Interstate 880 runs right along the eastern shore of the San Francisco Bay. Its posted speed limit is 65 mph, but drivers are indifferent, rarely meeting radar guns or speeding tickets. My grandfather was the same— I, ten years old and vaguely interested in staying alive, would shout from the backseat for him to slow down, alarmed as the speedometer continued pulling clockwise.

A Little Chinglish, Please

In the past I’ve always spoken to my parents in both English and Chinese, often at the same time, and whenever they spoke to me in Chinese, I would reply likewise. I swore to myself with childish disdain that I would never become one of the people who only reply in English. I am now…