“Why does Hilary’s family have all the fun? Why can’t we go on vacation, too?” demanded Bea.

“Disneyland is too far away and expensive,” Father said.

“You’re not a typical Hakka,” Mother teased him.

My sister looked curiously at Mother. “Hakka?”

“Your father is from the Hakka tribe. I thought marrying him meant I would live a nomadic lifestyle, but instead, your father brought me here, halfway across the world,” Mother lamented with a playful smile.

“Nomad?” I asked.

“Hakka means ‘guest people’ in Chinese. They’re like roaming foreigners in China who speak the Hakka dialect,” Mother explained. “Historically, they were forced to leave their villages by enemy tribes.”

Father interjected, “Your mother may look down on us Hakka, but you should know that we’re descendants of one of the greatest emperors of China. We’re from the cradle of Chinese civilization. Even though we’ve been forced over many generations to leave our home, wherever we go, we are able to thrive. We made barren lands into fertile farms where our Cantonese landlords could not. We are all over the world.”

Mother looked at Father, her eyes filled with amusement but also affection. She laughed and got up from her lawn chair to hug him from behind, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders, nestling her head into the crook of his neck, her hair trailing down his chest. She lifted her face and kissed his temple. Father kissed Mother’s arm, and then motioned for Bea and me to come to him.

“Do you see this?” he asked, plucking a tall dandelion from the grass.

I nodded, admiring the petals reflecting a golden finish.

“It’s a weed!” announced Bea.

“No, Beatrice.” Father shook his head. “To some, this is a weed. But it’s really a flower. Like a dandelion, the Hakka can land anywhere, take root in the poorest soil, flourish, and flower. Look at this one. It’s growing in the crack of the asphalt.” Father pointed to the driveway next to the lawn.

“But does that mean the Hakka are homeless?” Bea asked.

“Sometimes, Beatrice, sometimes,” Father replied. “But home is where family is. So no matter where we are, if we’re together, we’re home.”

“Okay, Dad,” Bea said. “Then you should be a real Hakka and take us on vacation somewhere.”

Father chuckled. “Okay, let’s take the van on a camping trip!”

Mother jumped up. “I can’t wait to leave this town. I’ll get the maps and plan the route!” Mother looked the happiest I had seen her all summer.

We set out on our road trip in our brown and orange striped 1980 Chevrolet/GMC van. When we reached Highway 3, Bea started to count the striking signs with an image of a black crow on them. Bea and I sat on the flattened seats in the rear of the van, peering out of three sides of therectangular vehicle, surrounded by windows.

“Look at all those purple flowers! There are so many!” Bea exclaimed.