TO MANY, ONGPIN IS not so much a geographical reference as a state of being, synonymous to being Chinese in the Philippines. Two kilometers in length and named after businessman Ramon Ongpin, the street lies at the figurative heart of Chinatown.

It is that heart that is poked and prodded by R. Kwan Laurel in “Ongpin Stories” (Kaisa Para sa Kaunlaran, Inc., Manila, 2008, 122 pages), a slim volume with eight short stories that work together like side streets branching off a main street.

True to its title, “Ongpin Stories” deals with the experience of growing up Chinese-Filipino through the eyes of its young narrator, who is failing Mandarin but passing English easily. In the first story “Ongpin,” readers meet the boy and learn what he is and is not, reflected in the people closest to him: fuss bucket Mother, relentless pragmatic Father and old-fashioned Grandfather. We discover why the boy finds solace in the movie theater: “I also enjoyed the air conditioning and the dark because I felt safe from the people of Ongpin.”

So who are the people in his neighborhood? Each story introduces readers to a character so authentic, they will feel “Ongpin Stories” must be autobiographical. “Sir Jim” is the maverick teacher caught in the middle of conflicting attitudes. “Streets of Gold” is about Hercules, the madman who somehow stumbles his way into history and the conveniently corrupt policeman Captain Cruzz, who added an extra “z” to his surname for numerological purposes. “The Math Wizard” shows that the narrator is not the only person seeking to desperately pull free from Ongpin’s orbit.

The surprising “The Most Honest Man in the World” is a nuanced look at prejudices and stereotypes, even as the tragicomic “Giat Co” demonstrates what lies at two different ends of the same street through the uncontrived examples of the millionaire and the priest.

But it is in the magnificent “Amah” that “Ongpin Stories” proves that just how gifted a fictionist Laurel is. A tale of unexpected romance and everything in between, “Amah” is part immigrant’s song and part self-fulfilling prophecy. It exemplifies the book’s beguiling verisimilitude, fiction proving as unpredictable—and as sad—as real life.

In that story, Laurel lays bare the dawning contradictions between inherited tradition and hard-earned truths, such as his discussion on bound feet: “They grew clenched like a fist, and never did I think that they looked beautiful. They are painful, and make such little steps and always they lead nowhere.”

So it goes with names like Washington Dee See, mysterious herbal cures and the line that divides Chinese from Filipino. Laurel dissects the complicated reality of such rituals, often taken for granted, in the context of his protagonist’s struggle to come to terms with his identity. Just as the first story was essentially an introduction, the final story, “My Father’s Store,” is the plaintive epilogue, a worthy end piece that flows with despairing illumination.

All throughout, the prose shines through restrained and resonant lines. Laurel’s words are lilting in their precision, like the sound of perfectly carved bamboo wind chimes. It is the sound of endless flights and terrible homecomings, both actual and imagined, with home being the Middle Kingdom or Ongpin. “I just have to make it,” a friend tells our narrator. “I have to get out of here.”

Not only is “Ongpin Stories” a welcome addition to the accomplished body of contemporary writing on the Chinese-Filipino experience by Charlson Ong and others, it is an intelligently elegant collection accessible to all.