Property Walues

I misspell "values" on purpose because I'm a terrible son

This weekend, I asked my boyfriend if I could borrow some money to pay my income taxes.

I can feel all the spirits of my ancestors, rising from their respective graves somewhere in China and floating across the Pacific Ocean, crossing the country at light speed to fly into my living room here in Miami, only to look at me disappointingly, and then fade away.

This is the first year in six or seven years that I owe a substantial amount to the IRS, and it’s all due to my condo in the Bay Area generating a modest profit from renters. For those who don’t know the backstory: I bought a condo in 2005, right next to a strip mall right off the exit of I-880. Dad was super into real estate as an investment, buying houses to rent out and selling houses the family had spent weekends fixing up for a minimal profit. He eventually offered to pay half the down payment.

“WALUE,” he said, trying to say the word “value.” So I agreed.

Let’s pause here: Asian parents do this because their children are an investment, just as a social networking startup, a young prizefighter, or an acre of sorghum is an investment. Asian parents also pay for their kids' higher education, if they can afford it. Asian kids usually aren't expected to pay their parents back financially, but rather with their independence and individuality. In my case, I was waitlisted at private Carnegie Mellon University. I was summarily shut down in favor of a public university with significant Chinese influence, and I had to choose between becoming a doctor or an engineer.

In the case of the condo, it served multiple purposes for my parents: it was a fifteen-minute drive from their house, providing a nice break for each of them individually as they began the separation process. Each had keys, of course, and read my mail. It became an extension of their house, and the realization that I needed to get out of there was when my dad found my Senior Ball photo of Christine Kamphaus and me, and taped it to my bathroom mirror.

You know, as a reminder. Not to be gay.

[2025 NOTE FROM ERNIE: It should also be said that he
ALSO went through any piece of mail or photograph, and destroyed — as in literally, took scissors and cut in half — any casual photo where I had my arm wrapped around another guy, whether he was gay or straight. -Ed.]

It was dad’s version of how white moms leave sweet notes in their kids’ lunchboxes, except I got self-loathing instead of Lunchables.

That was my breaking point. Later that summer, I rented a room from my friend Don, who lived in SF. Dad agreed to it so I could “get San Francisco out of my system.” I never moved back.

It’s for this reason that buying a house has never been my “American Dream.” When Kareem wanted to invest in a home here in Little Haiti, I was in San Francisco, worrying about my Fellowship and feeling ambivalent. Eventually, I caved in: “I’ll go in on the money,” I said, “but you have to do all the paperwork.”

The paperwork process — especially the mortgage paperwork process — was fucking terrible. But hey, Kareem wanted to do the legwork, and three years later we’re still here:

At this point, I’ve spent more years living in Miami than I have lived in that condo. I don’t plan on moving back — too close to the family. I miss the friends I have in the Bay Area, but after the little nervous breakdown I had this summer, I don’t think I’ll be moving back to Northern California anytime soon.

I’ll sell the condo in California. Eventually, I’m sure. It’s an artifact of my father, someone I have little to no communication with nowadays, as it’s been at its lowest point now that my dad is 90 and his Mandarin has regressed to Shanghainese, a dialect I was never taught. I don’t even know if he knows he does that, honestly. He’ll forward video clips posted on WeChat; an antidote from the CEO of Alibaba here, a fireside chat with a white guy who lived in Mainland China for 50 years with perfect Mandarin. Even when he’s trying to reach out and empathize, everything he sends me reminds me we’re two different cultures and philosophies.

Now that I think about it, I have no idea what the condo is worth. I go to Zillow, type the address into the search bar, and a satellite map appears, suburban paisley roads attached to a four-lane highway.

I look at the property values. The neighboring unit just sold for six times the original buying price.

“You clever bastard,” I say out loud to a father that will never hear it. “You were right all along.”