her ears, grabbed her coat and crutches, and sidled up the aisle past the surprised usher.

“But, Miss, the picture’s just starting,” he said.

“I know,” Ling said. “I only wanted to see the newsreel.”

Out on Forty-second Street, the air had grown colder. Tiny flecks of snow danced in the wind. Ling’s breath came out in a puff, and even this was thrilling. Energy. Atoms. Qi. A newsie hawked the day’s headlines—“Chinese Sleeping Sickness Spreads! Mayor Vows: Not Another Spanish Influenza Epidemic in Our Lifetime! Threatens Full Quarantine in Chinatown!”—and just like ice crystals, dreams, and movie images of Jake Marlowe, Ling’s happiness vanished. She looked down at the sidewalk, keeping her face hidden, and walked on. A crush of people blocked the city sidewalk and overflowed into the street, upsetting the taxi drivers, who honked their displeasure. Ling couldn’t go through and she couldn’t get around. She wanted to ask someone what was happening but she didn’t want to call attention to herself. A heavy, military-style drumroll echoed in the streets. It sounded like a parade, and Ling pushed deeper into the crowd, searching for a better vantage point.

And then she saw: The drum-and-fife company preceded orderly rows of men in white hoods and robes marching in lockstep down Broadway waving American flags and hoisting banners proudly proclaiming KEEP AMERICA WHITE AND YOU KEEP AMERICA SAFE and THE WATCHER NEVER WEARIES. Around Ling, many in the crowd applauded and whistled, cheering on the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” Ling said, turning against the tide of people, desperate to get back to Forty-second Street and the bus home. A young man sneered at her as she pushed through: “There goes one of them dirty Chinese now.”

Everything in Ling’s body went tight with fear. She wished she hadn’t been so eager to get rid of Lee Fan and Gracie. Just get to the bus stop, she told herself and kept walking. The man and his friends followed, taunting.

“Hey, you—girl!” The young man’s voice had shifted from sneering to something-to-prove. “Where you going? I’m talking to you!”

Ling’s heart pounded. She didn’t dare look back. The men were close, though, and the bus still too far. Three months ago, she could’ve broken into a run to get away. Now the jangle of her leg braces was loud in her head as she struggled on, and her arms shook from trying to move her crutches so fast. She was afraid she’d put a foot wrong, lose her balance, and fall in the street. Some people watched what was happening with expressions of vague discomfort, one man even giving a meek “Hey, now! Leave her be.” Others barely noticed before moving on. No one stepped in to stop the bullying, though. Ling’s head was down but her eyes were up, searching the streets wildly for a place to duck into for help. A restaurant window’s neon sign boasted BEST ROAST BEEF IN NEW YORK! just above a new, hand-lettered sign that read, simply, NO CHINESE ALLOWED.

“You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, girl?” the man called. “Do you even speak English?”

He was right behind her. She could smell his aftershave lotion. To her right, the giant marquee of the New Amsterdam Theatre beckoned. Ling changed course, heading toward its doors. Her crutch came down hard in a pothole, jarring her entire body. She was close to tears. And then Henry stepped out of the theater’s alleyway, blowing on his hands in the cold.

“Henry!” Ling shrieked. “Henry!” she screamed again.