He waved his left hand at me, beckoning with pudgy digits.

"Hey, come here," he said with a gap-toothed smile. "I'm not going to hurt you."

He sat on a bench just outside the Publix supermarket on 34th Street South in St. Petersburg, Fla. A burst of air-conditioning rushed out through the automatic-sliding doors at regular intervals, onto the veranda that sheltered the two of us from the sun.

Nothing about this man - dressed in a clean blue cap, green T-shirt, and khaki shorts - seemed remarkable. Nothing seemed to contradict his tale about being newly homeless and down on his luck. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, even after I gave him a dollar.

But unlike the hardcore homeless back home in San Francisco - unlike the ones who lie in the middle of the dirty streets, shuddering and screaming - he had something to say. He leaned toward me, as if we were confidantes.

"I just want you to know that Christ loves you," he said.

"I just want you to know that Christ loves you no matter what," he said again, nodding his head up and down.

My family never worshiped God in our pressed shirts and slacks. When we went to church, it was to witness weddings out of fairy tales not our own. Afterward, we celebrated in a Chinese restaurant, a can guan, where the speeches were in Chinese and where the bride wore a red cheong-sam instead of virginal white.

I remember the smell of incense from cemeteries, not from Catholic censers. Every spring and autumn, we drove out of the city and headed to the hills of Colma. In fields of sliding mud and weeds, among elaborate headstones engraved with Chinese characters, we burned incense and paper representing clothing, jewelry and money. We left roasted chickens, sliced fruits and hard-boiled eggs for the dead so they may eat if their stomachs be barren. We poured rice wine upon their graves so they may drink if their throats be parched.

"Thank you," I said to the man. "Thank you."

"No, I mean it," he said. "I mean, where're you from?"

"San Francisco," I said. "I was born in San Francisco."

"No, where are your people from?" he said.

My great-great grandfather lived in New Orleans for a time before dying mysteriously around 1917. My great-grandfather and grandfather lived in Cuba for years before returning to Hong Kong with enough money to buy an apartment and multiple storefronts. When they did immigrate to the United States, they were fluent in both Chinese and Spanish.

When my great-grandfather accompanied my parents on their honeymoon road trip down to Mexico in 1977, he did all the talking. He bargained with Tijuana merchants, convincing them to cut their prices in half.

He never learned English. He wrote cramped words on spare, old envelopes and mouthed sounds from the television. But we communicated through my broken Cantonese.

"I'm Chinese," I said.

"That's what I mean," he said. "In China, don't 75 percent of the people there worship Buddha? There are people there that don't accept the grace of God and Christ as their savior."

"But I wanted you to know that God loves you anyways," he added.

When Eric Deggans, a media critic and culture expert at the St. Petersburg Times, addressed the 2006 Poynter summer fellows, he dispelled racial myths, such as the ratio of poor blacks to poor whites.

He acknowledged his presentation lacked greater ethnic diversity. He said he focused on his area of expertise. He also said the general principles remain the same across ethnic boundaries, but the history of slavery fundamentally alters the discussion.

Indeed, here in St. Petersburg, the historic specter of black and white segregation manifests itself in a racial and economic divide drawn through the city at Central Avenue.

But like any large fissure, small cracks extend out from the site of impact, eroding not just the ravine, but also the surrounding ground.

Like today.

"I'm American," I said.

"So you're Christian?" he said. "You believe in Jesus?"

My name is Alexander Fong. Alexander is a Greek name that means "defender of man."

The etymology of my middle name, Kenson, is "Ken" and "son." My father's name is Kan, the closest English approximation of part of his Chinese name.

My Chinese name is Kuang Shi-ying, or "scholarly hero." If pronounced incorrectly, it can be heard as "dung-caked hero."

Most of my friends call me Alex. Some call me Fong - shouting it to the tune of Sisqo's ubiquitous hit, "The Thong Song."

"I'm American," I said.

"You believe in Jesus," he said.

Before walking away, I said it again.

"I'm American."

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