Hole 4: St. Andrews Stories

"You can’t be on that ground and not feel the presence of all the golfers who came before you." - Ben Crenshaw (on St. Andrews)

The Open wrapped up last week, and it’s got me thinking about history- traditions, legacies, and all the things that came before us. The British Open is the oldest of the four major championships. This year marks the 153rd playing. That number alone just feels heavy in the best way.

I’ve always been into history. Honestly, if I could’ve majored in it, I would have. Actually, I could have, but at the time it felt like one of those degrees where people ask, “What job do you even get with that?” (Not that my current career has anything to do with my degree, but you get the point.)

In the last five years or so, I’ve found myself more curious about the past, my family’s, my culture’s, and even just the paths that led me here. Spending more time with my parents recently has deepened that appreciation.

I mentioned early on in The Back Nine that I grew up in a Chinese American household but went to private Catholic schools in historically Irish and Italian parts of the city. Which meant… not a ton of kids who looked like me or shared my culture. In elementary school, there were maybe a handful of Asian students in my class. In high school, the numbers grew, but the overall cultural undertone didn’t shift much. And that's not so much a complaint, more so just factual. My parents thought that private schools would create more opportunities than public schools, and they did.

Most of my connection to my culture came through family- holidays, traditions, food. My parents did a great job balancing both worlds. One night we’d have a full traditional Chinese meal, and the next it was meatloaf, pasta, or my dad’s favorite: Spanish paella. He loves to cook, and thankfully he’s very good at it. I definitely benefitted from his culinary curiosity. I try to pay more attention now when he's walking through the steps of how to make traditional dishes or when he explains some of the customs related to Chinese New Year or other holidays.

As cliché as it might sound, my deep dive into our family history really took off after I submitted my Ancestry.com test. I know, I know, what’s a DNA test going to tell me that I didn’t already know? And sure enough, it came back 89% East Asian (shocker), but also 11% Polynesian, which was a nice surprise. Growing up surrounded by hula and Tahitian dance, that part of the world always felt close to me. And while I’m no Moana (the water does not call to me), I’ve always felt a deep love for that culture- childhood trips to Hawaii, visiting my brother at UH, my niece was born there, and recent golf trips to the islands… it all ties together.

One of the coolest finds through Ancestry wasn’t the percentages, it was a ship manifest matching a work document my dad had saved for my great-grandfather, showing he settled in Billings, Montana when he came to the United States to work on the Northern Pacific Railroad, like many Chinese immigrants during that time. I found his name on a ship’s manifest in the Ancestry records, matching the exact ID number and ship name from that document. It felt surreal to actually see that piece of history- something tangible to tie me back to him.

Researching Chinese immigration can be tricky. So many names were misspelled or simplified because of language barriers and a general lack of cultural awareness. So, when you do find a match, it feels pretty big.

That search also led to more conversations with my parents about their journey to America. I hadn’t known my dad and his younger sister were separated from their father and older siblings for three years while waiting for sponsorship paperwork. And back then, there were no FaceTimes or group texts. Just distance. Real, heavy distance, and unknown timelines of when you might be reunited with your loved ones. Stories of growing up in shared apartments in Chinatown, multiple families sharing bedrooms and bathrooms, it puts into perspective how fortunate my brother and I were...are. My mom’s parents lived in a modest Chinatown apartment their entire lives. I have the best memories of staying there- them picking me up on summer days from the Chinatown YMCA, sick days watching cartoons on their old box TV. My dad’s parents lived closer to Golden Gate Park. Some days they’d pick my brother and me up from our school that was nearby and take us to the comic book store across the street, take us to tennis camp in the park, or stroll Stow Lake, feeding ducks with pink popcorn. These memories feel like anchors, grounding moments that remind me where I came from.

My grandma also used to bring me to her Chinese Association club in Chinatown, where she played mahjong with her friends (yes, very Joy Luck Club or Crazy Rich Asians for the younger folks). I’d sit at a table by myself and play all four sides like a little solo champ. Recently on a trip home, I played with my mom and aunts, and I actually beat them all. I know my younger self would’ve been very proud. Heck, my current self was really proud.

I think as I’ve gotten older, I’ve stopped being embarrassed about being “different.” As a kid, I hated when people asked me what my Chinese name was. I was nervous they’d laugh or mispronounce it, or that I’d mispronounce it. But with time, I’ve realized people want to hear what makes us unique. They’re curious. When I went to Hong Kong with my best friends a few years ago, I was proud to show them around. I even spoke Chinese at restaurants and shops. It might have been survival instinct more than confidence, but still, it was there, ready when I needed it. I don't get to speak conversational Chinese too often anymore. My parents and extended family speak English to me. My language skills definitely faded after my grandparents passed, but I can still understand more than I give myself credit for. And I think growing up with that cultural duality makes me more open when I travel. More curious. More ready to listen and learn.

In a time where cultural differences and immigration are often weaponized or misunderstood, I think it’s even more important to embrace those stories. As kids, the need to fit in overshadows the beauty of being different. As adults, that flips. You want to be different. You realize how much richness there is in your story.

I grew up in San Francisco, which has one of the largest Chinese American communities in the country. I never really felt unsafe for being who I was. But when COVID hit, that changed. Suddenly, we were having conversations about making sure our parents didn’t walk alone or wait for a bus by themselves. We had to be more vigilant. I vividly remembered my nail tech in Boston locking the door to the shop as precaution when it was just her and I alone. That was new and terrifying. Now we talk about making sure we have photos or our passports on our phones “just in case.” It makes all those childhood insecurities feel small and silly.

Before COVID, I was traveling internationally once a year, and that rhythm is finally picking back up. I’ve got a trip planned to a few new countries in Europe, and I can’t wait. I want to keep learning about other cultures, sharing my experiences, and listening to theirs.

That’s also part of what I love about golf. It’s a global game. It’s rooted in tradition, but played all over the world, by people from every walk of life. And that shared love of the challenge, the walk, the swing, it crosses borders. Even this blog has connected me to people in Asia, Australia, Europe, and all over the U.S.

Golf has given me a reason to explore more corners of the world. And it’s given me space to reflect on my own roots, too.

Keep sharing your stories. The world needs them.

Thanks for visiting! See you on the next hole!

#livethegameplaythelife