A year ago, I visited my hometown in Fitchburg, Massachusetts to pick up the last of my belongings, which I had left when I moved two years ago. As my dad and I were both hungry, I decided to make a trip to the nearest Chinese restaurant to buy a few of my dad’s favorite dishes. There, my order was taken by a young boy, no older than ten. He carefully scanned the menu and calculated my total bill by hand. At that moment, I realized what a strange sight it must have been for my parents’ customers to have their order taken and packed by a child.

My parents immigrated to the United States in 1995, as first-generation immigrants, and took the only job that was available to them: working in a restaurant. For my parents, who knew little English and received no formal education beyond high school, there was no other option. Although my dad had a talent for cooking, opening a restaurant was more of a way to make ends meet rather than a passion.

Growing up, I’d tried my hand at almost all of the jobs available at our restaurants. When I was 7 years old, I started out with simple tasks, such as refilling the sauces and packing the orders at my parents’ first restaurant, Tikki Tikki. I took my first order when I was 10 years old at Yamato Japan. During the summer, I would spend my time rotating between working as a cashier at Froyo Cafe, or taking orders and waitressing at Yamato Japan. During the school year, I would spend weeknights and weekends at the restaurant. I grew up to hate all of our restaurants, as I felt that they had robbed me of my childhood. I often felt frustrated with my parents when I realized my upbringing was immensely different from others. We didn’t go out for meals together or spend much time talking to each other since my parents were constantly busy. Seeing my classmates with their families only made me feel more alienated from my peers. I was envious of the familial bonds that they had. Working in the restaurant, I never felt like I was my parents’ child. They were strict, and their constant yelling made me feel like a regular employee. We also lacked communication since my parents didn’t openly express their love for me and I wasn’t fluent in Mandarin. We weren’t a very open family, so I would often express my feelings of frustration by throwing tantrums.

However, having worked side by side with my parents, I can recall the scars on their hands, the bags under their eyes, and the multiple occasions when they were injured but still working. Even though it was rare to express their love for me in words, they would try to do so by feeding me and trying to spend whatever free time they had with me. They both hated life at the restaurant as much as I did. In fact, it was one of the few things that they had openly expressed. However, despite not liking the work or the people, my parents continued to sacrifice their own happiness for the sake of my future. Their goal was simple: to put me through college and give me the opportunities that they never had. Their sheer determination and grit still serve as my motivation today. They are my role models; they taught me how to find hope and happiness, in even the most difficult of times. The childhood that they gave me has made me dedicated, sincere, and grateful for everything that I have. My experience growing up in restaurants has greatly affected who I am now, and to this day, I still tip generously to express my gratitude towards the workers who work hard to provide for their families.

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