Chinese Christmas

Being a first-generation Asian-American carries a lot of responsibilities. On top of that, my father left when I was twelve and my mother ran a Chinese restaurant, so I started helping her out when I was thirteen. If I ever learned anything from my mother, it was how to work hard. This work ethic is what highlights the growth of my character. 

One December night, we were closing up shop around 1 A.M . My mother took me outside to a gloomy back-alleyway. At the opposite end, echoes of laughter filled the streets. It was Christmas. Yet, how did I find myself here? “Now Michael, I usually have to do this myself but since you’re old enough to support me this year, I thought you could help.” Those words rang in my head as I stared blankly at my mother, who began climbing atop an open dumpster with her frail body. The trash was overflowing with the scent of old Chinese food and rat excrement; I’m sure that even the rats were having a nice family dinner. My mother jumped, and the sound that came next can only be described as a disgusting squish. I felt the urge to throw up, yet suppressed it with the newfound respect I found for her. Then, she offered her hand, and lifted me atop the garbage. Sometimes I wonder if she knew that this was going to be the life she signed up for when she decided to immigrate to America. I grabbed her hand, pulled myself up, and pressed down with her. That night, we didn’t simply step on dumpsters, but rather we pushed against our hardships. As the soles of my shoes pressed further into the trash, I reaffirmed my decision that Christmas was going to be my favorite holiday. Not because of the lights or the presents, but because I get to take some of the weight that my mother carries and help her push against it, together. I stand out because of my unbounded work ethic, and I owe it all to my mother.