I believe in holding onto traditions because they helped our family flourish (兴旺) in a new country. But this concept is more concretely expressed this way: I believe in feeding monkeys on my birthday for that purpose — something I've done without fail for 35 years.
In the Burmese jungle, monkeys are as common as pigeons. But in America, feeding monkeys means violating the rules.
As a kid, I thought that was cool. I learned English through watching bad television shows and expected that I was the chosen warrior (勇士) sent to defend my family. Dad and I would go to the zoo early in the morning, just the two of us. When the Coast was clear, I would throw my peanuts to the monkeys.
I never had to explain myself until my 18th birthday. It was the first year I didn't go with my father. I went with my friends and arrived 10 minutes after the zoo gates closed. "Please," I begged the zookeeper, "I feed monkeys for my family, not for me. Can't you make an exception?" "Go find a pet store," she said.
If only it were so easy. That time, I got lucky. I found out that a high school classmate trained the monkeys for the movie Out of Africa, so he allowed me to feed his monkeys. Once a man with a pet monkey suspected that my story was a ploy — that I was an animal rights activist out to liberate his monkey. Another time, a zoo told me that outsiders could not feed the monkeys without violating the zookeepers' collective bargaining agreement. Once in a pet store, I managed to feed a marmoset (狨) being kept in a birdcage. Another time, I was asked to wear a special suit to feed a laboratory monkey.
It's rarely easy and, yet, somehow I've found a way to feed a monkey every year since I was born.
