Richard Tom
My father, Richard Tom, who died in March 1998, was reluctant to talk about his life, as were most Chinese of his generation. Fortunately, the art he left behind continues to give me new insight into his thoughts and the unspoken gifts he gave us throughout his life.
Richard Tom, my father, was purchased, at the age of one, in China, as a "paper son" to be sold in America by Chinese U.S. residents posing as his parents. For some reason they decided to keep him; he never found out why, and the stigma of being labeled a "paper son" by his family stayed with him his whole life. Even at the age of 75, during a visit to the National Archives to research relatives who were also interned on Angel Island, I brought up the paper son issue .He immediately whispered for me to keep my voice down. Shame and fear after all these years.
He grew up in Oakland Chinatown on the corner of Harrison and 7th. He never finished high school, but he managed to land a job as a clerk with Chevron and remained there 35 years earning enough to support a family of five.
In the mid-1950s, he moved my mother and my older brother out of San Francisco Chinatown. Because of the racial climate at the time, this was a rebellious and rather risky move for Chinese Americans. McCarthy was rounding up Chinese American males accusing them of being communist infiltrators. Fortunately, my parents were accepted by the neighborhood and our family remained there until my parents sold their house in 1995. We still keep in touch with the folks from that neighborhood. My father was the guy with who did his artwork with the garage door open, he enjoyed chatting with the neighbors who stopped by. When he died in 1998, our friends from the old neighborhood all turned out for our "farewell" party for Richard. He was a charming man, something I learned through friends and mutual acquaintances
He never said a lot to us. We got to know him better during the last two weeks of his life than all our years together with him. I am grateful that we had that time.
Those last two weeks provided me with absolute clarity about his essence. It all came down to art, music and humor, once you stripped away everything his pure essence was enlightening. He wanted to see my paintings, listen to his stride jazz piano music, Fats Waller and maintained his dry sense of humor to end. That lightened the load for the nurses and was a tremendous source of comfort us.