DATE

11/12/25

TIME

5:04 PM

LOCATION

Oakland, CA

Oakland Chinatown Gangs(i)

奥克兰华人黑帮(i)

Preface: 接上篇。


1850年到1852年是金矿出产的高峰期,之后产量迅速下降。大矿公司接管行业,小矿工被挤走,自由淘金者几乎没法靠个人挖出吃饭的钱,白人工人开始失业、破产、负债、流落街头。当时,白人工人要求高薪、休息、工会保护,而华工是contractors包工制,一群人挤在棚屋里,吃最便宜的米、干鱼、野菜,不抱怨、不闹事。白人需要酒、肉、住宿、娱乐,而华人能靠基地消费长期存活。据说,白人一周花光工资,华工一个月都花不到他们一周的费用。矛盾激化。

1852年,加州地方政府官方加入驱逐,通过《外国矿工税》。虽然表面上写“外国人”,但实际只针对华人执行,规定每个华人矿工每月必须缴纳3美金,后来甚至涨到20,地方自己乱来。而3美元在当时等于一周工资。白人矿工和政治人物的逻辑很清楚: we can't compete with the Chinese, but we can tax them out. 州政府把税收外包给一群白人私人收税者,即collector,颇有现在驱逐移民外包给ICE的风格。这些人去矿去找华工:不给钱,直接打;付钱的话,继续榨;想逃,抓回来;抗议,直接打死。他们每收3美元,可以抽成1.5,这是合法规定。具体操作通常是三四个白人骑马,带着武器、铁链、账本,抵达华人营地,直接吼“Chinese miners, come out!" 华工则需要随身带着一张税单,如果没带则被认定漏水,会被双倍罚款。

更臭名昭著的,是1853 年的People v. Hall案件。当时,加州北部的 Nevada County,一个白人男子 George Hall 和另外两个白人,当众枪杀了一名华工 Ling Sing(林新)。当时有多个目击者,全是华人矿工。华人报警,华人作证,初审法院判,白人凶手有罪。Hall 不服,上诉到加州最高法院。1854 年,加州最高法院裁定,华人不能在法庭上指证白人。理由居然来自旧法律里 “黑人、印第安人或混血不得对白人作证”。法院说,“蒙古种“属于同类劣等人种,所以华人也不能对白人作证,华人作证会“污染”司法系统,若允许华人成为证人,白人社会将“沦为野蛮人受害者”。结果是,杀害华工的白人被无罪释放。值得注意的是,这是加州最高法院,不是地方法院,这导致该案件直接变成 statewide 法律标准。

1856年,Shasta County驱逐华工事件,白人矿工抱怨华人抢工作,组织了百人,洗劫华工营地,毁掉工具和食物,把几十名华工赶下山,威胁“回来就杀“。警察就在旁边看着,没有阻止。1858年,Trinity County Weaverville,白人召开公开会议,宣布”Chinese Removal Day",要求所有华工在天黑前滚出县界。期间白人持枪押送,抢走华人工具、金片、现金,最后导致三百到五百名华工被赶走。1862年,Humboldt County驱逐案,是全县范围、官方参与的彻底清空。白人暴徒打伤数名华工,市长、副市长、地方官员一起召开会议,通过动议,全县驱逐所有华人。第二天,白人组队挨家挨户检查,把所有华人感到码头。153名华人北坡登船,直接把他们扔到旧金山附近。而Arcata从此也称为无华人城市,持续了60多年。

旧金山、萨克拉门托、奥克兰、圣荷西……这些城市都发生过“清除 Chinatown”的行动:警察带头火烧华人街,城市以“卫生”“防疫”为理由拆散华人住区,连续驱赶,把华人推到更贫穷的边缘区域。旧金山 Chinatown 曾遭焚毁数次,而奥克兰早期 Chinatown 的位置被推来推去,就是因为白人嫌太近。警察、法官、地方民兵几乎是统一立场,不保护华人,甚至帮忙赶人。这导致华工只能抱团、自我保护,也为后来的堂口、黑帮埋下种子。

奥克兰的早期华人组织本质是 互助+仲裁+保护。但因为缺乏司法保护,这些组织自然发展出“武力维持秩序”的那面。唐人街内部纠纷没人替你报警 ,于是堂口变成“内部法院”。年轻劳工没工作 ,于是堂口提供“生计”。白人警察腐败,堂口付钱维持“默许”。结果则是互助组织和地下势力之间界线开始模糊。

Preface: Following the previous section.


From 1850 to 1852, California’s gold production reached its peak; afterward, output declined rapidly. Large mining companies took over the industry, pushing out small independent miners. Free prospectors could no longer dig enough gold to survive. White laborers began to lose their jobs, go bankrupt, fall into debt, and drift into homelessness. At the time, white workers demanded high wages, regular rest, and union protection. Chinese miners, however, worked under a contractor labor system: dozens of men crowded into shacks, living on cheap rice, dried fish, and wild greens, never complaining or causing trouble. White miners spent on alcohol, meat, lodging, and entertainment; Chinese workers survived on extremely low-cost consumption. It was said that a white miner could spend an entire week’s earnings in seven days, while a Chinese miner spent less in a month than a white miner spent in a week. Tensions escalated.

In 1852, local governments in California officially joined the campaign to drive Chinese miners out by passing the Foreign Miners’ Tax. Although the law ostensibly applied to “foreigners,” it was enforced almost exclusively against Chinese miners. It required every Chinese miner to pay three dollars per month, a fee that was later raised arbitrarily by local authorities—sometimes to as high as twenty dollars. Three dollars at the time was roughly equivalent to a week’s wages. White miners and political leaders were explicit in their reasoning: “We can’t compete with the Chinese, but we can tax them out.”

The state outsourced tax collection to private white tax collectors, a system strikingly similar to the modern outsourcing of immigration raids to ICE. These collectors rode into mining districts to target Chinese workers: if they refused to pay, they were beaten; if they paid, they were extorted further; if they tried to flee, they were dragged back; if they resisted, they were killed. Collectors were legally entitled to take a $1.50 commission from every three dollars collected. In practice, three or four white men would ride in on horseback, armed with weapons, chains, and ledger books. They would shout, “Chinese miners, come out!” Chinese miners were required to carry a tax receipt at all times; if they did not have it, the collector declared them delinquent and fined them double.

Even more notorious was the 1853 People v. Hall case. In Nevada County, northern California, a white man named George Hall, along with two other white men, publicly shot and killed a Chinese miner named Ling Sing. Multiple witnesses—all Chinese miners—saw the murder. Chinese witnesses reported the crime and testified in court; the trial court found Hall guilty. Hall appealed to the California Supreme Court.

In 1854, the California Supreme Court ruled that Chinese people could not testify against white people in court. The court relied on an old statute prohibiting Black people, Native Americans, and “mulattoes” from testifying against whites. It reasoned that the “Mongolian race” belonged to the same “inferior” category, that Chinese testimony would “contaminate” the judicial system, and that allowing Chinese to testify would cause white society to “fall prey to barbarous races.” As a result, the white killers were acquitted. Importantly, this was a state supreme court decision, not a local ruling, which made it binding as statewide legal precedent.

In 1856, the Shasta County expulsion occurred: white miners claiming that Chinese were taking their jobs organized a hundred men, looted Chinese camps, destroyed tools and food supplies, drove dozens of Chinese miners down the mountain, and threatened to kill them if they returned. Police stood by and did nothing.

In 1858, in Weaverville, Trinity County, white residents held a public meeting and declared a “Chinese Removal Day,” ordering all Chinese miners to leave the county by sundown. Whites escorted them at gunpoint, seizing tools, gold dust, and cash. Between 300 and 500 Chinese miners were expelled.

In 1862, the Humboldt County expulsion took place—a countywide, officially coordinated purge. After white mobs assaulted several Chinese residents, the mayor, vice mayor, and local officials convened and passed a motion to remove every Chinese person from the county. The next day, whites formed squads, went door-to-door, and drove all Chinese residents to the docks. One hundred fifty-three Chinese people were forced onto a ship and dumped near San Francisco. Arcata became a “Chinese-free city” for more than sixty years.

San Francisco, Sacramento, Oakland, San Jose, and other cities all carried out “Chinatown clearing” campaigns: police led arson attacks on Chinese neighborhoods; cities invoked “public health” or “sanitation” to dismantle Chinese housing; repeated expulsions pushed Chinese residents into increasingly impoverished margins of the urban landscape. San Francisco’s Chinatown was burned multiple times. Oakland’s early Chinatown was relocated repeatedly because whites complained it was “too close.” Police, judges, and local militias nearly always took the same position: they did not protect Chinese residents and often helped remove them.

This forced Chinese workers to rely on one another for protection and survival—laying the groundwork for the later development of tongs and Chinese organized groups.

Early Chinese associations in Oakland were fundamentally systems of mutual aid, arbitration, and protection. But without judicial protection, these organizations inevitably developed a coercive or “enforcement” side. Internal disputes in Chinatown could not be reported to the police, so the tong became the “internal court.” Young laborers out of work turned to tongs for livelihood. Corrupt white police accepted payments from tongs and granted them unofficial tolerance. Over time, the boundary between mutual-aid organizations and underground power structures blurred.


Artist Statement

My work is not about explaining the world; it’s about dismantling the emotional structures that everyday life tries to conceal. What I focus on is not “story,” but the dynamics between people—the pull and tension of intimacy, the quiet control embedded in family, the fractures that come with migration, and how an individual maintains their boundaries within these systems.

I grew up between shifting cultures and languages, often in environments where I was expected—needed—claimed by others. I was asked to understand, to accommodate, to take care, to adjust. Even the gentlest relationships carried an undercurrent of consumption. That tension became the foundation of my creative work.

The characters in my stories are not moral types. They each carry a kind of private conflict: they want closeness but fear being swallowed; they long to be seen but can’t fully expose themselves; they are asked again and again to give—to family, to love, to work—without knowing how to keep space for themselves. These aren’t inventions; they’re reflections of lived experience. Writing, for me, is a way to unearth the emotions that have been suppressed, ignored, or normalized—and let them speak again.

I gravitate toward rhythmic narrative structures: compressed scenes, quick shifts, intentional gaps, silences between characters. These spaces reveal more truth than dialogue ever could. The themes I explore—migration, family, identity, trauma, intimacy, female autonomy—ultimately point to a single question: how does a person protect their boundaries in a world that constantly pulls at them, demands from them, watches them?

Creating is neither escape nor self-soothing. It is a way of reclaiming authorship over my own narrative. When I write a character’s silence, resistance, hesitation, or departure, I’m answering one essential question:

When the world insists on defining me, how do I choose to define myself?

艺术家陈述

我的创作不是为了解释世界,是为了拆开被日常掩盖的情绪结构。我关注的核心不是“故事”,而是人与人之间的力量关系——亲密带来的拉扯、家庭带来的隐性控制、身份在迁徙中的断裂,以及一个人在这些结构里如何保持自己的边界。

出生在不断变化的文化与语言之间,长期处在“被期待—被需要—被占用”的环境里。很多时候,我被要求理解别人、照顾别人、顺着环境。那些看似温和的关系里,也潜藏着吞噬性的需求。这种张力成了我创作的源头。

在我的故事里,人物不是善恶分明的类型。他们都带着某种困境:他们想靠近别人,但又害怕被吞没;他们渴望被看见,却无法完全暴露自己;他们在家庭、爱情、工作里不断被要求付出,却不知道怎样为自己保留空间。这并不是虚构,是现实经验的折射。我写作,把那些长期被压抑、被忽略、被习惯化的情感重新挖出来,让它们重新发声。

我倾向于使用节奏性的叙事结构:压缩的篇幅、快速切换的场景、留白的空间、人物之间的静默。这些“空隙”比对白本身更能暴露一个人的真实状态。我处理的主题是移民、家庭、身份、创伤、亲密、女性的自主性,但它们都指向同一件事:一个人如何在被拉扯、被要求、被凝视的世界里,维护自己的边界。

创作不是逃避,也不是自我疗愈,是重新夺回叙事权的方式。当我写下一个人物的沉默、反抗、犹豫或离开,我其实是在回答一个核心问题:
当世界不断定义我时,我选择如何定义自己?

Artist Statement

My work is not about explaining the world; it’s about dismantling the emotional structures that everyday life tries to conceal. What I focus on is not “story,” but the dynamics between people—the pull and tension of intimacy, the quiet control embedded in family, the fractures that come with migration, and how an individual maintains their boundaries within these systems.

I grew up between shifting cultures and languages, often in environments where I was expected—needed—claimed by others. I was asked to understand, to accommodate, to take care, to adjust. Even the gentlest relationships carried an undercurrent of consumption. That tension became the foundation of my creative work.

The characters in my stories are not moral types. They each carry a kind of private conflict: they want closeness but fear being swallowed; they long to be seen but can’t fully expose themselves; they are asked again and again to give—to family, to love, to work—without knowing how to keep space for themselves. These aren’t inventions; they’re reflections of lived experience. Writing, for me, is a way to unearth the emotions that have been suppressed, ignored, or normalized—and let them speak again.

I gravitate toward rhythmic narrative structures: compressed scenes, quick shifts, intentional gaps, silences between characters. These spaces reveal more truth than dialogue ever could. The themes I explore—migration, family, identity, trauma, intimacy, female autonomy—ultimately point to a single question: how does a person protect their boundaries in a world that constantly pulls at them, demands from them, watches them?

Creating is neither escape nor self-soothing. It is a way of reclaiming authorship over my own narrative. When I write a character’s silence, resistance, hesitation, or departure, I’m answering one essential question:

When the world insists on defining me, how do I choose to define myself?

艺术家陈述

我的创作不是为了解释世界,是为了拆开被日常掩盖的情绪结构。我关注的核心不是“故事”,而是人与人之间的力量关系——亲密带来的拉扯、家庭带来的隐性控制、身份在迁徙中的断裂,以及一个人在这些结构里如何保持自己的边界。

出生在不断变化的文化与语言之间,长期处在“被期待—被需要—被占用”的环境里。很多时候,我被要求理解别人、照顾别人、顺着环境。那些看似温和的关系里,也潜藏着吞噬性的需求。这种张力成了我创作的源头。

在我的故事里,人物不是善恶分明的类型。他们都带着某种困境:他们想靠近别人,但又害怕被吞没;他们渴望被看见,却无法完全暴露自己;他们在家庭、爱情、工作里不断被要求付出,却不知道怎样为自己保留空间。这并不是虚构,是现实经验的折射。我写作,把那些长期被压抑、被忽略、被习惯化的情感重新挖出来,让它们重新发声。

我倾向于使用节奏性的叙事结构:压缩的篇幅、快速切换的场景、留白的空间、人物之间的静默。这些“空隙”比对白本身更能暴露一个人的真实状态。我处理的主题是移民、家庭、身份、创伤、亲密、女性的自主性,但它们都指向同一件事:一个人如何在被拉扯、被要求、被凝视的世界里,维护自己的边界。

创作不是逃避,也不是自我疗愈,是重新夺回叙事权的方式。当我写下一个人物的沉默、反抗、犹豫或离开,我其实是在回答一个核心问题:
当世界不断定义我时,我选择如何定义自己?

Artist Statement

My work is not about explaining the world; it’s about dismantling the emotional structures that everyday life tries to conceal. What I focus on is not “story,” but the dynamics between people—the pull and tension of intimacy, the quiet control embedded in family, the fractures that come with migration, and how an individual maintains their boundaries within these systems.

I grew up between shifting cultures and languages, often in environments where I was expected—needed—claimed by others. I was asked to understand, to accommodate, to take care, to adjust. Even the gentlest relationships carried an undercurrent of consumption. That tension became the foundation of my creative work.

The characters in my stories are not moral types. They each carry a kind of private conflict: they want closeness but fear being swallowed; they long to be seen but can’t fully expose themselves; they are asked again and again to give—to family, to love, to work—without knowing how to keep space for themselves. These aren’t inventions; they’re reflections of lived experience. Writing, for me, is a way to unearth the emotions that have been suppressed, ignored, or normalized—and let them speak again.

I gravitate toward rhythmic narrative structures: compressed scenes, quick shifts, intentional gaps, silences between characters. These spaces reveal more truth than dialogue ever could. The themes I explore—migration, family, identity, trauma, intimacy, female autonomy—ultimately point to a single question: how does a person protect their boundaries in a world that constantly pulls at them, demands from them, watches them?

Creating is neither escape nor self-soothing. It is a way of reclaiming authorship over my own narrative. When I write a character’s silence, resistance, hesitation, or departure, I’m answering one essential question:

When the world insists on defining me, how do I choose to define myself?

艺术家陈述

我的创作不是为了解释世界,是为了拆开被日常掩盖的情绪结构。我关注的核心不是“故事”,而是人与人之间的力量关系——亲密带来的拉扯、家庭带来的隐性控制、身份在迁徙中的断裂,以及一个人在这些结构里如何保持自己的边界。

出生在不断变化的文化与语言之间,长期处在“被期待—被需要—被占用”的环境里。很多时候,我被要求理解别人、照顾别人、顺着环境。那些看似温和的关系里,也潜藏着吞噬性的需求。这种张力成了我创作的源头。

在我的故事里,人物不是善恶分明的类型。他们都带着某种困境:他们想靠近别人,但又害怕被吞没;他们渴望被看见,却无法完全暴露自己;他们在家庭、爱情、工作里不断被要求付出,却不知道怎样为自己保留空间。这并不是虚构,是现实经验的折射。我写作,把那些长期被压抑、被忽略、被习惯化的情感重新挖出来,让它们重新发声。

我倾向于使用节奏性的叙事结构:压缩的篇幅、快速切换的场景、留白的空间、人物之间的静默。这些“空隙”比对白本身更能暴露一个人的真实状态。我处理的主题是移民、家庭、身份、创伤、亲密、女性的自主性,但它们都指向同一件事:一个人如何在被拉扯、被要求、被凝视的世界里,维护自己的边界。

创作不是逃避,也不是自我疗愈,是重新夺回叙事权的方式。当我写下一个人物的沉默、反抗、犹豫或离开,我其实是在回答一个核心问题:
当世界不断定义我时,我选择如何定义自己?

sunny.xiaoxin.sun@doubletakefilmllc.com

Sunny Xiaoxin Sun's IMDb


©2025 Double Take Film, All rights reserved

I’m an independent creator born in 1993 in Changsha, now based in California. My writing started from an urgent need to express. Back in school, I often felt overwhelmed by the chaos and complexity of the world—by the emotions and stories left unsaid. Writing became my way of organizing my thoughts, finding clarity, and gradually, connecting with the outside world.


Right now, I’m focused on writing and filmmaking. My blog is a “real writing experiment,” where I try to update daily, documenting my thoughts, emotional shifts, observations on relationships, and my creative process. It’s also a record of my journey to becoming a director. After returning to China in 2016, I entered the film industry and worked in the visual effects production department on projects like Creation of the Gods I, Creation of the Gods II, and Wakanda Forever, with experience in both China and Hollywood. Since 2023, I’ve shifted my focus to original storytelling.


I’m currently revising my first script. It’s not grand in scale, but it’s deeply personal—centered on memory, my father, and the city. I want to make films that belong to me, and to our generation: grounded yet profound, sensitive but resolute. I believe film is not only a form of artistic expression—it’s a way to intervene in reality.

我是93年出生于长沙的自由创作者。我的写作起点来自一种“必须表达”的冲动。学生时代,我常感受到世界的混乱与复杂,那些没有被说出来的情绪和故事让我感到不安。写作是我自我整理、自我清晰的方式,也逐渐成为我与外界建立连接的路径。


我目前专注于写作和电影。我的博客是一个“真实写作实验”,尽量每天更新,记录我的思考、情绪流动、人际观察和创作过程。我16年回国之后开始进入电影行业,曾在视效部门以制片的身份参与制作《封神1》《封神2》《Wankanda Forever》等,在中国和好莱坞都工作过,23年之后开始转入创作。


我正在重新回去修改我第一个剧本——它并不宏大,却非常个人,围绕记忆、父亲与城市展开。我想拍属于我、也属于我们这一代人的电影:贴地而深刻,敏感又笃定。我相信电影不只是艺术表达,它也是一种现实干预。

sunny.xiaoxin.sun@doubletakefilmllc.com

Sunny Xiaoxin Sun's IMDb


©2025 Double Take Film, All rights reserved

I’m an independent creator born in 1993 in Changsha, now based in California. My writing started from an urgent need to express. Back in school, I often felt overwhelmed by the chaos and complexity of the world—by the emotions and stories left unsaid. Writing became my way of organizing my thoughts, finding clarity, and gradually, connecting with the outside world.


Right now, I’m focused on writing and filmmaking. My blog is a “real writing experiment,” where I try to update daily, documenting my thoughts, emotional shifts, observations on relationships, and my creative process. It’s also a record of my journey to becoming a director. After returning to China in 2016, I entered the film industry and worked in the visual effects production department on projects like Creation of the Gods I, Creation of the Gods II, and Wakanda Forever, with experience in both China and Hollywood. Since 2023, I’ve shifted my focus to original storytelling.


I’m currently revising my first script. It’s not grand in scale, but it’s deeply personal—centered on memory, my father, and the city. I want to make films that belong to me, and to our generation: grounded yet profound, sensitive but resolute. I believe film is not only a form of artistic expression—it’s a way to intervene in reality.

我是93年出生于长沙的自由创作者。我的写作起点来自一种“必须表达”的冲动。学生时代,我常感受到世界的混乱与复杂,那些没有被说出来的情绪和故事让我感到不安。写作是我自我整理、自我清晰的方式,也逐渐成为我与外界建立连接的路径。


我目前专注于写作和电影。我的博客是一个“真实写作实验”,尽量每天更新,记录我的思考、情绪流动、人际观察和创作过程。我16年回国之后开始进入电影行业,曾在视效部门以制片的身份参与制作《封神1》《封神2》《Wankanda Forever》等,在中国和好莱坞都工作过,23年之后开始转入创作。


我正在重新回去修改我第一个剧本——它并不宏大,却非常个人,围绕记忆、父亲与城市展开。我想拍属于我、也属于我们这一代人的电影:贴地而深刻,敏感又笃定。我相信电影不只是艺术表达,它也是一种现实干预。

sunny.xiaoxin.sun@doubletakefilmllc.com

Sunny Xiaoxin Sun's IMDb


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I’m an independent creator born in 1993 in Changsha, now based in California. My writing started from an urgent need to express. Back in school, I often felt overwhelmed by the chaos and complexity of the world—by the emotions and stories left unsaid. Writing became my way of organizing my thoughts, finding clarity, and gradually, connecting with the outside world.


Right now, I’m focused on writing and filmmaking. My blog is a “real writing experiment,” where I try to update daily, documenting my thoughts, emotional shifts, observations on relationships, and my creative process. It’s also a record of my journey to becoming a director. After returning to China in 2016, I entered the film industry and worked in the visual effects production department on projects like Creation of the Gods I, Creation of the Gods II, and Wakanda Forever, with experience in both China and Hollywood. Since 2023, I’ve shifted my focus to original storytelling.


I’m currently revising my first script. It’s not grand in scale, but it’s deeply personal—centered on memory, my father, and the city. I want to make films that belong to me, and to our generation: grounded yet profound, sensitive but resolute. I believe film is not only a form of artistic expression—it’s a way to intervene in reality.

我是93年出生于长沙的自由创作者。我的写作起点来自一种“必须表达”的冲动。学生时代,我常感受到世界的混乱与复杂,那些没有被说出来的情绪和故事让我感到不安。写作是我自我整理、自我清晰的方式,也逐渐成为我与外界建立连接的路径。


我目前专注于写作和电影。我的博客是一个“真实写作实验”,尽量每天更新,记录我的思考、情绪流动、人际观察和创作过程。我16年回国之后开始进入电影行业,曾在视效部门以制片的身份参与制作《封神1》《封神2》《Wankanda Forever》等,在中国和好莱坞都工作过,23年之后开始转入创作。


我正在重新回去修改我第一个剧本——它并不宏大,却非常个人,围绕记忆、父亲与城市展开。我想拍属于我、也属于我们这一代人的电影:贴地而深刻,敏感又笃定。我相信电影不只是艺术表达,它也是一种现实干预。