The class reunion was held in a modest banquet hall in Flushing, New York, a neighborhood that had become a second home to many of us from Tingjiang Middle School. The room was filled with the hum of laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional burst of Mandarin or Fuzhounese dialects. It had been about forty years since we last sat together in those cramped wooden desks, dreaming of futures we could barely imagine. Now, here we were, in America, our lives shaped by the choices we made and the journeys we endured.
I stood near the entrance, clutching a glass of warm tea, scanning the room for familiar faces. The years had been kind to some and harsh to others. Faces that were once youthful and full of hope now bore the marks of timelines etched by years of labor, worry, and resilience. The room was a tapestry of stories, each thread representing a life woven with sacrifice, perseverance, and, for some, redemption.
As I made my way through the crowd, I spotted Lihua, our former class president, standing near a table adorned with photographs from our school days. He looked almost unchanged, his sharp features and confident demeanor a testament to the life he had built. Lihua had always been the golden boy of our class—top grades, natural leadership, and an unshakable determination to succeed. While most of us had come to America through perilous journeys, Lihua had taken the path less traveled. He had aced the TOEFL exam, earned a student visa, and pursued a degree in accounting. Now, he owned a thriving accounting firm in Manhattan, a far cry from the restaurant kitchens and laundromats that had become the default destinations for so many of us.
“Lihua!” I called out, waving as I approached him. He turned, his face lighting up with recognition.
“Ah, old friend!” he exclaimed, clasping my hand warmly. “It's been too long. How have you been?”
We exchanged pleasantries, and soon the conversation turned to the lives we had built in America. Lihua's story was one of academic achievement and professional success, a stark contrast to the tales of hardship and endurance that many of us shared. But I was very proud of him.
The reunion was a time for reminiscing, and as the night wore on, the stories began to flow. One of our classmates, a man named Wei, brought out an old photograph from our graduation day. The image was faded, the edges curled with age, but the faces were unmistakable. There we were, rows of teenagers in ill-fitting uniforms, our smiles betraying the innocence of youth. Looking at that photo, I was transported back to the mid-1980s, a time when the dream of America had taken hold of our village like a fever.
I grew up in a small village in Fuzhou, a place where life revolved around the rhythms of the rice fields. My family was poor, like most in the village, and the idea of going to America was both tantalizing and terrifying. The stories we heard were filled with promise—tales of men who had gone to America and returned with enough money to build houses, buy land, and lift their families out of poverty. But we also knew the risks. The journey was dangerous, often deadly, and the cost was exorbitant.
At the age of eighteen, I decided to go. My family pooled every resource they had, borrowing money from relatives, neighbors, and even distant acquaintances. The total came to about twenty thousand U.S. dollars, which was an enormous amount of money back then. The money was paid to the “Snake Head,” the smuggler who would arrange my passage to America.
The journey began on a sweltering summer night. Under the cover of darkness, I joined a group of about eighty others—mostly young men, but also one woman and even a boy who couldn't have been more than fifteen. We boarded a cargo ship, its hull rusted and creaking, and were herded into the lower compartment. The space was cramped and dark, with barely enough room to sit. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, fear, and desperation. The days on the ship blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last. We ate, slept, and tried to carry on with the routines of life, though the conditions were far from anything we had ever known.
The lower compartment of the ship, where we were crammed together, became our entire world. It was dark, damp, and reeked of sweat, sickness, and despair. We tried to make the best of it, but the reality of our situation was impossible to ignore. At night, the temperature dropped drastically, and the cold seeped into our bones. We huddled together for warmth, but there were never enough blankets to go around. The thin, threadbare scraps of fabric we had were barely enough to cover a single person, let alone the dozens of us packed into the compartment. The cold was relentless, and it made sleep nearly impossible. We shivered through the nights, our teeth chattering and our bodies aching from the constant chill.
Food was another daily struggle. It was never enough to satisfy our hunger, and most of us were starving every day. For the first few weeks, there was a strange sense of camaraderie among us. People talked and shared stories, trying to keep their spirits up. We spoke of our dreams—what we would do when we finally reached America, the lives we would build, the families we would reunite with. Some of us even formed friendships, bonding over our shared hopes and fears. But as the weeks dragged on, the mood began to shift.
Sanitation was nonexistent, and the lack of hygiene quickly took its toll. The compartment was filthy, with no way to clean ourselves or our surroundings. The stench of waste and decay filled the air, making it hard to breathe. People began to fall ill, their bodies weakened by the cold, hunger, and unsanitary conditions. Chills and fevers spread like wildfire, and soon the compartment was filled with the sounds of coughing and retching. I think it was pneumonia. Some of the people on the ship were severely sick, their bodies wracked with violent coughs that left them gasping for air. A few began coughing up blood, their faces pale and their eyes hollow with fear. There was no medicine, no way to treat the sick. We were helpless, forced to watch as our fellow passengers suffered and deteriorated. The ship was filled with tension and anxiety. Everyone was terrified of getting sick, knowing that if they did, there was little chance of survival. The fear was palpable, a heavy weight that pressed down on all of us. We tried to stay strong, to keep hope alive, but it was hard when death felt so close.
Many weeks into the journey, the unthinkable happened. One of the stowaways, a man who had been sick for days, finally succumbed to his illness. His body went limp, and his labored breathing stopped. The compartment fell silent as the reality of his death sank in. His wife, who had been by his side throughout his illness, let out a heart-wrenching wail. She clung to his lifeless body, her tears streaming down her face as she begged him to wake up. But there was no time for mourning. The men in charge of the ship came down to the compartment, their faces grim. They ordered two men to carry the body up to the deck. The widow screamed and pleaded, but there was nothing she could do. She watched in horror as her husband’s body was unceremoniously thrown overboard, disappearing into the dark, churning waters below.
The widow collapsed to the floor, her sobs echoing through the compartment. She was inconsolable, her grief raw and overwhelming. The rest of us could only watch in silence, our hearts heavy with sorrow and fear. If death could come so easily for one of us, it could come for any of us. That night, the compartment was quieter than usual. The usual murmurs of conversation were replaced by the sound of muffled sobs and whispered prayers. The widow sat in the corner, her face buried in her hands, her body trembling with grief. She had lost everything—her husband, her protector, her hope. And we, her fellow passengers, could do nothing to ease her pain.
The journey had already taken so much from us, and it was clear that it would take even more before it was over. We were trapped in a nightmare, with no way out and no end in sight. All we could do was hold on, praying that we would survive long enough to reach the shores of America. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, that hope grew fainter and fainter. The ship was no longer just a vessel carrying us to a new life—it was a prison, a place of suffering and death. And we were all its unwilling captives.
The atmosphere in the lower compartment of the ship had been tense for weeks, but it reached a boiling point one fateful day. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, sickness, and despair. The only woman among us, the widow whose husband had died just days earlier, had become the target of the worst kind of cruelty. She had been violated repeatedly by a group of men who saw her vulnerability as an opportunity. Her cries echoed in the darkness, but no one dared to intervene—until one man finally had enough.
He was older than most of us, perhaps in his late thirties, with a weathered face that spoke of hardship and resilience. He had kept to himself for most of the journey, rarely speaking but always observing. That day, as the men began to harass the widow again, he stood up, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence like a knife.
“Enough!” he shouted, his voice trembling with anger. “Have you no shame? Her husband is barely cold, and you treat her like this? Have some mercy!”
The men turned to him, their faces twisted with defiance. One of them, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, sneered. “Mind your own business, old man. She's not your wife or your daughter. What happens to her is none of your concern.”
The older man stepped forward, his fists clenched. “She's a human being, just like the rest of us. If you have any decency left, you'll leave her alone.”
The burly man laughed, a harsh, mocking sound that echoed in the cramped space. “Decency? What good is decency on a ship like this? We're all just trying to survive. If you don't like it, stay out of it.”
The tension between them was palpable, and it didn't take long for the argument to escalate. The older man shoved the burly man, who stumbled back but quickly regained his footing. With a roar, he lunged at the older man, and the two of them tumbled to the floor, fists flying. The other men who had been tormenting the widow joined in, shouting and throwing punches. The compartment erupted into chaos as more men jumped into the fray, some trying to break up the fight, others taking sides. The widow, terrified and trembling, crawled into the farthest corner of the compartment, pulling her tattered shawl tightly around her. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she curled herself into a ball as if trying to make herself invisible. She had already endured so much—losing her husband, being violated by these men, and now witnessing this violent outburst. Her spirit was broken, and she had no strength left to fight.
It took several minutes for the men to finally pull the fighters apart. The older man was bleeding from a cut above his eye, and the burly man had a split lip. Both of them were breathing heavily, their chests heaving with exertion. The other men stood around them, their faces a mix of anger, fear, and exhaustion.
“This isn't helping anyone,” one of the men said, his voice weary. “We're all in this together. Fighting each other won't get us to America any faster.”
The older man wiped the blood from his face and glared at the burly man. “If any of you touch her again, you'll answer to me.”
The burly man spat on the floor but said nothing. The fight was over, but the tension in the compartment remained. For the next few days, the widow stayed in her corner, barely moving or speaking. She flinched at every sound, her eyes darting around the compartment as if expecting the men to come for her again. She ate little and slept even less, her body and mind worn down by the relentless suffering.
The older man kept a watchful eye on her, often sitting nearby to ensure she was safe. He didn't speak to her much, but his presence was a small comfort. The other men, chastened by the fight, kept their distance, though their resentment simmered just below the surface. The days dragged on, each one blending into the next in a haze of hunger, sickness, and despair. The widow's spirit seemed to fade with each passing hour, her once-bright eyes now dull and lifeless. She had lost everything—her husband, her dignity, and her hope. All she could do was cling to the faintest glimmer of survival, praying that the nightmare would end soon.
The older man's act of defiance had brought a reprieve, but it was clear that the journey had taken a toll on everyone. The ship was a microcosm of the worst of humanity, where desperation and fear brought out the darkest impulses. Yet, even amid such darkness, there were moments of courage and compassion—small, flickering lights that reminded us of our shared humanity.
One day, the widow, who had been broken by the loss of her husband and the relentless abuse she endured, found herself standing on the deck of the ship. The vast, endless ocean stretched out before her, its dark, churning waves reflecting the despair in her heart. She had climbed up from the suffocating darkness of the lower compartment, drawn by a desperate need to escape the torment that had become her life. As she gazed into the depths of the water, she felt an overwhelming urge to end her suffering. The pain was too much to bear, and the thought of jumping into the ocean and letting the waves swallow her whole seemed like the only way out.
She stepped closer to the edge, her hands gripping the railing as tears streamed down her face. The wind whipped through her hair, and the cold spray of the ocean stung her skin. For a moment, she hesitated, her mind racing with thoughts of what she was about to do. But before she could take that final step, someone grabbed her arm and pulled her back. It was one of the older men from the compartment, the same man who had stood up for her before. His face was filled with concern as he held her tightly, preventing her from jumping.
“You can't do this,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “You've survived so much already. Don't let them take your life too.”
The widow broke down in his arms, her body shaking with sobs. She had been pushed to the edge, but at that moment, she realized she wasn't alone. There were still people who cared and who wanted her to live. The man stayed with her until she calmed down, then helped her back to the compartment. After that incident, the men who had been tormenting her seemed to lose their nerve. Whether it was guilt, fear, or simply the realization of how far they had pushed her, they left her alone. The abuse stopped, but the scars it left behind would never fully heal.
In the days that followed, a heavy silence settled over the compartment. No one wanted to talk, not even to comfort each other. The weight of what had happened—the death, the suffering, the despair—was too much to put into words. It was a time of sorrow, a time of reflection. We were all grappling with the reality of what we had endured and what still lay ahead. The widow sat quietly in her corner, her eyes distant and her spirit fragile. She had survived, but at what cost?
Weeks passed, and the conditions on the ship grew even more dire. Food and water were running dangerously low, and the hunger gnawed at us like a constant, unrelenting ache. People began to fight over the smallest scraps, their desperation overriding any sense of decency or compassion. The tension in the compartment was palpable, and it felt like we were teetering on the edge of chaos.
Then, one day, the “manager” of the ship came down to the compartment with news that changed everything. “We'll be arriving in New York very soon,” he announced, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. “Prepare yourselves.”
The words hit us like a shockwave. After three long, agonizing months at sea, we were finally nearing the end of our journey. The news spread quickly, and for the first time in weeks, there was a spark of hope. People began to murmur excitedly, their faces lighting up with a mixture of relief and disbelief. Many of us were in tears, overcome with emotion at the thought of finally reaching America. We had survived the unimaginable—the cold, the hunger, the sickness, the despair. And now, we were so close to freedom.
The mood in the compartment shifted almost instantly. The tension that had been building for weeks began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of anticipation and joy. People started talking again, sharing their hopes and dreams for the future. The widow, though still fragile, managed a small smile. It was the first time any of us had seen her smile in weeks. As the ship drew closer to New York, we could feel the energy changing. The air seemed lighter, the darkness less oppressive. We had endured so much, but we had made it. We were survivors. And as we stood on the deck, watching the skyline of New York come into view, we knew that our journey was far from over. But for now, we allowed ourselves to feel a moment of triumph. We had faced the worst and come out the other side. And that was something to celebrate.
Just when we thought the worst was behind us, the unthinkable happened. One day, as we were huddled together in the lower compartment, someone noticed water seeping in through the cracks in the hull. At first, it was just a trickle, but soon it became a steady stream. Panic spread like wildfire as more and more people realized what was happening. The ship was taking on water, and there was nothing we could do to stop it. Fear gripped us all. We had already endured so much—starvation, sickness, death—and now this. The thought of the ship sinking, of being swallowed by the cold, dark ocean, was too much to bear. People began to scream and cry, their voices echoing through the compartment. The water kept rising, inch by inch, until it was ankle-deep.
The lower compartment, already a place of misery, was now a death trap. Desperation set in as people scrambled to get to the upper deck. The narrow stairway was clogged with bodies, everyone pushing and shoving to get out. The chaos was overwhelming, and for a moment, it felt like we were all going to drown right there in the belly of the ship. But somehow, we made it to the deck, gasping for air and clutching each other for support. The scene on the deck was one of utter despair. The ship was tilting dangerously, and the water was rising fast. We were all in tears, kneeling on the deck and praying for a miracle. It was the first time in the entire journey that we were truly united, our voices rising together in desperate pleas to whatever gods might be listening. We begged for salvation, for someone to save us from this nightmare.
Hours passed, and the situation grew more dire. The ship was sinking faster now, and the water was up to our knees. People clung to each other, their faces pale with fear. Just when it seemed like all hope was lost, someone shouted, “Look! Over there!” We turned to see a faint shape on the horizon. At first, it was just a speck, barely visible against the vast expanse of the ocean. But as it drew closer, we realized it was another ship—a large cargo vessel, much bigger than ours. A wave of relief washed over us, and people began to wave their arms and shout, desperate to get the attention of the crew on the other ship.
“They see us! They're coming!” someone yelled, and the words spread like wildfire. Tears of joy streamed down our faces as the cargo ship approached. It was a surreal moment, a glimmer of hope amid chaos. The crew of the other ship threw ropes and ladders over the side, and one by one, we began to climb aboard. The transfer was chaotic and terrifying. The sinking ship was unstable, and the water was rising fast. People were jumping from one ship to the other, their faces filled with a mixture of fear and relief. The crew of the cargo ship worked tirelessly to pull us aboard, their faces grim but determined. It was a race against time, and every second felt like an eternity.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the last of us were safely aboard the cargo ship. We collapsed onto the deck, exhausted but alive. The sinking ship disappeared beneath the waves, leaving behind only a trail of debris. We had made it, but the ordeal was far from over. The cargo ship was already crowded with people like us—desperate souls from Fuzhou, all trying to reach America. The conditions were cramped and uncomfortable, but after what we had just been through, it felt like paradise. We were given food and water, and for the first time in months, we felt a sense of safety.
About a day later, we finally arrived at the shores of New York. The sight of the city skyline brought tears to our eyes. After months of suffering, we had made it. The “Snake Heads” had arranged for people to pick us up at the shore, and as we stepped onto solid ground, we felt a mixture of relief and disbelief. We had survived the journey, but the scars would stay with us forever. The sinking ship, the loss of friends and loved ones, the constant fear and despair—it was all a part of us now. But as we stood on the shore, looking out at the city that would become our new home, we knew that we had been given a second chance. And we were determined to make the most of it. The journey lasted three months, though it felt like a lifetime. When we finally arrived in New York, we were emaciated, sick, and broken. But we were alive. The Snake Heads arranged for us to be picked up at the shore, and I was taken to my uncle's restaurant in Brooklyn.
My forty-year journey working in restaurants officially began. My uncle suggested I take a few days to rest before starting at the restaurant, but I declined and began working right away. I had borrowed a significant amount of money, most of it with high interest, so I couldn't afford to waste any time. My uncle's restaurant was a small, family-owned business that specialized in to-go orders, with no dine-in service. The team was small—just four people, including me. My uncle, Li, his wife, Huang, who was three months pregnant, and the chef, Lu, made up the rest of the crew. Their ten-year-old daughter, Lisa, often helped out after school. Most of the cooking was handled by my uncle and Lu, while my aunt Huang managed the front, taking orders and handling the cash register despite her pregnancy.
For the first few months, my uncle and Lu taught me many things I needed to know—from cutting vegetables and making egg rolls to wrapping wontons, preparing food, and crafting different sauces. My aunt Huang walked me through the menu, and I memorized all the dishes so I could help package to-go orders. The restaurant was open every day of the year, and we worked long hours—about thirteen hours a day, from ten in the morning until eleven at night.
My uncle rented a small apartment near the restaurant for us to live in. It wasn’t in the best neighborhood, but the rent was cheap, so we made do. My uncle mentioned there had been a few break-ins in the past, with thieves stealing money and jewelry. After that, they never left anything valuable in the apartment. The area could get noisy at times, but we were usually too exhausted from work to notice. Life was demanding, but we pushed through, driven by the need to make a living and pay off our debts.
Time flew by quickly, and by my sixth month in the country, I had learned almost everything there was to know about working in the restaurant. My aunt worked right up until the final days of her pregnancy. When her water broke, we called a cab, and she was rushed to the hospital to deliver her baby. She returned home the very next day and took only a few days to rest before coming back to work at the restaurant. This was unlike most Chinese women, who traditionally take a full month of rest after childbirth, staying in bed and eating nutritious meals to recover.
But my uncle and aunt couldn't afford to hire a babysitter, so they had no choice but to bring the baby, Eric, to the restaurant. They kept Eric in a crib tucked away in the storage room behind the kitchen. Whenever someone had a spare moment, they would check on him, changing his diapers, feeding him, or simply making sure he was okay. Little Eric brought so much joy to all of us. We took every opportunity to play with him and shower him with affection. Lisa, his ten-year-old sister, adored him and took on the role of his caretaker after school. She would watch over him while doing her homework in the storage room.
Life at the restaurant followed a predictable rhythm—chopping vegetables, preparing food, mopping the floor—day in and day out. It was repetitive, but Eric's presence added a warmth and happiness that made the long hours a little more bearable. Despite the challenges, we were a close-knit group, finding small moments of joy amid our demanding routines. This lifestyle was often referred to as “lutou zhentou” literally meaning “stove and pillow.” Every morning, we woke up and worked by the stove, and every night, we collapsed onto our pillows. Life revolved entirely around the stove and the pillow. There was no time for leisure or personal pursuits. After working 13-hour days, all we wanted was to rest and sleep. Day after day, year after year, nothing changed except that we grew older, and the baby, Eric, was growing up quickly.
The chef, Lu, was a quiet and peculiar man with a ponytail. He rarely spoke, even though we had been working together in the restaurant for two years. I later learned from my aunt that Lu had been in the U.S. for about ten years and had never returned to his hometown, Fuzhou. He was undocumented, which meant he couldn't visit his family. His son was just a baby when he left, and he hadn't seen his wife or child in all those years. During his rare moments of free time, Lu would smoke in the parking lot behind the restaurant. I often saw him staring into the distance, mumbling to himself, and sighing. It was clear he missed his family deeply, but he had no one to talk to or share his burdens with.
As time went on, Eric grew up fast. By the time he was two, he had learned to talk and walk. He became the center of our world, bringing joy and laughter to everyone in the restaurant. We all took turns playing with him whenever we could. Lisa, my 12-year-old cousin, came to the restaurant every day after school. She would do her homework in the storage room and help out whenever the restaurant got busy. Lisa was shy, and since I was eight years older, she sometimes opened up to me about her life. We became close friends, and I often practiced my English with her or helped her with her math homework. She was a bright student with excellent grades, but she sometimes struggled with bullies at school. As one of the few Chinese students, she was occasionally teased by her classmates. I advised her to tell her teachers about the bullying, and after the teachers spoke to the parents of the kids involved, the situation improved.
Time flew by, and by my third year in the U.S., I had finally paid off all my debts. The relief of being debt-free was indescribable. From then on, the money I earned was mine to keep, though I still sent a portion of it back to my parents in China every three months through Western Union. As a junior cook, I was making about one thousand dollars a month. We all worked hard, and though we were exhausted by the end of each day, there was a sense of fulfillment and happiness. We were like a family.
One night, as we were preparing to close at eleven, something terrifying happened. A masked robber, his face covered with a stocking, burst into the restaurant.
He was waving a gun and shouting, “Get down! Get down and give me all the money, or I'll shoot!”
We were frozen with fear. My aunt quickly handed over all the cash from the register, but because she didn't move fast enough, the robber struck her head with the gun. Little Eric and Lisa were so frightened—they cried and screamed as they ran to the back and hid in the storage room. That night left all of us deeply shaken. For months afterward, we were on edge whenever it got dark. Every loud noise made us think another robber was coming. The fear lingered, especially for the kids, and it took a long time for the tension to fade.
Months passed without another incident, and slowly, life returned to normal. When Chinese New Year approached, the kids were excited because their parents and the chef would give them red envelopes filled with money. Chinese New Year's Eve was the only time of the year when the restaurant closed a few hours early, allowing us to celebrate with a table full of delicious food. For once, we could sit down together as a family and enjoy a meal without being interrupted by customers. What might seem like an ordinary thing for others was a rare and special occasion for us. It was a small but meaningful moment of togetherness in our otherwise hectic lives.
After the robbery, we began to notice that the chef, Lu, was acting strange and strange. He started mumbling to himself more frequently, even while cooking, when no one was talking to him. He became increasingly irritable, especially when the restaurant got busy, often cursing under his breath and even snapping at my uncle when given instructions. The atmosphere in the restaurant grew tense, and everyone tried to avoid interacting with him. One night, I woke up late to use the bathroom and found Lu holding a small knife, attempting to cut his wrist. I was shocked and immediately stopped him. That night, no one slept.
In the days that followed, we all avoided talking to Lu, afraid of triggering another outburst or worse. My uncle and aunt concluded that Lu might be struggling with mental health issues and gently suggested he see a doctor. But Lu refused to discuss it, insisting he wasn't sick. I think he was terrified that seeking help might lead to his deportation, as he was undocumented.
For the next two years, Lu seemed relatively stable. He didn't do anything extreme or harm himself again, but we all kept a close eye on him, both in the restaurant and at the apartment. Then, one day, two police officers came in to buy lunch. As soon as Lu saw them, he panicked and started screaming in the kitchen, drawing everyone's attention. The officers began questioning my aunt, asking what was going on. She explained that the restaurant had been robbed a few years earlier and that Lu was still traumatized, especially around people with guns. The officers didn't press further and left after getting their food. Lu and I were the only two undocumented workers in the restaurant, and I shared his fear of the police. Every time I saw officers come in, my heart would race, terrified that they might discover our status and deport us.
After the restaurant closed that night, my uncle sat down with Lu to discuss his situation. He asked Lu if it would be okay to call his wife in China and inform her about his declining mental health. Lu agreed, and that night, my uncle made the call. He explained to Lu's wife that Lu might be struggling with mental health issues and was no longer fit to work at the restaurant. My uncle suggested that Lu return to China to seek proper medical treatment. Over the phone, Lu's wife broke down in tears but agreed it would be best for him to come home. A few weeks later, my uncle bought Lu a plane ticket back to Fuzhou.
With Lu gone, I took on the role of head chef in the restaurant. While I earned more money, my responsibilities and workload also increased significantly. By then, it was my fifth year in the U.S., and I had just turned twenty-three. Life at the restaurant remained monotonous, with each day blending into the next. One day, I called my mom in Fuzhou, and she asked how much money I had saved. At first, I thought she needed financial help, but she explained that it was time for me to find a wife. In our Fuzhounese immigrant community, it was customary to marry someone from our hometown, and the standard cost for arranging a marriage was around forty thousand U.S. dollars. This covered the girl's journey to America, and a portion was given to her parents as a gesture of respect. My parents, being traditional, insisted I marry someone from Fuzhou.
A few months later, with the help of a matchmaker, I was introduced to a girl named Anping, who was five years younger than me. She traveled from Atlanta to New York to meet me. We spent a day together—going to a restaurant, watching a movie, and chatting for a few hours. The next day, she returned to Atlanta, but we continued talking on the phone every night for months before deciding to get married. I bought her a diamond ring, and we hosted a small wedding banquet at Yidonglou restaurant in New York, with about twenty guests in attendance.
After we married, Anping moved to New York and started working at my uncle's restaurant with me. At first, it was challenging for her because she barely spoke any English. I did my best to teach her, and she worked hard to learn, always jotting down new words in her little notebook and memorizing them. She told me she wanted to become fluent in English so that when we were ready to open our restaurant, she could handle the cashier duties, answer phones, and take orders from customers. Her determination and effort made me proud, and together, we dreamed of building a better future.
A few months later, my wife discovered she was pregnant, but she insisted on continuing to work at the restaurant until the very last days of her pregnancy. In 1991, our first daughter, Anna, was born. We were overjoyed, but with both of us working long hours at the restaurant, we struggled to care for her properly. After much thought, we decided to send Anna back to China so my parents could help raise her. When she was six months old, we paid two thousand dollars to someone who could safely take her to my hometown. This was a common practice at the time—many young couples working in restaurants sent their children back to China to be cared for by relatives. In the village of Tingjiang, it was mostly elderly people and young children; most adults between the ages of 18 and 45 were abroad, either in the United States, England, Japan, or other countries.
We missed Anna every single day, especially my wife. There were nights she would cry herself to sleep, longing to hold our daughter. Back then, international phone calls were expensive, so we could only afford to call my parents once a week to check on Anna. Time flew by as we continued working at my uncle's restaurant. The days were long and repetitive, but we pushed through. When Anna turned five, we decided it was time to bring her back to the United States so she could start kindergarten and be with us. However, when she arrived, she was shy and hesitant around us—we were practically strangers to her. Starting kindergarten was tough for her at first. She would come home crying every day, frustrated that she couldn't understand a word her teacher or classmates were saying. She often begged to go back to China to be with her grandparents. But over time, things improved. She began to learn English, made friends, and eventually came home from school excited to share stories about her day. We were thrilled to see her adjusting and thriving.
The same year, in 1996, our second daughter, Amy, was born. This time, we decided not to send her to China. My parents were getting older, and we wanted Amy to grow up with us. We hired a babysitter to care for her while we worked at the restaurant. Watching Amy grow up was a completely different experience for us. We got to hear her first words, see her take her first steps, and witness all the little milestones we had missed with Anna. It was the first time we truly felt the joy of parenthood, watching our child grow from a baby into a toddler. The happiness our two daughters brought to our lives was indescribable. Despite the long, exhausting hours at the restaurant, we never felt burdened by our work. We felt blessed to have our family together, and the love and laughter they brought into our lives made every challenge worth it.
When Anna turned seven, she started helping out at the restaurant after school. She would stock the fridge with soft drinks, peel shrimp shells, and even take orders from customers. As the years went by, we managed to save enough money to open our restaurant. We decided against buying one in New York due to the intense competition and instead settled on a restaurant in Atlanta, where there were fewer Chinese restaurants and, we hoped, less competition. The beginning was incredibly challenging. Business was slow, and we barely broke even, with only a small profit to show for our efforts. My wife handled the front of the house—taking orders and answering phone calls—while I worked as the sole chef. Even though the business wasn’t thriving, the workload was heavy with just the two of us. We couldn't afford to hire additional help. After closing the restaurant at ten, my wife and I would stay for another two hours prepping food for the next day. Our kids stayed with us at the restaurant since we couldn't leave them alone in the apartment. They would sleep in the back room, waiting for us to finish. By the time we got home each night, it was already midnight.
As the days went by, the business only got worse. We were disheartened and unsure of what to do next. We weren't making any profits and could no longer break even, so my wife and I began considering shutting down the restaurant or selling it. However, we knew we wouldn't get a good price for it given its poor performance. Just as we were on the brink of closing, something unexpected happened. Business suddenly picked up. At first, we didn't understand why, but a customer told us they had heard about our restaurant on the radio. A reporter from a local radio station had tried our food, loved it, and gave us a free advertisement. We never found out who the reporter was, but they were truly a lifesaver. Thanks to their kind gesture, our restaurant gained popularity, and business began to thrive.
When we called my parents to share the good news, they were relieved. They had been worried about us during the tough times. During our conversation, they brought up a sensitive topic: they wanted a grandson. As the only son in the family, it was traditionally my responsibility to have a male heir to carry on the family name. They emphasized how important it was for the family line to continue, and they urged us to have a boy. This conversation put immense pressure on my wife.
Over the next three years, she became pregnant twice, but both times, when we found out the babies were girls, she made the difficult decision to have abortions. Only my wife and I knew about this; we never told my parents. The emotional toll on my wife was heavy. She often cried at night, overwhelmed with guilt and helplessness, not knowing when or if a boy would come. The pressure to fulfill this cultural expectation weighed heavily on her, and it was a painful chapter in our lives that we kept hidden from everyone else.
A few months after the last abortion, my wife became pregnant again, and this time, it was a boy. We shared the news with our parents, and they were overjoyed at the thought of having a grandson to carry on the family name. Everyone in the family was excited—my daughters were thrilled to have a baby brother. But my wife didn't seem happy or excited at all. One day, she confided in me, saying she felt like a "child-bearing machine." I think she never fully recovered from the grief of losing the two babies she had aborted. The guilt and sadness lingered, and she carried that pain with her for years.
In 2000, my son James was born. By then, the restaurant business had improved enough for us to hire a chef and a chef's assistant. One of them was my distant cousin, Rong, who had come to the U.S. a couple of years earlier. He was married, but his wife was still in China. The other was Lang, a young man from my hometown who was barely twenty.
Over the years, we became like a family, caring for and supporting one another. Rong, despite being married, had started dating a woman who was also married but whose husband was still in China. They had a mutual understanding that their relationship was temporary and would end once their spouses came to America. This kind of arrangement wasn't uncommon among immigrants at the time, as many sought companionship during long separations. However, when Rong's wife found out about the affair, she was devastated and demanded a divorce. She didn't know how long she'd have to wait for Rong to get his green card and petition for her to join him in the U.S. Sadly, many couples in similar situations ended up divorcing, especially if they didn't have children.
Life working in the restaurant was monotonous, and the only entertainment Rong and Lang had was visiting strip clubs at night or driving to casinos in Mississippi on holidays. This was the reality for many Fuzhounese immigrants—they worked long hours, saved money to send home, and paid off their debts. Once they had enough savings, they would get married and open their restaurants. Their stories were all strikingly similar. As the years passed, my children grew into teenagers. My older daughter, Anna, was in the twelfth grade and had a strong, independent personality. She didn't like being told what to do and always made her own decisions.
One day, we noticed she had started wearing makeup, which made my wife and me suspicious about what was going on at school. When we questioned her, she insisted she was just trying to look pretty. However, we eventually discovered from her diary that she was dating a boy named Kyle, who was Caucasian. We confronted Anna and told her she was too young to be dating and should focus on her academics, especially since she was about to start college. I made it clear that she should break up with Kyle and wait until after college to date, and even then, she should only date Chinese men. I explained that a non-Chinese partner would not be acceptable in our family. Anna was furious, and for years, we never discussed the issue again.
My second daughter, Amy, and my son, James, were more obedient compared to Anna. All of my children grew up helping in the restaurant, and I always emphasized the importance of education. I told them that studying hard and earning a college degree was the only way to have a better life with more choices. I didn't want them to end up like me, working long hours in a restaurant day after day, year after year. Thankfully, they took my advice to heart and excelled in school.
Life and the restaurant business were going well, but then my mother called with devastating news: my father had been diagnosed with end-stage cancer. I urged her to take him to the hospital for treatment, but my father refused, saying it was too late and he didn't want to waste our hard-earned money. During our phone call, he broke down in tears, telling me how much he missed me. It had been so many years since I left China, and my parents had never seen me or my family in all that time.
Tears streamed down my face as I listened to my father's voice. He was afraid he would never see me again before he died. I explained that I still didn't have a green card, and if I returned to China, I wouldn't be able to come back to the U.S. The conversation left us all feeling helpless. For days afterward, I was silent and withdrawn, unable to shake the sadness. I started calling my parents every week, trying to comfort my father and hoping he might live long enough for me to get my green card and visit him. But four months later, my father passed away without ever seeing me, my wife, or his grandchildren again. The pain of losing him, coupled with the guilt of not being able to say goodbye, was a heavy burden to carry. I was overwhelmed with sadness knowing I wasn't there for my father in his final days and couldn't attend his funeral. In Chinese tradition, this is considered a profound failure, and the guilt weighed heavily on me. For months after his passing, our family struggled to move past the grief.
Then, a few months later, in July, some good news brought a glimmer of joy to our lives: Anna was accepted into a university in New York to study accounting. I wasn't sure why she chose a school so far away, but I was proud nonetheless, knowing she would have opportunities I never had. I suspected Anna wanted more freedom and independence, which was why she chose a school far from home.
A few years later, Amy was accepted to Georgia State University in Atlanta. Amy had always been the most considerate and disciplined of my children. She decided to stay close to home so she could continue helping us at the restaurant, especially since Anna was no longer around. Amy had always been ambitious and academically gifted, consistently earning the highest grades in her class and bringing home trophies from math and science competitions. She never disappointed us and was the child I worried about the least because she was so self-driven and responsible. However, during her first year of college, something changed. Amy received a C in her English class—a grade she had never gotten before. It was a huge blow to her, and she became withdrawn, locking herself in her room and avoiding conversation. She stopped taking care of herself, refused to wash her hair, and became irritable and unpredictable. Sometimes she would cry or laugh for no apparent reason. Her behavior was completely out of character, and my wife and I grew increasingly concerned.
We took Amy to see a doctor, who confirmed that she was struggling with mental illness. The doctor recommended immediate treatment and hospitalization to prevent her from harming herself. However, we didn't have health insurance, and the medical bills would have been astronomical. After much deliberation, we decided to send Amy to China for treatment. We reached out to my uncle, Li, for help since neither my wife nor I had green cards at the time and couldn't accompany her. Miraculously, about two weeks later, after years of court hearings, my wife and I finally received our green cards. It felt like a blessing, and the first thing I did was book a flight to China. I was desperate to see Amy and check on her progress, and I also longed to see my mother, whom I hadn't seen in thirty years. My wife stayed behind to manage the restaurant while I was away.
When I arrived in Fuzhou, my mother was waiting for me at the village entrance. The moment we saw each other, we both burst into tears. The last time I had seen her, I was eighteen, and she was in her forties. Now, I was in my forties, and she was in her seventies. Time had aged us both, and I noticed how thin and frail she had become, her back slightly hunched and her face lined with wrinkles. Holding her hand, we walked together to our family home. Inside, everything felt familiar, as if time had stood still. On the wall hung a large portrait of my father, a common way to honor the deceased in our culture. I knelt before his picture and bowed, overcome with grief and regret. Not being there for him in his final moments was something I would carry with me for the rest of my life.
The next day, I went to visit Amy at the psychiatric hospital. The nurse brought her to see me, but she seemed distant and withdrawn as if she didn't expect me to be there or even want to see me. Her eyes were vacant, and her face showed no emotion as I spoke to her. I couldn't tell if she was listening or if my words were reaching her at all. Later, the doctor explained that she was on medication to help stabilize her mood, which was why she appeared so calm and detached. He assured me this was normal and part of her treatment process.
After leaving the hospital, I went with my mother to visit my father's grave. Kneeling before his tombstone, I was overwhelmed with grief and regret. Tears streamed down my face as I thought about how I hadn't been there for him in his final days or at his funeral. It was a pain I knew I would carry with me for the rest of my life. My mother stood quietly beside me, her tears falling as she placed a hand on my shoulder. I stayed in China for two weeks, spending most of my time with my mother. We talked every day, and I shared stories about life in America—how the kids were growing up, how the restaurant was doing, and the milestones we had celebrated. But I never mentioned the difficult journey that had brought me to the U.S. It wasn't something I wanted her to worry about. My mother, in turn, cooked all my favorite dishes, filling the house with the comforting smells of home. Those two weeks were bittersweet, filled with joy and laughter but also the lingering sadness of my father's absence.
When it was time to leave, my mother wept as she hugged me goodbye. It broke my heart to see her cry, but I promised to call her every week and stay connected. Back in the U.S., life returned to its usual rhythm, though Amy's absence weighed heavily on us. She remained hospitalized in China, and we didn't know when—or if—she would recover. My wife missed her terribly and worried about her every day. Three months later, Amy's condition stabilized, and she was finally released from the hospital. She returned to the U.S., and though the doctor advised us to keep a close eye on her, she remained stable. After pausing her studies for two semesters, she managed to return to school.
We did our best to support Amy, encouraging her and reminding her that it was okay to get Bs or Cs as long as she graduated. A few years later, she achieved her goal, earning a degree in Pharmacy and becoming a pharmacist at a hospital near our home. We were relieved and proud, and we wanted her to stay close so we could continue to care for her. Meanwhile, my older daughter, Anna, called one day with unexpected news: she was getting married in two months. My wife and I were stunned, but it was typical of Anna to make such a bold decision on her own. My first question was about her fiancé's ethnicity. She told me his name was Kyle, the same Caucasian boy she had dated in high school. I was furious, but Anna argued that it was her life and her decision. She believed her happiness was what mattered most, and marrying a Chinese person didn't guarantee that.
After days of tension, my wife convinced me to respect Anna's choice. We attended her wedding, wishing her happiness and a bright future, even if it wasn't what we had envisioned for her. The ceremony was small but beautiful, and though it was hard for me to accept Kyle at first, I could see how much he cared for Anna. Over time, I came to appreciate his kindness and the way he made her happy.
Around the same time, my son, James, was accepted into NYU Medical School. The tuition was expensive, but we supported him as much as we could while he worked as a teacher's aide to help cover costs. He was grateful for our support and determined to succeed. James had always been driven and focused, and we were proud of his ambition. Throughout all this, I called my mother in China every week to check on her. After my father's passing, she was alone, and we worried about her. We eventually convinced her to come to the U.S. to live with us. At first, she was happy to be with family, but as time went on, she grew lonely. She missed her friends and neighbors in China and found it hard to adjust to life in America, where she spent most of her days alone while we worked long hours at the restaurant.
After a few years, my mother decided she wanted to return to China. We respected her wishes and arranged for her to go back. Knowing she was in her late seventies and needed care, we hired a caretaker to stay with her. It was hard to let her go, but we wanted her to be happy and comfortable in the place she called home.
As the years passed, our family continued to grow and change. Anna and Kyle started a family of their own, and we welcomed our first grandchild, a little girl named Lily. Seeing Anna as a mother brought me a sense of peace, and I realized that her happiness was what truly mattered. Amy continued to thrive in her career as a pharmacist, and James was well on his way to becoming a doctor.
Looking back, I realized how far we had come. From the early days of struggling in my uncle's restaurant to building a life for ourselves in America, our journey has been filled with challenges, sacrifices, and moments of joy. Through it all, we had leaned on each other as a family, finding strength in our love and resilience. Though life was far from perfect, I was grateful for the blessings we had—our health, our children's successes, and the memories of those we had lost along the way. My father's absence was a constant ache, but I knew he would have been proud of how far we had come. As I watched my children build their own lives, I felt a deep sense of fulfillment, knowing that the sacrifices we had made had given them opportunities we could only dream of.
Many years later, my son James finally finished medical school and began working as a doctor at a hospital in New York. It was a proud moment for our family, knowing that all the sacrifices we had made had helped him achieve his dream. By then, after decades of working long hours in the restaurant, my body had started to give out. My back and legs ached constantly, and I knew it was time to hire more help so I could take some time off and rest.
Looking back, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude and pride. My children had grown up and become the people they wanted to be, and I knew all the hard work over the past forty years had been worth it. Still, there were moments when I felt a pang of guilt. My kids hadn't had a typical childhood. They never had birthday parties, never went to the movies, and rarely had time to play like other children. Instead, they spent their childhood in the restaurant, helping their parents and studying hard. They never complained, understanding early on that education was their path to a better life. And they made it—Anna, Amy, and James all pursued their dreams and built successful careers. My wife and I couldn't have been prouder.
The class union was a bittersweet gathering, filled with stories of triumph and tragedy. I learned that my best friend from school had died in 1993 aboard the Golden Venture, a cargo ship carrying undocumented immigrants. He had drowned and never made it to shore. Hearing this news brought back a flood of memories and emotions, reminding me of the risks we had all taken to come to America.
Another classmate shared his harrowing journey, which had taken seven months and involved multiple stops and transfers between ships. Then there was the story of a woman who had been raped during her journey and arrived in the U.S. six months pregnant. No one knew what had happened to her after that, but her story was a stark reminder of the dangers many of us had faced. One classmate had turned to drug dealing, unable to endure the grueling life of working in restaurants. He was caught and sent to prison, where he remained. On the other hand, a couple who had come to America together on the same ship now owned a 24-hour laundromat in Albany. They worked opposite twelve-hour shifts and rarely saw each other except on holidays when the laundromat was closed. Their story was a testament to the sacrifices many of us had made to build a life here.
At the reunion, we exchanged photos of our children and shared updates about our lives. Those still single were introduced to potential matches arranged by their parents. Despite the challenges we had faced, the gathering was filled with joy and laughter. Most of us were doing well—some had retired, while others were still working.
As first-generation immigrants, we had worked tirelessly, not just for ourselves but for our children. None of us regretted coming to America, even though we had risked our lives to get here. We had faced countless challenges—language barriers, cultural differences, and the constant fear of deportation—but we had overcome them all. We had made sacrifices so that our children could have opportunities we never had. Most of our classmates' children had gone to college and built successful careers, and that was what mattered most.
As I sat there, listening to the stories and sharing my own, I felt a deep sense of fulfillment. My children had achieved more than I could have imagined, and I knew my father would have been proud. Though the journey had been difficult, it had been worth it. We had built a life in America, and our children were thriving.
Back at home, my wife and I continued to run the restaurant, though we had hired more staff to ease the workload. We spent our evenings reminiscing and dreaming about the future. We talked about visiting China again, this time with our grandchildren, so they could see where their roots were.
Life wasn't perfect, but it was good. We had faced hardships, but we had also found joy and success. As I looked at my family—my wife, my children, and now my grandchildren—I felt a profound sense of gratitude. We had come a long way, and I knew that the sacrifices we had made had given our children the chance to live the lives they had dreamed of. And that, more than anything, made it all worthwhile.
