Page 12 - Corette-May-2022

Pursuing The American Dream
A student’s reflection on a parent’s sacrifice
By Melani Ly ‘23
On Christmas day, Mama was called into work. While
this holiday was supposed to be spent with family
and friends, she was dedicated to fulfilling her duties
at her restaurant. Not wanting to leave her alone,
my whole family of fourteen crammed into two black
SUVs and headed to the restaurant to keep Mama
company. After a twenty-minute drive, we found our-
selves at a monochrome brick building in the heart of
South City.
Walking through the back door of the building, a
ave of grease hit my nose. Straight ahead, there was
a long metal table loaded with bowls of raw chick-
en bones and prepped vegetables. At the end of the
table, my little cousin sat on a tall wooden stool,
stuffing cream cheese into wonton papers. Her hands
skillfully pinched the wonton into petals in a four-leaf
clover. There were cardboard boxes scattered on the
tiled ground that contained sacks of rice and flour.
As we kept walking forward, the kitchen became loud
and hectic. Stoves with open flames lined up half the
wall with woks, and deep fryers were sizzling with
chicken wings and egg rolls. The cooks were shouting
in Mandarin as they were packing orders into brown
paper bags. At the front of the kitchen, my grand-
mother, or Mama, was making an egg sandwich for
herself. With her little black afro and red blouse, she
didn’t notice us until we all came up to hug her. Right
away, she sat us down in two booths and hurried off
to get us food.
As I was waiting, I peeked back into the kitchen and
found my dad cooking. Even though Mama was only
4’8, she was hovering over his shoulder, bossing him
around while he was stir-frying a combination of beef
and broccoli. It was odd seeing him cook because it
looked like he had been doing it forever. His muscle
memory took over as he skillfully shook the wok back
and forth. The condiments were tossed straight up in
the air and landed perfectly back down. Sweat trickled
the back of his shirt, and his face was in deep con-
centration. That vivid image reminded me of why I am
here today.
12 Corette
In the 1990s, Mama built Hong Kong Express with
her bare hands. Scraping up all the money she had
in her pocket, she opened Hong Kong Express which
served anything one could imagine in Chinese cuisine.
She would work early in the morning to chop vege-
tables and fill wontons, and she would stay up until
midnight to wash the dishes. Mama was determined
which partly contributed to the restaurant’s success,
but it wouldn’t be complete without her children. As
a single mother, her seven children would go straight
to the restaurant after school. They all took orders,
prepared food, or cooked with the giant wok like my
dad. My aunt tells me that when she would help with
the cash register, the line would go all the way out
the door. Customers would tip her out of pity since
she was working so young. My dad also tells me that
when he cooked, the wok would tire his weak teenage
arms since the metal was so heavy. The open flame
would drench him in sweat, and the stench of grease
would marinate his clothes and follow him home.
The restaurant work was a hustle, but it all paid off
because it motivated my family to work smarter, not
harder. I believe at that moment, if someone told
them that they would become big shot doctors and
entrepreneurs in the future, they would have never
believed it.
After thirty minutes of talking and reminiscing,
the food was ready. Silver trays of special fried rice,
breaded shrimp, and chicken wings came hot out of
the kitchen. They were placed on our tables, leaving
barely enough room to eat. We loaded our white pa-
per plates with heaping scoops and topped them off
with sweet and sour sauce. In one bite, I could taste
not only the intricate flavor of spices but also the love
that it was made with. Because of this food, it allowed
my family to live. Hong Kong Express may look simply
like a restaurant to strangers, but to my family, it is
our symbol of the American dream.