Dear Mom & Dad,

During the COVID-19 pandemic, we spent a lot of time quarantining together at home before you went back to work. Like a lot of time — 3 months 3 weeks and 3 days to be exact, but I wasn't really counting. Admittingly, after leaving the nest to live alone in China for a year, moving back into my childhood home wasn’t the character development that I envisioned. But the silver lining of this pandemic was being able to spend more quality time together as a family.

I honestly don't think that I remember the last time we spent so much time together as a family in one place. Mom, you traded your 10-hour workdays to learn how to make 叉烧包 — steamed pork buns — from scratch. Dad, you traded your back-to-back business calls to become mom's sous chef. Your job was to double-check if the recipe asked for one tablespoon or one teaspoon. My job was to taste test.

Out of the many things that this pandemic has taught me, here are two important ones.

1. We can agree to disagree.

From the fight for social justice to the presidential elections, 2020 really peeled back the layers of so much that is wrong in America. Admittingly, our different upbringings and educational backgrounds don't make it easy for us to see eye to eye on certain issues. But, I am thankful that we are all learning to listen to new perspectives and question the beliefs that we once upheld as the truth.

1. We have everything we need to survive.

This pandemic reevaluated my definition of survival. Before this year, survival meant graduating from undergrad with only a handful of breakdowns. It meant speed walking the three blocks home with keys in between my knuckles like Wolverine. It meant cramming for Organic Chemistry exams and perfecting my hexagon drawings.

But for you and other immigrant families, survival took on another meaning. It meant making ends meet and putting a bowl of rice on the dinner table at the end of the night. It meant working long days so that Derek and I could focus on our school work. It meant facing language barriers, discrimination, and financial uncertainty but putting a smile on your face for the one hour of family quality time before bedtime.

But when the COVID pandemic hit, the term "survival" shifted again. Survival meant staying alive and healthy. It meant living to experience another day in a safe and warm home. We were all forced to slow down and remember what was important. I'm thankful that we were all able to be in each others' presence — to remind ourselves that everything that we want, everything that we need — We already have it. Because everything boiled down to the bare necessities and having a safe home with Grandma, you both, Derek, and of course, Mantou, is really all I could ever ask for.

A homebody convert,
Janette

Eight times out of ten, I can hear the distinct voice of a grandma yelling “GUI LING GOU” after I step off the D train at Grand Street station.

If I didn’t understand Cantonese or Taishanese, I would’ve mistaken her yelling for a wolf cry for help.

But no, this sweet grandma was just employing her #1 marketing tactic to sell Gui Ling Gou —A Chinese Herbal Jelly — on the crowded streets of Chinatown, Manhattan.

Like my parents, this Chinese grandma most likely belonged to the mass exodus of families that immigrated from Taishan, China to New York City. Back in the 1980s, my parents fled their hometowns in pursuit of a better life in the United States. They heard stories about the American dream, the freedom, and the potential for great success, so they decided to take a leap of faith.

While others relocated to major port cities like San Francisco and Toronto, my family, along with other Taishanese families, chose to settle down in Chinatown, New York City. My grandma and aunt started out sewing garments in textile factories in the Lower East Side while my dad went to Seward Park High School and worked part-time as a waiter in Chinese restaurants.

To my parents, their sole priority was and still is survival.

As I was growing up, I was constantly reminded of my parents' and their families' humble beginnings. This reminder manifested itself in the forms of childhood stories and threats about the potential consequences of not eating every grain of rice in the bowl. (I was told that every leftover grain of uneaten rice reincarnated itself into a new pimple on my face. To which my prepubescent body-conscious self proceeded to lick the bowl sparkling clean.)

I've heard little bits and chunks of stories from my parents' childhood. We would be watching a Chinese movie with a setting in rural China and my mom would point at the TV and say:

“我们以前的乡村就是这样的！” — "Back in the day, our villages looked just like that!"

“One day we will bring you and Derek to show you how we lived back then.” My dad added.

I would look up from my phone at the TV screen and nod. I mentally filed the movie scene into the brain archives of my parents' childhood home under the “Poor and Broke” category.

Finally, in the Summer of 2018, my preconceptions of their childhood upbringings were confirmed when we took a family trip to Taishan, China. This was my first time traveling to my parent's hometown and just my second time in China itself.

My parents grew up in the rural villages of Taishan, located in the Guangdong province in southeast China. More specifically, my dad's family is from 冲蒌镇 (the town of ChongLou), and my mom's family is from 白沙镇 (the town of BaiSha).

Their villages are so remote that the only way to locate them is going down a dirt road path for 15 minutes, making a right at an electrical pole, then driving for 10 more minutes until you see 'the tree'. Then from there, it is only a couple hundred yards until you pass the pile of rubble at the entrance of their town.

When we arrived, my dad wrestled with the rusty lock that guarded the front entrance. A few moments later, we heard a click and he nudged the doors open. The wooden door creaked, welcoming the original owner, three decades after he said 再见 — goodbye. This was the same wooden door that made cameos in my dad’s childhood stories. In this lecture about safety, he would mention how he had to use a broomstick to block the door as a form of home security.

The house smelled exactly like how one would expect an abandoned home to smell, stale and musky. The overcast sky was at the verge of rainfall that day. But that didn’t stop some daylight from sneaking into the home through the shattered windows. At the front door, I was confronted with high ceilings and two wooden staircases that led up to the 2nd and 3rd floor. The one that led up the 3rd floor collapsed halfway, leaving a gaping hole and overhanging nails in its place.

At first glance, the house looked large — almost the same size as the home we have in Brooklyn. But a closer look revealed the cracked walls, neglected furniture, and exposed brick walls that were stained from natural erosion. I thought back to my recent internet search history for faux brick wallpaper.

I stood at the home entrance, awkwardly shifting my weight on the concrete floor below me. Below me, there were pieces of broken glass, wired hangers, wooden chips, chipped paint among other rubble that had accumulated for the past 30 years. I sidestepped them as best as I could; No one gave me the memo to wear sneakers instead of open-toed sandals that day.

My parents began to set up the table of offerings for the ancestors. A cooked chicken, a slab of pork, snacks, and cups of white wine. I wondered about the last time an offering was made in this home. As I ventured around the home, the familiar scent of burning incense lingered in to fill the vacancy of every room.

Slowly and cautiously, I climbed the steps to one of the rooms on the 2nd floor. I tucked my hands to my side, careful not to disturb an important artifact in the fear that I would anger the spirits that lived in the home. Above me, there hung a bare light bulb dangling from a wire from the ceiling. It reminded me of the Edison “vintage” style lightbulb that hung in my own room.

In the room, there were leftover pieces of wooden planks, empty glass bottles, woven baskets, and other items that once served a purpose — all coated in decades worth of dust.

Dad found his way into the room and placed his hands on his hips. He did a 360-degree scan of the room and suddenly picked up an antiquated ceramic jug with a smile on his face. I could’ve sworn that I saw a similar-looking jug at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“You know, we use to store rice in these,” he said gesturing the jug towards me.

I nodded. "Why not clean this place up?" I asked, shielding my nose from the floating dust bunnies. “At least repair the broken windows?"

He sighed and said, "没用的，将来会在有窃贼" — “No point in doing so, the house will just get broken into again by thieves.”

And that was the only thing that I remember my dad saying to me about the house that day as he walked around his childhood home.

That day, my brother and I also visited my mom’s childhood home in a nearby village. Her home had the same naked lightbulb on a string, wooden planks for bed frames, and a DIY broomstick made with stray tree branches bounded together with red strings. They casually walked around their former homes, occasionally pointed out an old artifact, but said nothing more.

I thought about our current Brooklyn home — the recessed ceiling lights, the running tap water, and the Dyson vacuum sitting in our closet. I wondered how it must have felt for my parents, whether coming back to their childhood homes made them feel like they had lived there in a past life. I wondered how it felt to know that food is now guaranteed at a local neighborhood supermarket, rather than relying on an unpredictable harvest. I wondered what it felt to be driven by the survival mentality, a mindset that enabled them to not just survive but thrive in the states.

In my mom’s old bedroom, I stared into the cracked heart-shaped mirror on her wooden dresser. Even with the old stickers residue and debris collected from decades ago, I could still make out a dusty reflection of myself. It was then that I realized that my parents brought me all the way — 8062 miles away from our home in Brooklyn — not just to show me how they have lived back then. But to show me where I could’ve grown up, had they not taken that leap of faith to immigrate to New York City.

A couple of months into 2020, I came upon this quote on Twitter by @Bosefina:

"My parents were tasked with the job of survival and I with self-actualization. The immigrant generational gap is real. What a luxury it is to search for purpose, meaning, and fulfillment."

After reading this quote, I gained a greater sense of clarity, as if the author was subtweeting me.

I didn't realize the extent to which the immigrant transgenerational gap has influenced my and my parents' perceptions on many topics and issues. This divide between my generation and my parent's generation is typically summarized in the sentence "They [the parents] will never understand the problems that we [the kids] have to face today."

But in truth, the reality of the situation is exactly the opposite. If I got cast in the movie about my parents' survival story, I would get killed off faster than how Shonda Rhimes kills off another one of the main leads on Grey's Anatomy.

I used to think that luxuries manifested themselves in the form of material possessions. For instance, owning a mansion, driving a fancy car, buying another Louis Vuitton bag in Europe, or maybe if I was feeling especially frivolous, agreeing to get extra guacamole with my Chipotle order. But now, I realized just how subjective that term is. To my parents, "luxuries" meant having a side dish of meat at the dinner table. It meant having centralized indoor heating. It meant receiving an education.

I recognize that I even have the luxury of facing first-world “problems.”

My immigrant parents' problems:

"Why is the wifi so slow?"

“I hope we have enough to eat tonight."

“Do we have extra candles?”

My first world problems:

"Ugh, the barista messed up my order again...I specifically asked for less ice."

"I can't believe my year-long study abroad trip was canceled midway due to the Covid-19 pandemic."

“I hope this storm won't devastate my crops.”

The more I become self-aware of this topic, the more I realize how we all have it wrong. Luxuries are not tangible. For me, "luxuries" reveal themselves in the form of having free time, getting 8 hours of sleep, getting to spend quality time with family and friends, and most recently, the ability to be self-aware about my purpose in life.

This quote forced me to sit down, process, and reevaluate this 'p word' that has been haunting me for several years now. Purpose.

For years, I've felt torn in between this dichotomy between purpose versus profit. My parents have willingly taken on the burden of the 'survival mentality' so I wouldn't have to worry about my next meal or whether or not have to choose between getting a free education or working in the rice patty fields. But now, I am confronted with the "first world" problems of searching for a greater purpose, the meaning of life, and how this empty jar inside of me can be fulfilled with joy and meaning.

I have the luxury of worrying about the current and future state of the world from the climate crisis to the future state of the nation given the possibility of another term with a divisive president. I am worried about our basic human right to health care and how just 100 fossil fuel producers are responsible for over 70% of greenhouse gas emissions. I am worried about women's reproductive rights and how they are ironically governed by conservative white men who get off at the thought of controlling women's bodies.

But to my parents, and many others in their generation, the act of worrying can't put food on the table. Finding my purpose can't pay the water and electricity bills. Settling for a low-paying yet fulfilling job can't keep the roof above our heads.

But to myself and perhaps others fortunate enough to be born in the midst of the Gen Z and Millennial generation, we are at least willing to take that leap of faith while remaining grateful for those who laid the foundation for us. I don't believe that I have to choose between purpose or profit. I want my values to not only align with my occupation but also drive me to fulfill a higher purpose in life. I want to be part of the frontier that is tackling the many social issues and global crises that our planet faces at the moment.

I don't believe that being more self-aware is necessarily a bad thing either. By being more self-aware, I am more conscious of how one person can make a difference. I believe that my purpose and desire to generate social impact shouldn't have to be compromised in favor of buying a mansion or a fancy car.

To quote a billboard I saw while driving across the Manhattan Bridge, "I am my ancestors’ wildest dreams." When I saw this, I immediately took down the quote on the notes app of my phone. So that whenever I need to jot down a quick grocery list or find that Wifi password that looks like a toddler had chosen by slamming a keyboard, I am reminded of this affirmation. I am reminded of my parent's decision to immigrate and how their children can dare to dream. I am reminded that my parents didn't come all this way to let dreams just be dreams.