Cut from your mother, there was a first heartache, a loneliness before your first peek at the world, your mother’s hand was a comb for your proud hair, fresh from the womb— born at night, you and moonlight tipped the scale a 6lb 8oz miracle, a sky‐kicking son born to Chinese obligation but already American. You were a human flower, a pink carnation. You were not fed by sunlight and rain. You sucked the wise milk of Han. Your first stop, the Riverdale station, a stuffed lion and meditation. Out of PS 24, you will become a full Alexander moon over the trees before you’re done. It would not please your mother to have a moon god for a son. She would prefer you had the grace to be mortal, to make the world a better place. There is a lesson in your grandmother’s face: do not forget the Way of your ancestors. Make a wise wish on your 13th birthday, seize the day from history and geography. If you lead, you will not lose the Way, in your family’s good company where wisdom is common as a sunfish, protected from poisonous snakes by calligraphy: paintings of many as the few, the few as many. You already dine on a gluten‐free dish of some dead old King’s English. In your heart, keep Fu before Alexander and do unto others as you would have others do unto you.