Four 
years 
ago, 
I 
had 

assumed that my parents were 
complete animal enthusiasts. 
They 
came 
home 
every 

night after long shifts at our 
restaurant seemingly eager 
to turn on Animal Planet. My 
mom would call me over to 
watch, giggling at the frenzied 
yet astute organization of 
meerkat 
manors. 
My 
dad 

would gawk at the ferocious 
pace 
of 
lionesses 
chasing 

zebras across the Serengeti. 
At garage sales, he could 
never resist bringing home a 
stack of National Geographic 
magazines. 
We’ve 
housed 

nearly every animal allowed as 
a pet by the state of Michigan.

I was obviously wrong.
It’s clear today that they 

could 
not 
care 
less. 
My 

parents cheer enthusiastically 
at “Sing! China” and other 
knock-off music competitions. 
The browsing history of our 
home computer is filled with 
2000s-esque online tabloids 
divulging the latest Asian 
celebrity 
scandal. 
Their 

smartphones constantly blow 
up with WeChat pings from 
their friends across the world. 
There are no more Discovery 
Channel specials documenting 
the 
inscrutable 
beauty 
of 

wild dolphins; instead, now 
my parents only discover the 
“unbelievable” talent of the 
Dolphin Princess. They spend 
hours glued to a screen, eyes 
welling up when prompted and 
laughing exactly as scripted. 
It’s the mindless media every 
baby boomer life coach warns 
against. But this was exactly 
what I wanted.

There’s 
a 
charming 

simplicity and boredom to life 
in the American Midwest. It’s 
the birthplace of the five-day 
work week, the 9 to 5 shift 
and church on Sunday. My 
parents, however, were never 
part of this simple life. They 
arrived by boat, uneducated, 
unskilled and unable to speak 
a lick of English. They opened 
a small takeout restaurant 
in western Michigan, where 
they worked endless hours 
to support our family in the 
New World. Our restaurant is 
among the oldest in the city; 
my grandma’s garden in the 
front earned it a mention in 
the Muskegon Chronicle. My 
parents’ unmistakable effort 
and spirit of entrepreneurship 
fits neatly into the myth of the 
American Dream. It’s exactly 
the 
false 
consciousness 

surrounding upward mobility 
— their success obscures how 
so many others are failed by 
the invisible hand, how we 
lived anxiously without health 
insurance, how we became 
too 
accustomed 
to 
armed 

robberies.

I could count the number 

of Chinese families I know 
living back home with one 
hand. Though it’s a cliché in 
the coming-of-age stories of 
other Asian/Pacific Islander 
American kids from small-

town America, I wrestled 
with the sense of “otherness” 
and assimilation. But it was 
during my senior year of 
high school when I began to 
think, what about my parents? 
While I could easily Facetime 
people on the other side of the 
planet, they were still buying 
international calling cards to 
reconnect for mere minutes 
with their friends back home. 
In 2013, my parents had never 
logged onto a computer; they 
had never sent a text message 
over the phone. To be frank, 
they 
were 
ignorant, 
but 

perhaps not in bliss. Were they 
bored? Were they lonely these 
last 20-or-so years? Maybe my 
dad kept replaying the same 
CDs because he had no idea 
where to find new Chinese 
music. Maybe they spent so 
much time watching wildlife 
because 
those 
programs 

didn’t 
require 
English 

comprehension.

After lobbying my parents 

for 
months, 
they 
finally 

bought a computer. I sought 
their digital enlightenment. 
They could chat instantly 
with their friends across the 
world. With Google Maps, 
they could retrace their old 
neighborhoods back in China. 
Though they were comfortable 
with the fact that my brother 
and I had been surfing the 
internet for years, they were 
ferociously 
resistant 
to 

idea that they do the same. 
“We’re too old for this!” 
they’d complain — an excuse 
too common in immigrant 
households.

From the mundane like 

translating 
during 
grocery 

trips to the complex like 
explaining tax forms, there 
are 
numerous 
moments 

where 
immigrant 
children 

become the parents. It was 
humiliating for my parents to 
have established a thriving 
business, only to struggle to 
use a keyboard. I’d sit with 
them for hours at a time, 
guiding their mouse across 
the 
browser. 
Sometimes 

when they got it (the red “x” 
means exit), I’d see a childlike 
sense 
of 
accomplishment 

spread across their faces. But, 

inevitably, we’d get frustrated. 
We’d argue. They’d call me a 
“Si zi.” I’d tell them “I can’t 
do this anymore!” We’d storm 
off, only later to return — no 
apologies — and simply try 
again.

Soon, they became semi-

proficient. They could turn 
the computer on and off 
and learned to open Google 
Chrome. It was good enough. 
Understanding 
how 
to 

browse the internet was their 
watershed 
moment. 
And 

before I left for Ann Arbor, 
they 
wanted 
smartphones 

with WeChat and Weibo, a 
way to stream Chinese cable, 
and instructions on how to 
download music. I have a 
disdain for mass media, but 
when my mother received 
her first WeChat voicemails 
from childhood friends who 
asked, “Yan Li! What took 
you so long???” and I saw 
the excitement and joy that 
raced through her existence, 
I decided I’ll always put aside 
my thoughts for them.

One day, my mom caught me 

off guard while I was home for 
Fall Break. She had prepared 
a simple, nostalgic lunch for 
my return: steamed rice with 
Lachang. As she watched me 
eat, she remarked, “They gave 
our restaurant four out of five 
stars.” The reviews. Who told 
her? For every one bad review, 
there are 20 other to drown 
them out, but everyone, my 
parents included, wants to 
hear criticism. I was annoyed 
and surprised that she had 
discovered the online reviews 
of our restaurant on her own. 
Perhaps her friend Rose from 
Milwaukee told her about 
it. We chatted about how 
our competitors were only 
three stars and how some 
restaurants didn’t even show 
up. She was surprised that 
people even liked the food in 
the first place and then joked 
about how funny life was 
where two Chinese “peasants” 
could become successful in 
America. Playing into her 
humble boast, I pretended to 
be delightfully shocked.

“Hunter, can you translate 

the reviews for me?”

Thank 
God 
I 
never 

taught 
her 
how 
to 
use 

Google Translate. If you’ve 
interpreted languages before, 
you know the three most 
important things are syntax, 
meaning and context. But it 
only matters if you’re trying to 
be truthful.

I, like other children of 

immigrants, chose to lie to my 
parents.

The language barrier that 

had been the root of so much 
childhood 
self-hatred 
and 

embarrassment became my 
saving grace. I never thought 
that teaching my parents to 
use a computer could ever 
backfire. Right now, my mom 
doesn’t know how to translate 
and read the reviews, but 
eventually she will. She’ll get 
better on the computer. She’ll 
discover that she doesn’t need 
me. And she’ll read them.

My parents didn’t come 

here to run a Michelin-starred 
restaurant; they came here to 
give their children a better 
chance at life. Leaving their 
dreams behind, they provided 
me the ultimate opportunity 
to pursue mine: a life free 
from poverty and oppression. 
I can never fully describe 
the sacrifices they made, the 
barriers they overcame. Even 
if hot vegetable oil burns and 
blisters my arms — just like 
my father’s — from stir-frying 
“cheap” takeout food for self-
proclaimed Chinese culinary 
experts, my life is still better 
than it would have been.

Instead of a conspiracy of 

ripping off customers with 
“garbage food,” maybe we 
don’t 
accept 
credit 
cards 

because 
my 
parents 
don’t 

know how to use them. Maybe 
the girl who “is a complete 
moron” struggles on the phone 
because we didn’t have money 
for English lessons. Maybe it 
“is not Chinese at all” because 
actual Chinese people don’t 
eat General Tso’s Chicken 
as their plat principal with a 
fortune cookie as dessert.

Maybe 
the 
reason 
why 

our white rice is “excellent” 
isn’t because we followed the 
directions on some bag. It’s 
because my parents learned to 

cook it perfectly when it was 
the only thing their families 
could afford. That every last 
morsel mattered back then. 
That even when you burned 
it, you scraped the charred 
bottom crust and ate it to ease 
the pain of hunger. That before 
my dad was even a teenager — 
his house stripped bare by the 
government, his parents sent 
to labor camps, his older sisters 
deported for “reeducation,” 
his family blacklisted by the 
community and the survival of 
two siblings left in his hands 
alone — he would wait outside 
homes in the middle of the 
night to wait his turn to dig 
through their trash and find 
smashed remnants of soured, 
rotten white rice, bring it 
home to soak it in water so 
that the ants would float up 
top to be poured away, and 
fed to his younger brother and 
sister so they wouldn’t starve. 
He’d eagerly eat what was left 
of the rancid slurry.

How can a single comment 

so effectively, so easily erase 
the histories of my family? In 
this digital age, anonymity 
begets such cold cruelty. And 
in truth, I can’t bring myself to 
blame them. It’d be unrealistic 
to demand that customers 
censor their thoughts — they 
have the right to express a 
bad experience. Honestly, the 
comments people leave for 
our restaurant are hilariously 
creative. 
Nevertheless, 
as 

the restaurant owners’ son, I 
can’t help but overreact at the 
ignorance and insensitivity of 
these comments. I can’t help 
but be defensive.

They probably wrote those 

reviews in less than two 
minutes, mindlessly thumbing 
characters, 
uncaring 
about 

who the audience was and 
what the impact would be. 
Four out of five stars doesn’t 
just represent the success of 
our restaurant; it’s validation 
of my parents’ lives — their 
journey, their challenge, their 
success.

I know I shouldn’t be worked 

up. I know these comments 
mean nothing. I know my 
mom is a lion, strongest among 
beasts and turns away from 

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Thursday, October 26, 2017 — 3A

“The white rice was excellent. Followed the 
directions on the bag perfectly. Way to go.” Dear
Black
Girl

HUNTER ZHAO

MiC Contributor

Black girl,

I like your hair,

The way it defies gravity

And holds its shape,

The way it curls

Once water hits,

Forehead to nape.

Black girl,

Can’ t you see?

You can do anything

To your hair.

Wear it up or down,

No one should really care. 

Wear it with a relaxer

Or wear it with curls.

Look in the mirror

And watch how it swirls.

Add color in it

Or keep it deep brown,

But whatever you do,

Wear your own crown.

Black girl,

I like your hair.

Black girl,

Life is a dare.

TANISHA SHELTON

who has this position

no one. Even if I translated them 
faithfully, she’d probably be fine; but 
I have a brutal sense of protection 
towards my family. I would never 
let anything, not even the minutiae 
of online restaurant reviews, come 
close or even attempt to chip away at 
their accomplishments.

I will never.
“Mom, they love the food. They 

said everything was affordable and 
delicious.”

Her ears perk up. She sets her 

eyes on me, her subtle smile clear. 
She’s proud — a pride distinct from 
reading any kind of review. She’s 
proud to have kept her end of the 
immigrant bargain and prouder that 
I’m about to keep mine. Come April, 
I will no longer be a first-generation 
college student; I’ll be an alum. 
After my graduation, our restaurant 
will finally close its doors having 
achieved its purpose.

I wish I didn’t have to lie, but then 

again, I am her stubborn and selfish 
American son. No more translations 
of reviews. “There’s no need,” I 
constantly assure her. “Nothing has 
changed.” Because of course, our 
white rice will always be excellent.

PHOTOS COURTESY OF HUNTER ZHAO

