In the early 18th century, Chinese-American immigrants often faced discrimination due to their race. Many formed bonds and close-knit friendships in Chinese restaurants. 

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and I remember how NaiNai and YeYe told us their story–men and women seeking to grasp dreams across the rolling indigo ocean.In their eyes, crescent moons held glittering dreams. 

One look at that wobbly paper carton and I remember the hot tears bursting across my face–another man or boy mercilessly tracked down, mercilessly slaughtered—--why couldn’t they just let us live here? Acceptance was a luxury we could seldom afford anywhere.

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and we embarked across a cracked gravel road, trying to find a small red-bricked restaurant, getting lost among the bustling city of stores and horse-drawn carriages.

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and I slowly shuffle into GuGu’s laundry store with my head down. GuGu seemed to be dancing with her hands tied, as she fluttered from clothesline from bucket to mop, gracefully picking up things to do. As soon as she saw me staring at the floor, she screamed “BeiBei”, and ran over to pinch my cheeks scarlett.

One look at that wobbly paper carton and I walk down the busy street of San Diego, feeling the microscopic threads of my coat as I clutched it to my chest, feeling every sideways glance, murmur, every “go back to your country!”--trying to be a belonging person, not foreign, just once.

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and DiDi and I were shuffling disorderly across the dusty crimson carpet, with us rubbing our feet on that flooring like a chaotic dance–

One look at that wobbly paper carton and Shushu salts chicken in a pan, shouting “Laiya! I heard many chefs in California are trying to caramelize chicken with sugar glaze.” I remember the amber meat, layered with fat that oozed right into my tongue.

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and Baba and Mama shushed us with “Stop that! It’s rude!” Hushed corners in the restaurant slowly weave themselves up into full-throated conversations. I can hear the poured beer being drunk, glistening all of our throats. 

One glance at those wobbly paper cartons, and the city was a witness to blatant signs – "Hiring" they spelled, but on the same doors, an unwelcome message glared louder: "Chinese need not apply. That day, those bitter stings of discrimination hurt me as much as the burning tears that covered my face seconds later. 

One glance at that wobbly paper carton, and I remember when my ShuShu finally grappled all his courage together, and breathed earthy life into this neighborhood by opening the tea shop down the street.

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and I was shoving my body against a grubby wooden door with the dusty black frame in the middle. And then I press my back to the door, and marvel how the dusk of night outlined the about-to-sleep sun.

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and I could see me banging on two silver Christmas bells that were tied to the door, yes, the one with four slashed crosses in the middle t attempting to see how massive I could get the range of ringing to be 

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and I saw a horde of bodies gathered around each table. Some playing mahjong, some drinking, some discussing lifes new happenings. At each table, I saw tired eyes, but in no means was it lifeless laughter that gushed out of everyone. 

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and I could sense the weight of rejection, heavier than the iron in our cities gates, silently pressing upon us as we huddled for solace in this warm glow. 

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and I could see myself flop onto the mauve, slender chairs, fingering with the fully yellow, paper thin tablecloth as I tried to feel the cutted patterns against my pineapple flesh. I looked around and saw that every other human in this purgatory also had pineapple flesh.

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and I could see myself snatching the chunky boiled peanuts from the tiny China plate, shoving them in my mouth with slender velvet-colored chopsticks, as my mother bickered and shoved the plate back to the center of the table, later softly scolding me and telling me to save them for later. 

One look at the wobbly paper carton, and I could now see the husk of night against the skyline of the dusty brown window, and a poured ocean of chatter slowly flowing inside the restaurant 

One look at the wobbly paper carton, and I could see the tucking of tongues as they wrung their syllables into the phrase “Xiexie, Zai Lai!” that was being directed to my family, and the flickering streetlights, guiding us into a shell of twilight once more 

One look at the wobbly paper carton, and I could see the thumping of the white, moon-like plates hit the yellow tablecloth, a darker shadow now splitting the color of all the ordered dishes. 

One look at the wobbly paper carton, and I could see the hints of shiny fish bones that Baba plucked apart, shamefully tucked and folded under wrinkly gray cloth, still chuckling from the conversation with another man from another table

One look at that wobbly paper carton, and I remember how I leaned back into my wooden chair. It was perfectly fine if we weren’t accepted after all because, in the heart of this bustling restaurant, we had crafted our own tapestry of life. Can you hear it—the rhythmic thumping, the cheering, the joy that echoes within these walls with every single sunset? In this haven, where acceptance was forged through shared stories and the clatter of chopsticks, there’s nowhere else I would rather have gone. We, like those before us, turned adversity into a melody, etching our place into the symphony of this adopted home.