AsianWeek

Notes Underworld

Editor's Note: The following is an introduction from San Francisco author Bill Lee, whose book, Chinese Playground: Memoirs From the Underworld is pending publication. Excerpts begin on Page 14.

By Bill Lee

Like thousands of other youths who grew up in San Francisco Chinatown in the 1960s and '70s, I graduated from high school, attended a four-year university, launched a professional career and started a family. For the better part of the next 20 years, I climbed the corporate ladder in Fortune 100 companies and top Silicon Valley firms, where my employers consistently rated me as a stellar performer. They attributed part of my success to good family upbringing and cultural background.

I was amused by their presumptions. My peers, bosses and friends had no idea I concealed horrible secrets from my past that haunted me-secrets that dated back to even before my birth. The secrets continue into those years that I spent in San Francisco Chinatown's underworld.

Chinese Playground: A Memoir is the story of that dark journey, one that spanned from the 1950s to the 1990s. I have recounted it all. My book exposes the dark side of the Chinese culture that few outsiders are aware of, but its force procreates problems that continue to shame and terrorize our communities throughout the world. From the back alleys of San Francisco Chinatown where I mimicked Tong hatchet men as a small child; to the playground where I hid, fought and hustled, to the gang wars I enlisted in, the book recounts my experiences and observations. Family problems, gambling, gangs, Chinatown politics, extortion, massacres.

Beginning in the late '60s, I watched as my closest friends were recruited into powerful street gangs. Even though my father and uncle ended up heading the Kuomintang Nationalist Party in San Francisco and overseeing top benevolent associations, they couldn't keep me out of trouble. For the first time, I tell the complete story of the gang wars that ravaged Chinatown in the 1970s, including details of the 1977 Golden Dragon Massacre, carried out by my blood-brothers.

Unfortunately, criminal elements continue to plague our neighborhoods, tearing apart many families. Problems associated with gambling, drugs and at-risk youths continue to baffle parents, teachers, counselors and community leaders. The San Francisco Police Department's Gang Task Force, which was formed after the 1977 massacre, continues to operate at a frenetic pace.

In writing Chinese Playground, then, I hope not to shock but to educate. I want kids attracted by the glamour of "stepping out" or "banging" to be fully aware of the dark hole they may fall into. I also want them to know that the horrors of the streets do not end easily merely when one decides to quit.

The second part of my book recounts how I struggled to fit into the business world. I found myself continually drawn to hostile, violent situations, sustaining the personal war that I carried on with the world. I progressed from being a contemptuous neighborhood bully to becoming a corporate ogre in many ways.

But in 1988, I found myself at ESL in Sunnyvale on the day that a gunman stormed into my building and began killing people. Accepting my fate, I employed my street instincts and rescued approximately 40 of my co-workers. Eleven years later, in my memoir, I tell of the five-hour siege and the turmoil, and of the healing and recovery.

My story concludes in San Francisco's Chinese Playground where I returned in 1996 to search for my runaway son and to confront my own dark past. The crisis led to the transformation of my life and the strength to present this book with the proper message.

Secrets darken our souls; like a deadly virus, they destroy our beings. I've spent most of my life hiding my past, trying to honor my family and the Chinese culture. My intent in revealing my experiences isn't to bring shame to my family or the community. My recovery involves sharing my pain and wisdom in hopes of inspiring others haunted by their own demons to seek help so they, too, may break free.

For more information on purchasing Chinese Playground: A Memoir: visit http://home.earthlink.net/~geomancer/ on the Web, or search through the Alta Vista search engine using the book's title. Inquiries may also be directed to Rhapsody Press, P.O. Box 27222, San Francisco, Calif., 94127.

Family Secrets

Violence was common in our home. It was easy to provoke my father after he got drunk, which occurred nightly. My brother James, who is four years older than I, brutalized me for years. Perhaps he felt compelled to take on the role of man of the house and didn't know how to maintain control, resorting to constantly beating the shit out of my sister May and me in order to rule his domain. Talk back or get in his way, and I'd find myself with a bloody nose. My arms and legs were twisted to the brink of snapping. As I lay on the floor in tears, the savage would suddenly become a charmer, concerned about what he had done. James decided he should be forgiven. Because I reserved the right to stay angry, another beating was administered.

My sister Dorothy never talked back and did whatever you asked. Mary was the eldest and James respected her. I was so distraught, I often thought of strangling or stabbing him while he slept. He finally left May alone when she dug her nail into his face during a scuffle, scarring him permanently. I witnessed it and felt a sense of redemption. He left me alone after I kicked him in the groin, but it wasn't enough for me. As we got older, my repressed anger still needed to be released on him. The years of abuse were far from being settled.

My father never beat the boys, but he sure took things out on my sisters. He would make a fist, then push the index and middle fingers out. With the knuckles of those fingers protruding, he would smash them against their heads. Chinese refer to the disciplinary blow as a ling gawk. In our house, my father frequently administered his ling gawks during dinner.

The seating arrangement at our makeshift dining table illustrated our family hierarchy. My father sat at one end and I was on the opposite side. Clockwise, my father was at the top of the table, followed by my mother, James, me, May and finally Dorothy. Mary was smart. She began working in her early teens and had an excuse for missing family meals.

My father was quiet when dinner started, but after a few drinks, he turned into a monster. Bottles of bourbon and whiskey were placed on the floor by his feet. We'd start giggling, and he would demand silence. Outbursts continued with Dorothy receiving all the beatings. She sat on my father's right. Her head was in his direct line of fire. When she cried, it provoked him further. Often, Dorothy would arrive early and sit away from my father, but the seating order was dictated by him and was not to be questioned.

The Golden Dragon Massacre

Editor's Note: Gang warfare on Chinatown's streets culminated in the Golden Dragon Massacre, named for the restaurant in which some patrons were targeted. Five people died and 11 were injured in the 1977 shootout.

For more than 10 years, beginning at age 7, I peddled illegal fireworks in Chinatown. My friend Trent and I retired after the summer of 1972, as we approached our 18th birthdays. The timing was appropriate, as the business had turned real ugly. The Wah Chings started demanding protection money from dealers. On top of that, these gangsters were selling fireworks themselves. You were supposed to pay and compete with them as well. Increasing the price to cover the payoffs wasn't prudent because the fei jies undercut everyone's prices.

Kids from the Dhon (East) and Jhong (Middle) Ping Yuen housing projects, half a block apart, made up most of the fireworks dealers. Some stood their ground and refused to pay. The gangs counted the number of dealers and demanded a specific amount be collected together. Those who held out placed the burden on others to come up with the money. Arguments and fistfights broke out among dealers who were friends. The only alternative was to drop out and let the Hock Sair Woey (Chinese Underworld) monopolize the business, but dealers from the projects had to sell off their inventory one way or another to recoup their initial investments.

On May 31, 1977, Ken Louie, the 20-year-old leader of the Hop Sing Boys, enforcers of the powerful Hop Sing Tong organization, was slain near his home. Witnesses stated that he was spotted being chased by an Asian youth as he stepped out of his house at 2:30 p.m. in the city's North Beach neighborhood. As the gang leader jumped into his parked car and attempted to flee, his killer approached from the passenger side and fired into the vehicle. After Ken was wounded, the assassin reached in through the shattered window and continued blasting away. Most of the dozen shots fired from the Walther automatic hit their mark.

Ken was highly visible in the extortion racket, and there was talk in Chinatown that he recently beat up an old man who was a member of a rival Tong. The bottom line is that many in Chinatown had motives. Still, the police focused their investigation on us-the Joe Boys.

With the fireworks season underway, our gang, with a loose membership of about 150 to 175, negotiated to protect the project dealers during the Fourth of July period for fireworks sales, which had skyrocketed into a six-figure business.

One evening, the Hock Sair Woey enforcers came to collect their final payoff. Around 8:30 p.m., the Joe Boys faced-off against the Wah Ching and their allies, the Hop Sing Boys, on Pacific Avenue in front of the projects.

It was Dodge City in Chinatown. Weapons were drawn and gunfire erupted, with gangsters running up and down the street, ducking behind cars and into doorways, blasting at one another. Matt Yuen and Ted Jeung from our side were shot. A Hop Sing Boy named Dave, who was wearing a bulletproof vest, got hit in the left hand and right arm.

More Joe Boys arrived and surrounded the Jhong Ping Yuen project. A kid named Tiger and two others approached the stairwell. He opened the door and entered first. As Tiger started up the stairs, he found himself staring into a gun barrel. He turned to run. BANG! Tiger was hit. Shot in the back, he fell forward in the courtyard. As he lay motionless, a bystander rushed to his aid. As Tiger was turned over, blood gushed out from his chest. The bullet had passed through his heart, and he bled to death. He was just 17.

Our guys took Matt to Harbor Emergency, a community clinic, a few blocks away, where Dave was also treated. Ironically, both were transported in the same ambulance. Ted sought help by limping into the police station.

It's a blessing I wasn't with them that night. As I was leaving the house to join the guys, my mother pleaded with me to drive her to my sister's place across the bay for their annual summer party. My brother, who had been expected to take her, wasn't able to do it.

"No way," I said. "I have plans, and I'm already late."

As I was leaving, the phone rang. It was my sister Mary. "William, please do me a big favor and drive her over here."

That's the reason I never made it to Chinatown. Without a doubt, I would have been with Matt and Tiger when the shootings went down. We were usually together. My guardian angel was watching over me again.

Death in Silicon Valley

Editor's Note: In 1985, a lone gunman who had worked at Electromagnetic Systems Laboratories stormed into a building at the Sunnyvale headquarters, leaving seven people dead. The author assisted in rescue efforts that likely prevented more carnage. The gunman eventually surrendered.

Electromagnetic Systems Laboratories, as it used to be called, was founded in 1964. Acquired by TRW in 1978, the firm's headquarters sit about 40 miles south of San Francisco in the heart of Silicon Valley.

When I joined the company, ESL had approximately 2,800 employees and occupied nearly one million square feet of space. Six buildings, designated "M1" through "M6," accommodated most of the employees. A number of those buildings were constructed of special materials, designed to be impenetrable against sound and signal analyzers.

The most sensitive projects were developed in those "tank" buildings. Not even top secret clearances enabled access. Authorized personnel required "EBI" (Extensive Background Investigation) clearances. The Department of Defense granted those sparingly and only after excruciating background checks were conducted on applicants as well as on their families. In situations where clearances were denied, reasons were not given. That was all classified information.

ESL's acronym eventually was touted as standing for "Excellence, Service and Leadership." Sales for 1987 were close to $335 million.

The company was involved in research and development specifically for reconnaissance and communications systems. We're talking radars, antennas, receivers, direction-finding and signal processing. For the military, during that period, playing hide-and-seek with the enemy was big business. Tom Clancy's The Hunt for Red October highlighted the application of that technology. For years, the industry had been simply referred to as the "spook" business.

* * *

On the morning of Feb. 16, 1988, I was driving to work, mentally going through my to-do list for the day. My commute from Daly City, just south of San Francisco, to Sunnyvale took from an hour to 90 minutes. It was a warm, bright morning in the middle of winter. As I approached Palo Alto, the unofficial northern border of Silicon Valley, I was thinking about an uncanny conversation with a co-worker a week earlier, when a woman in our department mentioned that her grandmother was hospitalized in San Francisco. It wasn't supposed to be anything serious. The next day, I was compelled to speak with her again.

"Victoria, I'm curious about something. When were you going to visit your grandma?"

"Oh, this weekend-probably Saturday. Why do you ask?"

"Well, this may sound strange, but I think you should stop by and see her as soon as you can. I don't know why, and I don't mean to alarm you," I said.

"Gee, that's strange," she replied.

Victoria's grandmother was involved in raising her and they maintained a close relationship. Victoria saw her that evening, and they had a nice visit. The next day, here grandmother passed away. I had no explanation for my premonition.

Crawling along the freeway in traffic, I reminded myself about Chinese New Year, which officially began the following day. We were entering the Year of the Dragon. Most associate it with good fortune; sons born in that year are blessed with harmony and prosperity. But I distinctly recalled Chinatown friends telling me that certain dragon years also represent dark passages and bloodshed.

My thoughts suddenly drifted to the Golden Dragon restaurant massacre more than 10 years ago. My blood-brothers were convicted for the mass slayings.

And then it hit me. My mind was suddenly clear and focused, like I was in a transcendental state. It was another premonition. I knew my reasons for being at ESL would be apparent that day. It was an ominous feeling-my hands turned cold and began trembling. There was some solace in knowing that I was approaching five months at ESL. Miserable in my job since Day One, I at least knew my six-month commitment was coming to an end.

Arriving at M5, a two-story building, I parked in the south lot. In addition to my photo ID, the company had issued a security card to be scanned at each entrance. To get in, a personal code had to be punched in to unlock the doors. Exiting the building also required the security card. Employees carried their cards clipped to their clothing or on a chain around their necks.

I entered my office and glanced at the desk calendar. A line had been drawn across the page blocking out the appointment slots. The day had been set aside for catching up. There was only one interview scheduled for 3 p.m. The candidate's name was Harry.

By mid-morning, I was engrossed in my work, going over projects with my staff. Most of them were in cubicles nearby. I usually stood outside my office and held impromptu brainstorming sessions, peering over the partitions.

Feeling silly, but cautious about some potential tragedy forthcoming, I reluctantly went out for lunch. The sky was clear and the temperature was close to 70 degrees.

Upon my return, I parked in the lot outside the main entrance; it was a short walk to my office. It also gave me an opportunity to say hello to Ann, our receptionist. She and her husband Robert, who worked the swing shift at ESL, were a cute couple. He came in early for her afternoon break and they were usually seen holding hands and strolling, passionately gazing into each other's eyes. You'd never guess they had two teenagers at home.

"Good afternoon, Ann."

"Hello, Bill. I haven't seen you all morning."

"I've been buried in my office. How are you doing?"

"Really good, thanks."

"By the way, I have an applicant coming in this afternoon at three."

"OK," she replied, grabbing a pen. "I'll make a note of it."

Harry entered the north parking lot of ESL on Crossman Drive. He turned off the ignition and checked his watch. It was 2:45 p.m. As he sat and pondered his interview, he noticed a motor-home parked across the way. A burly man in the vehicle sat staring at him. As each minute passed, the man appeared increasingly anxious and agitated. At 2:55 p.m., Harry stepped out and headed toward the front entrance. Walking away, he felt the man's eyes locked on him.

As soon as Harry was out of sight, the door of the RV opened and the stranger stepped out. To say he looked out of place would be an understatement. If this was a movie set and he was summoned out of the make-up trailer, perhaps that would offer an explanation. But he was no actor, and we were in Sunnyvale, California, which boasted the lowest crime rate per capita in the nation.

The guy was a one-man army. He was lugging a 9mm high-powered automatic rifle and two shotguns. Handguns in his possession included a .380 semi-automatic as well as a .357 Magnum and .22 caliber revolvers. The pouches on his shooting vest were stocked and every pocket bulged-bullet shells had been stuffed everywhere. Across his chest were bandoleers; he was wearing a headband and earplugs; one hand was gloved. There was also a buck knife tucked away. All told, he was carrying an arsenal capable of killing everyone in the building three times over. The layout of M5, where approximately 225 employees worked, was familiar to him. For many years, he had held an EBI clearance there. Worse yet, he was also a decorated, expert marksman.

Epilogue: Fall 1996

The San Francisco Police Department's Gang Task Force, formed after the Golden Dragon Massacre, had me under surveillance and it was tracking my runaway son, Eric. When I filed a missing person report on Eric, then 14, the task force informed me that he had been recruited into Chinatown's most ruthless gang.

It was after 3 a.m. on a cold, foggy morning, as my car crawled through Waverly and came to a stop at the entrance to Chinese Playground. Haunted by the violence and other horrifying experiences that took place around here, I swore nearly 20 years ago never to return.

The sidewalk was deserted as I walked onto the playground's main level, which was pitch dark. Scowling in frustration at the burned-out bulb atop the streetlight post, I prayed to find Eric unharmed and willing to return home with me. I had not seen or heard from him in weeks.

Officers of the Gang Task Force who were closely monitoring gang activity in Chinatown, reported that an Eric Lee was questioned there earlier in the evening when a major fight broke out. That unnerved me. Rival gangs, including those I fought against in the 1970s, were still clashing over the playground to claim it as their turf. As I combed the grounds, there wasn't a single soul in sight.

Returning to my car, I sat and reflected on my upbringing of Eric, wondering what I did wrong. Perhaps being more open about my past might have deterred Eric from the gangs. He also sensed something dark about his grandfather, which I had concealed from him.

When my father passed away in 1992, we held one of the most lavish Chinese funerals in the city's history. Eric, who was then only 10, was curious about a particular group of men who participated in the final rites. They were the top elders of Chinatown's most powerful Tongs. As each took their turn and bowed in front of the casket, a Cantonese-speaking woman sitting behind us made a comment.

"Dad, what did she say?" Eric asked.

"It was nothing," I replied.

Her comment was that she had never seen all the "dragon heads" or underworld leaders together in one place. I didn't see any purpose in tainting Eric's perception of his grandfather or his associates. I wanted Eric to have positive role models and to keep him as far away from the underworld as possible.

I continued looking. My next stop was a video arcade on the Broadway strip, where three Asian youths around Eric's age were hovering around a loud, flickering machine, cussing in both Cantonese and English. Lit cigarettes dangled from the sides of their mouths. Two of them turned quickly and gave me the once-over. The third one, with streaks of dyed blond hair, was gripping the zippered edge of his black jacket with his elbow tucked in-a conspicuous sign that he was packing. Whether or not they knew the whereabouts of my son, I had to restrain myself from attacking them out of frustration. Deep down, I'd never been so scared in my life.

My fear was that Eric was following in my footsteps and would experience similar horrors on the streets. I knew all too well how the dai los (gang bosses) exploited fresh recruits. I was in a state of panic. All the trauma in my life combined didn't equate to the anguish I felt knowing that my family's dark legacy had been passed down. My father couldn't keep me out, and now I faced the same predicament with my son.

I desperately sought out my long-time psychotherapist Ellen, who had always been there for me, I discovered that Ellen, only in her 40s, had passed away unexpectedly. The difficulties with my son and the loss of Ellen unleashed all my past demons, from Chinatown to Silicon Valley. I felt hopeless and alone, suspecting God of using me just so he could save others. And now he was abandoning me in my greatest time of need. I was emotionally bankrupt. That's when I hit rock bottom.

The crisis I went through was a humbling experience which forced me to examine and transform my life. I realize now that returning to Chinese Playground was essential for me to let go of my past and move away from the dark side. This is where it all began-my obsession with winning, bullying people, making money and being a good soldier. The playground is where I sought refuge and learned to numb my early childhood pain of feeling unwanted and worthless.

Beginning as a young boy, my engagement in high-risk and self-destructive behavior served as a powerful narcotic for me, and I became addicted to the action. When I jumped across rooftops, gambled, fought, dodged bullets or won a corporate battle, the euphoria offered a temporary reprieve from my suffering. My view of the world was bleak. But the more I lied, resorted to violence, stole, cheated, and hustled, the worse I felt about myself.

Sadly, the reason why I was able to stay calm and assist others in crisis situations is due to the fact that I was constantly on edge. I didn't feel safe-anywhere or anytime. Life, in my view, was one giant land mine. I survived by tiptoeing around, being cautious and suppressing my emotions, especially fear.

God has guided me on an amazing journey. On numerous occasions, he chose me to save others. God never abandoned me. He brought me back to Chinese Playground for my most important mission-to save myself.

My initial objective in writing Chinese Playground was to draw attention to the dark side of the Chinese culture. As my life has been transformed and my soul is healing, I hope this story touches and provides encouragement to people of all cultures struggling with their own childhood demons. The world is a terrifying place for a child who doesn't feel safe or loved.

Unfortunately, there are too many people out there seeking refuge in their own dark world. They cope with their pain by obsessing in food, diet, alcohol, narcotics, gambling, shopping, sex, self-mutilation, cosmetic surgery, violence, competition, work ... the list goes on and on. But if I can learn to trust and find decency in myself, others can as well.

I am presently on hiatus from the high-tech industry as I continue to work hard on my recovery. Meanwhile, I am committed to serving as a good role model for Eric, who is entering college.

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