I don’t speak Chinese.  I don’t even like egg-drop soup.  So who am I, anyway?

“I  can’t remember anything about the orphanage,” I complain to Mom.

“That’s normal,” Mom says. “Nobody can really remember that far back. You  were just a baby. ”

But the thing is, I have a secret. I do remember something. It’s the color red. My memory about China is bright red, also gold. If we do go on a trip to Guangdong Province, where I was born, I’m going to be looking for it. What ever it is, I’ll know it when I see it

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