For more than thirty years, my parents worked tirelessly in their quaint, Chinese restaurant in east Fort Worth. After school, my dad would be waiting for me at the bus stop to drive me back to the restaurant. From the moment I stepped inside, I knew I had obligations to fulfill. Bussing tables, scrubbing the toilets, chopping vegetables, and deboning chicken were almost always on the menu. Although the tasks seemed never-ending, these were the non-negotiables that kept the family business running day-to-day. Whenever I had free time, which was usually during the calm before the dinnertime storm, I’d escape outside to our small, stripped-down patio. This was where many of my core memories were made. I loved making paper airplanes and modifying the design to see how far I could make them fly. I’d play soccer with two-liter Coke bottles that customers previously emptied. The best was flinging pistachio shells with my homemade slingshots. Occasionally, other children would come to the patio to join me on my adventures. Together, we laughed, we screamed, and we ran like life couldn’t catch us. It brought me a unique mixture of joy, excitement, and a sense of freedom. Even though I eventually needed to go back to work, I always cherished the fun I had. The restaurant may have been a family responsibility, but it was also the playground and lab where I could freely explore and build my imagination. It was my life, and I couldn’t imagine anything else. The restaurant wasn't just a way for my family to make a living, it was a lifestyle. From the moment my parents and I woke up in the morning, we knew we had to be scrappy and diligent to get through the day. That universal belief was part of being Asian-American. Scrapping by, getting work done, and showing others why you belong. My time at the restaurant guided me to work as hard as possible to make my school's basketball team as the only Asian-American in the gym, inspired me to share my culture with others through the power of food, and showed me what is possible when you think outside of the box. Growing up in a Chinese restaurant, it is no wonder why I am so proud of being Asian-American and a part of the first generation of my family to attend college. Attending college is considered a rite of passage for many Americans, but is a rite of passage for my family. I plan to major in Computer Engineering, and my parents can't even fully grasp how to access their web browser, but it's poetic, in that with a better opportunity, they could have been doing what I'm doing. That's how education is important to me.

For more than 30 years, my parents worked tirelessly in their Sun Sun Chinese Restaurant, a no-frills Chinese restaurant in east Fort Worth. After a long school day, my dad would be waiting for me by the bus stop, and he would drive me back to the restaurant. I would usually have a plethora of chores I had to do: bringing the plates back into the kitchen, wiping the tables, and cleaning the floors were always on the menu. Although the chores never stopped, I had learned to accept this, using the extra free time I had to venture outside. 100 degrees and blazingly hot or 30 degrees and blisteringly cold, I would always find some way to entertain myself. I loved making paper airplanes and modifying them to fly farther. I loved creating slingshots out of rubber bands and flinging pistachio shells against a tree. The restaurant was my playground, my lab, and my life up to that point. I couldn’t imagine anything else different. Looking back, it was written on the walls. The mysterious lady, talking about owning our restaurant, and my father’s constant doctors’ appointments for arthritis should have been signs. Suddenly, I stayed at home after the bus dropped me off. Adapting to life as a stay-at-home child was a shock; I never understood the appeal of staying at home and watching TV all day, or staying inside to stare at a computer. The next year, the pandemic hit, and since my parents were at risk of COVID, I was chained to a sedentary lifestyle I abhorred. I couldn’t go outside to walk with nature. The Internet was the only way to communicate with outside life, and I was strictly not allowed to play video games—an activity they correlated with laziness. Talking with friends and watching them play games was worse than watching paint dry. One day, I stumbled upon a Roblox Studio tutorial with my brother, and then it hit me that instead of playing games, I could try making them instead. From “Crockpot Overlords”, a player versus player obstacle course, to “Survive the Nose!”, a horror game that involves a walking nose and unassuming civilians, my pent-up energy was released. There was always one more feature I could add. There was always one more bug to fix. I spent several hours on Roblox Studio after doing my classwork, until I could finally update the game and surprise my friends. Every update was like a step to creating a painting; even if the painting was done, there was always one more stroke that could make it better. Through the laughter and the unyielding desire to create something great, I realized that I liked making things on computers too, and with the rigidity of online school, building games filled my empty canvas. My new interest in programming inspired me to take computer science classes during high school. I worked on an app called Freebie, which helped connect donors of free items to people in need. I won the Congressional App Challenge in my local district and had the opportunity to visit my representative in Washington, DC. The wonderful people of District TX-06 allowed me and my teachers to get a view of Capitol Hill, and as I watched above from the Cannon Building directly across the street, I couldn’t help but think about how far I had come. Engineering was just entertainment to me throughout my childhood, but as an incoming first-generation college student, I may now have the ability to make real change within my community.