Eight-year-old me quickly ran off the bus. My hands were full of corrected tests, marked up in red. I looked in our driveway. My mom’s car was not there, so I worked as quickly as possible to bury the failed tests in our backyard. Formations of dirt that resembled freckles trailed my arms. I was planting a time capsule, except I did not want this time capsule to ever be found. "What are you doing?" My mom, red in the face with steam coming out of her ears, stood with her hands on her hips like a kettle ready to blow. At the time, I remember feeling ignorant during her lecture because my mom had dropped out of high school and my dad had not gone to college. Despite the hazy nature of her lecture, I was able to retain that education enables you to earn money using your head rather than your hands and body. However, education did not seem valued in the family, as they had established a family restaurant, which I considered successful. I never truly understood how much education mattered until I went away to college. At Duke, all my peers’ backgrounds mostly came from educated families. Their parents went to Ivy League schools and they had PhDs. They also had family vacations, beach houses, parents who worked the usual 9–5, and skills that were fostered at a young age, such as being fluent in another language, or musical talent. But, I had 11–10 pm shifts in our restaurant that included doing math homework in a red booth, answering the telephone to take orders, and I was fluent in operating the air fryers. When we were busy, I went home with a sore body, realizing that my parents had sacrificed their bodies for my opportunities. Their sacrifices only earned them a fraction of what the parents of my peers earned. Education lifts families out of poverty. My parents did not have the financial means for them to continue their education. They had no guidance, and my grandfather died young, leaving my father to care for and help my grandmother provide for two boys. My mother’s parents were never home as they traveled for work to provide for their four children. My parents sacrificed everything to come to the United States so that the next generation could have the opportunity for higher education. Because of education, I am a generation behind my peers, but my children will get family vacations, beach houses, parents who work 9-5, and additional skills. Because of education, my parent’s sacrifices will not be a waste. Because of education, I will retire my parents. Education empowers generations and is the beacon of our credentials to society.

Turning seventeen, with seven stomachs around a table, with Olive Garden’s breadsticks: “10.” The flu shot debilitated me, leaving mounds of homework piled up on my desk: “2.” Did not sleep for three nights to finish reading the Harry Potter series: “9.” What started as an exercise in mindfulness in English class, became a way of life for me. Snippets of my daily life started coming together as my “Happiness Memoir,” and each snippet was assigned a “Happy” number from 1-10. This numerical cataloguing of memories allows for deep reflection, realization, and goal setting. A “9” scribbled on September 30, 2018. I was dripping with sweat, selling hot dogs and burgers in the Fall Festival to help fund bingo nights for a nursing home. A couple of months later on March 23, 2019, I was responsible for a five-year-old boy for Kindergarten Registration:“8.” He told me, “I want to be the president,” with fearlessness and during pizza, his smile shining with grease and a devious sparkle in his eyes reminded me that big dreams are mobilizers of human spirit. My Happiness Memoir doesn’t only mirror my emotions and thoughts, it is an indication of self-satisfaction I get from gifting happiness to others. Whenever my “Happy” numbers are low, I visit the animal shelter. All the dogs in their kennels would wag their tails, body shivering from excitement, and Cindy, a pitbull had barbed wire fencing on top of hers to prevent her from jumping out. She had the label “pitbull” that garnered everybody’s distrust and bias. Like Cindy, my label “Asian American” set me standing 100m before the starting line, and I had to double my attempts to obtain a place equivalent to a mediocre white classmate. A year ago, I was sitting in the small kennel with lightheadedness, accelerated heart rate, and nausea. As I extended my clammy hand, Cindy backed further against the wall, snarling. The 42”x28” constricted my throat like a boa taking my confidence, and each unacceptance from her left me feeling useless and distraught: “0.” After several days of sitting with her, my tear ducts a dam ready to burst, she slowly approached and sat beside me. Cindy, my support system, has taught me patience and trust. Placing top of my class, leading events for Make-A-Wish, helping Cindy, and being enrolled in Advanced Placement courses has honed my compassion and confidence: “10.” A memoir can be a hall of fame, but it can be a list of faults, pressures, and grueling difficulties. The experiences in my Happiness Memoir and the numbers charted do not define who I am, but rather it is a cosine chart filled with peaks and valleys throughout my life. At times, my valleys will be numbered “0,” but I also know that by owning outcomes and helping to empower myself and others, there will always be ample peaks measuring “10.”

My family are dreamers. Except they didn’t dream big enough. The problem is they only dreamed of what they deemed achievable, and the American Dream is making your most impossible desired illusions reality. They were realists. For example, my brother told my parents that he wanted to play in the NBA. It wasn’t that they didn’t support him. They allowed him to play basketball every day. His legs numb, he often forgot the responsibilities of owning a family restaurant. But, they also told him the average height in the NBA is 6’6” and my brother was 5’8.” I told my brother, “Your dreams and goals are YOUR dreams and YOUR goals, but make sure you have a backup plan if your mind changes along the way.” Minds change as time changes. The American Dream is not wealth and luxury. The American Dream is the prospect of achieving the best version of yourself. Being raised in the U.S changed my perspective, a perspective that differs from the native minds of my parents, who believed the only way to be successful in this country is by becoming a lawyer or doctor. Neither of which interested me. I know that if I choose the career I like and am passionate about, I will be successful and satisfied with my life. So, I like numbers. Algebra was my enemy because I didn’t like it when the letters mixed with the numbers. My favorite is the odd numbers. There’s a sense of divinity with odd numbers. A number left out being independent and self-reliant than the paired up ones. Society says words have meaning but I was never good with my words. For numbers, it can communicate a whole idea without saying much. Such as, the unlimited number of pi that is rumored to have the solution to cancer hidden within. Another is the date of an anniversary showcasing years spent together with bittersweet memories. So many dates to represent significant points in one's life. The date of the 23rd was my first flight. I was five when I went on my first plane. Kicking my feet back and forth on the plane, I watched bits of food fly from my uncle’s mouth as he chattered about the opportunities. My grandma was sitting next to me, alone and silent with a ghost smile and dissociating eyes. Back in China, my aunts and uncles had whispered about the freedom from government control and egged on this perfect illusion of owning several properties, being allowed to have more than one child, and the limitless possibilities. They rumored about the lavish life but mostly about the green. The famous one-dollar bill is worth seven yuan. One would have to work seven times as hard to make it equal to the white man’s dollar, which is considered nothing compared to Benjamin Franklin. I had lost my grandfather to the American dream. My father always said he died in a car crash in Mexico. He told me, “ When you get the chance, go look for pappy’s ashes in Mexico.” Until I was older, I didn’t understand why my grandfather was in Mexico. Now, I find myself imagining every detail of that story. I think how Yeye must have felt. What he must have seen. I was so close to America. At that moment, I was crammed in the back of the trunk with my brothers. No luggage, no belongings, yet the yearning and hopefulness gave us strength. Surrounded by sweat dripping and the musty air, I was nonvertical as the truck knocked into another bump. I am on the edge. My brother had our arms looped tightly together to prevent me from falling off. Down below is fifteen feet from the pavement. The yellow lines blurred together, reminding me of the color of my skin that differs from the majority. Putting the worry to the back of my head, I raise my head and see the colored lights waving and welcoming us to the land of the free and home of the brave. But in the distance, colored lights were flashing at us. Red and blue. “Ai ai ni kan! ( hey look),” my brother whispered- shouted. After much arguing, the sirens grew deafening; there were two options: getting caught and spending life in a Mexican jail or taking the risk of trying to escape. Long black hair with concerning almond eyes and the sound of my two son’s giggling voice chose the latter. Pain ricocheted through my body. My body will never be vertical as one leg lines up with the dash and the other is horizontal to one. I try to straighten my legs and my hand leaves a dripping red trail. Breathe in. One yellow dash. Breathe out. Two yellow dashes. Breathe in. Three yellow dashes. Too limp to even scream, I hear a horn blaring and high beams lights coming towards me taking my sight with it. The last I heard was the fading sobs from my brothers. My father passed that obstacle with the help of his uncles. He made it in with citizenship. He traveled the grassy plains of Oklahoma, stopped multiple times in the apple city, and finally settled down in the Quaker state. He opened a little restaurant with light pink walls, red booths, and white tiles. But he is not happy. The American Dream should embody empowerment and happiness, not the riches and the materialistic world that it was. During the great migrations, immigrants were willing to take the risks. They had nothing to lose. We are too occupied to dream. I am not occupied and I am not hopeless. Like Gatsby in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic American novel, I “believe in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us.” The American dream. My grandfather did not achieve it. My parents did not achieve it. I will.