Category Archives: Immigration Experience

Chinese Americans of Historical Significance

May is Asian American, Native Hawaiian, Pacific Islander Month.

The first Asians documented in the Americas arrived in 1587, when Filipinos landed in California. In 1788, the first Native Hawaiian arrived on the continental United States, in Oregon. And, in 1900, Hawaii was annexed by the U.S. The Chinese, Japanese, Hawaiians, Indians, Koreans and other Asians have migrated to the United States over the last few centuries. Wikipedia has a great article on the history of Asians and Hawaiians that you may like to read. To observe the AAPIH Month, we are pleased to share a few writings by Fanny Wong of New York, focusing on some important Chinese personalities that have made significant contributions to our nation’s history. A few of these are:

Hong Yen Chang: The First Chinese Lawyer in the U.S.

Born To Be A Chef: Eileen Yin-Fei Lo

Polly Bemis: A Pioneer Chinese Woman in the Northwest

Hazel Lee, Chinese American Fighter Plane Pilot

King of the Soup Dumplings: Yang Bing-Yi

United States v. Wong Kim Ark

Discrimination Against Asians in the United States

Ten Times Better: George Lee, Ballet Dancer

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American Author, New York.

Young George Lee stood by himself, leaning against the fence in the playground. Other children ignored him in recess, just as they did in the classroom. He looked thoroughly Chinese, but they knew he had a Polish mother. Still, George was a happy child.

His father, Alexander, a circus acrobat, taught his young son how to do a headstand. Father and son were so proud when he finally nailed it. His mother, Stanislawa, a former ballerina, was George’s first ballet teacher. She insisted that George learn every pose, exercise and combination correctly. Not just correctly, but beautifully. George loved the lessons. He loved to dance. That’s why he was a happy child in spite of not having friends.

In 1941, when Japan occupied Hong Kong, where George was born and lived with his family, they fled to Shanghai. There he took dance lessons from Russian teachers. Dancing made him forget for a little while that his father had gone to western part of China to find work. At the age of 7, George was performing polkas and Russian dances in nightclubs to help support the family.

George was heart-broken when his father died in a traffic accident on his way back to Shanghai. Fearing the Communist takeover of Shanghai, mother and son evacuated to the Philippines and spent two years in a hot and humid refugee camp. His mother had to find a way to get out of there. She was able to contact a friend, who sponsored their immigration to the United States.

This friend not only changed their lives by being a sponsor, but he also set George on a path to a career in dance. He introduced him to the School of American Ballet, the prestigious ballet school in New York City. He received a full-scholarship, and in an advance dance class where all the students were White. Knowing how fortunate he was, he was never late for class and wished the classes lasted longer.

Balanchine, the principal and choreographer of the school, asked George what he could do. George did impressive splits, double turns and multiple turns. His dancing was masculine, graceful and joyful! Balanchine was impressed and gave him a role of “Tea” in the 1954 production of The Nutcracker. He was the first Asian dancer in the New York City Ballet. His costume—the Fu Manchu moutache, the queue and rice paddy, did not bother him. “Dancing is dancing,” he said.

But his dancing was being noticed. A New York Times critic observed, “George jumps wonderfully and exhibits some wonderful extensions in the Chinese dance.”

He was not asked to join NY City Ballet. At 5’ and 5”, he was told he was too short. He could do nothing about his height. However, his dancing caught the attention of Gene Kelly, a renowned dancer in film musicals. He cast George in the original production of “Flower Drum Song.” He did 600 performances, many in various cities. He was doing what he loved, and he was using ballet techniques in the Broadway shows.

Touring was tiring and the work was sporadic. There was too much traveling involved, and he had to stay in inexpensive hotels. As much as he loved to dance, he decided to learn a new trade. While performing in Las Vegas, Nevada in his mid-forties, he learned to be a casino dealer. He worked as a blackjack dealer for 40 years in different casinos after he retired from dance performances.

As the first Asian dancer at New York City Ballet, he led the way for the next generation of Asian ballet dancers who are becoming increasingly prominent in major dance companies. New York City Ballet features Chun Wai Chan (Chinese) and Mira Nadon (Indian and American) among others.

When they were moving to the U.S., his mother had told him that he must always remember that he would be seen as a Chinese person in White America, and so he’d better be ten times better. George never forgot that; he always tried to be his best both in school and in his work. He died at the age of 90 on April 20, 2025.

By Fanny Wong, Asian American author, New York. Her work has been featured numerous times in Skipping Stones over the years.

Fou Tsong: A Renowned Chinese Pianist

“I’m always a beginner, I’m always learning.”

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American Author, New York.

Fou Tsong, the renowned pianist, was born in 1934 in China. He was well-known for his sensitive interpretation of the compositions of Chopin, Debussy, Schubert and Mozart. Still, Chopin’s music was closest to his heart.

At the age of 21, he was awarded the third place prize at the 1955 International Chopin Piano Competition held in Warsaw, Poland. He also won a special prize for his performance of a Chopin’s Mazurka.

How did a shy, quiet young man from China reach such heights?

Fou Tsong’s father, Fou Lei, used to tell him, “First, you must be a person, and then a musician, and then a pianist.”

Fou Lei was an intellectual who translated the complete works of the French author Balzac into Chinese. His strong and heartfelt opinions shaped his son. He provided the water, soil and nutrients for his son’s growth, down to the correct elbow positions at the edge of the dinner table. He thought that people, like trees, without good cultivation, could not thrive.

Fou Tsong, under his father’s supervision, was educated in the classical Chinese traditions and grew up under Chinese and Western cultural influences. His household was full of art and music with a large collection of records.

His father noted his son’s love of piano and music, and him bought a piano. Fou Tsong began his music lessons at the age of 7. He later recalled, “When I was young, I enjoyed playing the piano so much I felt I was in paradise. A gift from heaven.”

Among his earliest teachers was Mario Paci, founder of the Shanghai Symphony Orchestra. After Paci’s death in 1947, Tsong studied mainly on his own.

In 1952, Tsong performed Beethovan’s Emperor Concerto with the Shanghai Philharmonic to great acclaim. The Chinese government was so proud that he had reached such prominence that it sent him at age 19, to international competitions in Bucharest, and then to Warsaw.

At the Conservatory, his teachers praised that his playing was like a flowing stream, like a river. While he was studying in Warsaw on a scholarship preparing for the 1955 competition, Communists took over the government of China. This political change brought danger, turmoil and suffering to the nation. Fou Tsong was called back to China. He was instructed to writing a self-criticism and witnessed his father being branded as anti-Communism. He returned to Poland and graduated from the Warsaw Conservatory in December 1958. After what he had seen in China, he made a decision to defect—seeking a political asylum in London, England on Christmas Eve, in 1958. His career soared from his London base.

Fou Lei’s trouble increased with his son’s defection. The Red Guards from the Shanghai Conservatory hounded him. The Red Guards were primarily high school and college students mobilized by Chairman Mao Zedong to enforce his vision of Communist society. They targeted and harassed perceived intellectuals of traditional influence and bourgeois elements. Both his parents, under great duress from the Red Guard, committed suicide. His father was 58, mother 53. His heart broke when he learned of their deaths two months later.

In 1981, a volume of the letters from his father over the years was published. It was full of advice, encouragement and stern paternal love. The book “Fou Lei’s Family Letters,” collected by Fou Tsong’s brother, Fou Min, became a best seller in China.

* * *

A Few Quotes from Fou Lei’s Letters:

• 1954, evening of 18th and 19th of January.

“If one cannot see the larger picture, one is in the danger of thinking the sky is no bigger than it appears to be seen from the bottom of the well.”

• 1955, 26th of January.

“Dear Son, Had we ourselves been in the hall where you played, we would have been unable to control ourselves. Happy at the honor you’re bringing to our country. And happier you are giving joy to so many others through your music.”

* * *

Only a few of Fou Tsong’s letters to his father survived, likely because many were destroyed by the Chinese government.

In his later years, Fou Tsong played the piano for hours every day, even as his fingers grew frail. Whenever he was criticized for defecting and of being a traitor to his country, he would say, “It’s not that I was longing for the West. I was choosing freedom. There was no other choice.”

Fou Tsong died in London of Covid-19 in 2020 at the age of 86. He left us these words, “I’m always a beginner, I’m always learning.”

He is remembered for his sensitive ear for color and the elusive gift of melody. His music swirled, twisted and soared on wings of sound.

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York. Ms. Wong is a frequent contributor to Skipping Stones Magazine. Please also read Hong Yen Chang: The First Chinese Lawyer in the U.S. that Fanny wrote recently by clicking on the title.

Poems in Support of our Somali / Somali-American Community

Poems in Support of Our Somali / Somali-American Community

As many of you likely know, the largest Somali/Somali-American community in the U.S. is in the St. Paul/Minneapolis area. The good people of Minnesota are doing what they can to support the Somali/Somali-American community there.

Our subscriber and contributor, Merna H. from Washington state writes:
“…The least I can do is honor the amazing Somali poets whom I’ve had the privilege of working with over many years. I’m sending these weekly poems in awe of their poetic depth and wisdom. I join you in full support of our local and national Somali/Somali American communities and all immigrants and refugees experiencing the harms imposed on them by the current administration.

“Thank you so much for taking your time to read and savor these amazing poems and to share them with your friends and family, if you so choose.”

We’re publishing these weekly poems in solidarity with every single Somali and Somali-American living in the U.S. Please come and revisit this post anytime to re-read these poems written by these Somali high school students.
For more information on the new Word Travels Project, “Uplifting Voices,” email: <wordtravels2025@gmail.com>
In peace, poems, and prayers for doing everything we can to keep our communities and our country safe and welcoming for all, and with warm New Year Greetings to all,

* * *

1. The young Somali woman, a former student, who wrote this poem fully believed she would thrive in America and fulfill her dream of attending Law School. We need her and countless other young refugees, immigrants and asylum seekers who are beautifully and brilliantly prepared to contribute to creating a more just and humane United States.
As S. says in her poem, “May we hold each other’s hands and live in peace.”

I AM

by S., from Somalia, former High School Student.

I am a girl
who wears every color
of Hijab–pink, black, maroon,
whose eyes are dark,
whose skin is the color of almonds.

I am a hardworking person,
I am a proud Muslim,
I am from Somalia,
I am full Somali,
I am someone who cares about your pain,
emotion and culture.

I am a person who wishes
to graduate from university,
to study law and become a lawyer.
I am a hopeful person,
I am a person who wants to have a successful life,
I am a person who tries everything that’s new to me,
I am a person who talks about great decisions.
I am person who believes in herself,
I am a person who thinks that the people of this earth
should hold each other’s hands to live in peace,
and they should care about their Mother Earth.

* * *

2. A Story, Somalia

Written by Y., from Somalia, former high school student

My old home has the scent of good birth,
boiled green beans, deep cornel oil,
and hand me down poetry.
Its brick, bright white-washed walls are widowed
from their first paint,
the walls uneven, cracking from gun shots and rocks.
The thin roof tops always hummed songs of promise,
the wind locked into a demonic rhythm with the leaves,
the trees with the wind hugging them,
loving them with a torturous love.

The round cemented pots
kept the raindrops cool,
spattering the foreheads of neighbors and dwellers softly.
Loud children playing football, with sand under their socks,
we had what we had and it wasn’t a lot,
but no one knew they were poor,
we were all innocent of greed’s hunger
to judge, to oppress, to take.
Then Death came, multiplying like even numbers,
splitting family members in seconds.
The death of my brother remains
as the separation between my father and me.

Writing became the father I never had.  Growing up, war was a playground  and my friends and I played in it,  never did we learn to ride bicycles  or play with dolls.  War was our playground.
Somalia used to combust with life
like a long hibernating volcano,
farmers, fishermen, even fighters had a place
in our productivity.
The beautiful coast line,
the elastic shore, the glorious mosques,
I yearn for the warm scent of the Somalian rain.
Growing up, I feared the sea and closed doors,
because whenever I dived into the pool of risk-taking
it always seemed like I drowned.
Drowning in a sea with no open door,
no escape, was my fear.

How I miss the magical night of Somalia, the sky
collapsing willingly over its inhabitants,
the burning sun of June, the guarding moon,
the long naps at noon,
the freedom poets, the rampant wisdom,
the magnetic tongue,
those were joyous days.
Now, people rise to look for change,
like a new moon’s birth.

The art of storytelling is the world
I wish for,
I would wander off to it,
until my story of Somalia is told.

* * *

3. Somalia, an Ocean

Written by S., from Somalia, former high school student

Somalia is an ocean
undisturbed it is beautiful,
clear, blue, peaceful,
disturbed and disrupted,
it is dark, bloody, dangerous.

The ocean is calling us
the tides are bringing peace
but we can’t hear
because of the war
we changed the water into blood
and the beautiful waves that have always been there
have gone to jail for a long time now.

The ocean is crying
because we let her down
we smashed her to the ground
and denied her any chance for peace
as if we don’t need the ocean,
but we long for her,
to see the reflection of our beauty in her.

Somalia, it is time to open our eyes
and see how the ocean looks today
Somalia, it is time to free the ocean
it is time for the ocean to rise
like the flag that stands for peace.

Let the ocean tides bring us peace
Somalia, it is time to welcome
the ocean and open our hearts.
Let us come together
be undisturbed in peace,
let us come together,
and let the water be clear once more,
and we shall not let our blood touch the water again.

4. Odkac

By H., High School student from Somalia. She takes us into her love for her mother’s Somali kitchen and writes of sharing stories and food across generations.

I remember the smells and sounds
coming from my mother’s kitchen,
the food my mother prepared
Sambusa, chicken biryani, and odkac.

I eat and remember my mom
sharing family stories
as she mixed flour with salt
and beef steak with xawaash and cardamom powder,
she spoke of what my grandparents went through
and how hard it was to live
without food and shelter,
losing families, relatives,
in front of their own eyes.
As she sliced tomatoes, chopped onions,
cut carrots, and minced garlic
her eyes welled up from
memory and onion,
and she recalled
how war was in front of them.

Cooking brings out
the stories we need
to learn from
as if mixing spice
with stories
folds together our
life and emotions,
and sharing food together
helps us to share life together.

My mother’s kitchen is a safe space
to talk about war and death,
to talk about the meaning of sacrifice
and not giving up
over a full plate of odkac.

5. Nature Poem

By M., High School Student from Somalia. M’s short poem addresses the predicament of our times, speaking truth with few words and deep insight.

Nature, I can hear your tears calling and yelling
in the middle of the night, calling for help,
but they cannot hear you,
their minds focus on taking over
countries and planning wars.
They cut your trees with no hesitation,
they no longer know the meaning
of beauty.

Hong Yen Chang

Hong Yen Chang: The First Chinese Lawyer in the U.S.

By Fanny Wong, New York

In 1872, thirteen-year-old Hong Yen Chang was sad and excited when he boarded a ship on a twenty-five days journey to the United States. Born in either 1859 or 1860, he had seldom left his village in Heungshan in South China.

He was an exceptional student and was chosen to be one of the first of 30 boys to study in the United States. The plan of the Chinese government was to educate 120 young Chinese boys, all expenses paid, to acquire technical knowledge from the West. They were known as the Chinese Educational Mission students.

When Hong Yen Chang arrived in bustling San Francisco, he marveled at the six-storied buildings. Heat came out of radiators in the hotel that was not made of mud with paper windows. Water came out of the faucet. Riding the elevator up and down was fun.

Yen Chang noted that the men in San Francisco wore tight pants and form-fitting jackets. He wore maroon robes with blue silk coats and round, small hats. His footwear was a plain padded slipper, whereas the western footwear was laced shoes.

He and the other boys were amazed at the hundreds of people in and out of the San Francisco train depot. They called the trains “fire-cars.” They would eventually ride a train from Sacramento, California, all the way across America, to New England.

The Chinese Education Mission found foster families for the boys, and made arrangements with schools. The curiosity of the town citizens was not always comfortable for Yen Cheng. At first, he laughed it off, but then he was chased by American kids/youth. And the ogling by adults made him conscious of his queue.

The Mission moved to Hartford, Connecticut, where the Chinese had a supportive community. Foster families made great efforts in teaching the youngsters language and customs. The Mission allowed the boys to wear Western clothes, and to tuck their queues beneath their jackets. (During the Qing Dynasty from 1644 to 1911, by decree Chinese men grew their hair long and braided it into a queue.) In their new outfits, the boys looked less like foreigners.

Yen Chang picked up English at a fast pace. He soon learned that speed, strength and dexterity were desirable in America, whereas these qualities were deemed inappropriate for scholars in China.

Exercise, and a rich diet of protein and carbohydrates did wonders for the boys’ health. (In China, most of them ate mainly rice, with an occasional piece of chicken, if they were lucky). Soon, they were strong enough to play team sports with American youth. They had uniforms and tucked their queues underneath their caps when they played baseball. They took to football as well.

Studying hard was the boys’ primary duty. Yen Chang, like the others, ranked at the top of his classes. Although he was encouraged to fit in, the Mission was against Americanization of the boys. He was required to study Chinese for at least an hour each day. Every three months, the boys spent two weeks at the Mission’s headquarters to receive instruction in their native language and literature.

The boys adjusted socially as well. They attended dances and receptions and were sought out by girls to be their dancing partner. But they were constantly reminded they were to be standard bearers of a new China. Their purpose in life was to bring technical skills to their country.

Meanwhile, there was concern in the Chinese Royal Court that these boys were susceptible to foreign influences, and were immersed in the Western culture. So the mission was closed even when there were over 60 Chinese students still enrolled at Yale, M.I.T, Columbia, Harvard and other technical schools. Of these, only two received their degrees before the Mission was recalled. The others were just beginning their technical training.

In August 1881, Yen Chang was among the first group of 22 boys to leave Hartford. A train took them to San Francisco, and he boarded a ship back to China. He was now 22 years old, and he was determined that he’d return to America as soon as possible to resume his studies.

Upon his return to China, after a brief reunion with his mother, the government enrolled him in the naval school in Tientsin. He was not happy with the monotony of the school. He was used to Western training and attitude and he found the old style of the officers stifling. He obtained a release and was free to plan his future.

His brother was a merchant in Honolulu, Hawaii. With his small savings and the help of friends, he departed from the port city of Shanghai for Hawaii in 1882. There, he worked in a law office for a year. But his ambition was to become better educated in law.

In 1883, he managed to enroll at the Columbia Law School and received a law degree three years later at the age of 27. A newspaper reported that his “abilities in legal investigation” were among the finest in his class. By then had cut off his queue, having decided that he’d not be going back to China.

The 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act dashed his ambition and hope of being admitted to the New York Bar along with his classmates. Citizenship was required, and he was not a citizen. So, in 1887, he reapplied to the bar after a New York judge issued him a naturalization certificate that granted him citizenship. He became the only Chinese lawyer in the United States.

Still, he faced more barriers when he applied for admission to the bar in California. He presented his New York law license along with his certificate of naturalization to the California State Bar. But it rejected his application based on the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act, a law passed by Congress that prohibited the naturalization of Chinese persons. The California Constitutional Convention in 1879, in the midst of anti-Chinese sentiment, had further restricted the rights of Chinese residents.

Chang Hon Yen. Photo by unknown. Ah Tye Family Website, Retrieved on 2012-02-21, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org

With diligence and persistence, Yen Chang decided against appealing the decision and went on to become an advisor at the Chinese Consulate in San Francisco and later became a banker. He married Charlotte Ah Tye in 1897.

He eventually served as the Chinese consul in Vancouver and first secretary at the Chinese Delegation in Washington. His last position, before his death from a heart attack in 1926, was the director of Chinese naval students in Berkeley, California.

The denial of admission to Yen Chang remained as a published opinion of the California Supreme Court. But notable changes have been made since then. In 1972, it held that exclusion of non-citizens violated the equal protection clauses of the state and federal constitutions. In 1973, the U.S. Supreme Court followed suit.

In 2015, the California Supreme Court, posthumously and unanimously, granted Yen Chang as an attorney and counselor at law in all courts in the state of California. It also acknowledged that the discriminatory exclusion Yen Chang suffered was wrongful.

When Yen Chang left China at age thirteen, he could not have foreseen that he’d become a pioneer for a more inclusive legal profession in the United States.

Author’s Note:
I learned about the boys who went to Yale from the book, “My Life in China and America” by Yung Wing, one of the Yale boys. Further research found the book, “Bury My Bones in America” by Lani Ah Tye Parkas. I read an excerpt about Yen Chang and saw the historical photos of his. I have always been fascinated by faces and I found his face as a young and middle-aged man impressive. A calm face exuding intelligence and competence. I would like to know him as a friend.

Art by Makayla Liu, age 12, Vancouver, Canada. She adds: “I’ve loved drawing since I was a child, and in the future I hope to work in a field related to drawing or character design.”

A New Chapter of My Life

By Angela Xue, age 10, Florida.

Another box. Then another. My black hair, usually silky, was sticky with sweat as I packed up all of my earthly belongings.

“Ming, get ready.” Under my mom’s authoritative voice, a note of trepidation quivered. “We’re about to go to the airport.”

“Ok, fine,” I replied, as reluctantly as I could.

I had lived in the buzzing streets of Shanghai for my whole life. I haven’t taken one step out of the comfort of my country. Now, all the sudden, my parents had decided to move to America, where my dad could find a better job. I’d have to leave all my friends, teachers, and even my tennis coach, who taught me how to swing a racquet before I could write my name. So, as you can see, I absolutely do not want to move to America. But, according to my parents, “Ni zhang da yao sheng huo hao, shiao shi hou yao mian dui tong ku.” That basically translates to, “If you want to live a good life when you are older, then you have to suffer when you are young.” They also said something vague about staying true to yourself and your dreams even when moving to another country—which I never really understood. My dream had always just been to enjoy my life in China.

“Are you ready?” my mom called.

“Yes, just one more thing to pack,” I replied, my heart racing like an F1 driver. I carefully placed my last precious item, a picture of my family and me, into the final box.

Then, I hurried down the stairs. With a heavy heart and dragging feet, I slowly made my way to the door. I tried to savor that short amount of time, but just knew it was going to make me more devastated. I briskly walked into a bluish, gray car with shiny windows. The driver was my Dad’s best friend, Uncle Tong. Yet another friend we would lose when we move to America. The car was about to burst with our luggage—we all held our breath to see if everything would fit until the trunk finally slammed shut over the last suitcase. The driver began to turn the key to start the car and stop my heart, my breath, and everything about my life for all twelve years of it so far. I took one long, regretful look at our apartment as we began to drive away, the engine humming, into my new life.

It’s not an exaggeration when I say the airport was extremely packed when we got there—it buzzed with more people than even the densest street of the crowded city I was born in. The hustle and bustle made me feel like part of a huge ant colony. Just as we made it through the final security checkpoint, an announcer called through the speakers: “Passengers of Flight 224, we will start boarding the plane soon for Miami, Florida.”

After endless hours of being trapped in the sweaty plastic chair along with all the other airplane passengers, finally, that same voice jerked me to attention from the stupor I’d fallen into. “Attention all passengers, please gather your belongings, we are approaching our destination.” We were here, in the dreadful place I had only imagined months before.

I peered out the window. America sure looked less crowded than home, but it was nothing like my home halfway across the globe. People started to file themselves out of the plane, and we followed. When we got to the airport terminal, my dad decided we would sit down and eat lunch. I expected soup dumplings, noodles or roast duck, but instead there were hamburgers and french fries. When I tried the bun, my taste buds were left disappointed by the lack of flavor. As I bit into an over-salted fry, this time, I also bit back tears.

A week later…

My stomach wasn’t just doing cartwheels now: it was double backflips, and handstands. I walked into the front doors of my new school. Everything seemed foreign. The school was a big cement building with newly polished windows, unlike the tinted windows in my old school. Kids turned around to look at me. They started magnetizing into groups and whispering. Suddenly, I was in the middle of the hallway while clusters of other kids gathered on the sides. I caught some people saying, “Who is she?” and, “ Is she a new kid?” I blushed. Then, a strange noise rang out and everybody started walking to different rooms.

Nervously, I cast around for someone to ask. I spotted another kid, who had almond-colored hair and blue eyes, similarly to many of my classmates. What she didn’t seem to have, and which set her apart, was friends. My throat dry, I whispered, “Why’s everybody leaving?”

The girl looked over at me. “They are going to their classes.”

What did that mean? I gave her an inquisitive look. She somehow understood that I was not American and I didn’t speak much English. Then, she all of a sudden said hi in Chinese.

“Ni hao ma?” She could speak Chinese?

At my astounded expression, she added, “Wozai xue Zhongwen.” I am learning Chinese.

I don’t know what triggered me to do this, but I started a full-blown conversation filled with laughs and smiles. We smiled at each other and went to our rooms. There! I had found my first friend. Already! Maybe this wasn’t that bad after all.

The rest of the day flew by. Amelia talked and laughed with me and we had a lot of fun. As we walked home together, I felt a warm feeling spread over me. This was the beginning of a new adventure.

By Angela Xue, age 10, Florida. She writes, “Both of my parents are from China and so are my grandparents. I was born in the US. I regularly visit China to see my grandparents every year. I am fascinated by the cultural difference between the two countries. I imagine instead of being born here in the US, if I were born in China, how my life would be different. I sometimes dream about this. In school, I visualize and put myself in the shoes of students who came from China. Their life and perspective must be very different from mine. This multiple culture comparison fascinates me and drives me to write this story about Ming.”

Where is Home to You

Where is Home to You?

My piece explores my evolving understanding of the concept of “home.” What began as confusion during a second-grade writing assignment has turned into a meaningful journey of self-reflection. Through literature, dance, and lived experiences across multiple cultures and countries, I’ve come to understand home not as a location, but as an internal sanctuary—something rooted in peace, expression, and emotional connection. I was inspired to share this story because I believe many young people around the world also struggle with this complex question.

—Leah Hyolim Lee, age 14, New York.

The question, “Where is home to you?” is a deceptively simple yet profoundly
complex inquiry. Every individual has a unique interpretation of the question. For some, it may evoke a geographic answer, rooted in soil, and for others, it is a neutral blend of cultural heritage and personal experience. For many years, it remained an elusive enigma, a landscape shrouded in both familiarity and fog. At times, I found myself blaming my diversity and uniqueness for my confusion.

In the second grade, we were required to write an essay, and the prospect of my first major writing assignment filled me with curiosity and joy. My eyes were laser focused on the green basket, which contained a mix of cards. Each of them read a different prompt, and that promise of individuality planted a seed of anticipation and interest in all of us. I daydreamed about the type of subject I would be given. I lost myself in reverie, imagining every scenario possible that I could think of: all of which I knew fully what the answer would be. Would it be a fantastical prompt that required me to use my imagination, or a historical viewpoint that I needed to assert my opinions on?

My trance was broken when my teacher’s voice cut through my thoughts like a razor. With each step towards the teacher’s table, an unmistakable sense of nervousness rose within me, an almost tangible tension that coiled around my chest. When I finally read what was written, it put me in a place of unexpected confusion. What had once seemed so simple now felt like a labyrinth, where I was trapped in the maze lost in disorientation.

It read, “Where is home to you?” in bold unforgiving letters, and I found myself frowning as my footsteps grew shorter with a loss of hope. Thoughts buzzed around in my head like a swarm of restless bees, each one darting from idea to idea, stinging my mind with urgency.

The sharp chime of the bell sliced through the quiet like a sudden gust of wind. As I
looked down, eraser marks and salty tears took the place of words that I prayed were there.

From then on, I subscribed to the conventional image that a “home” was synonymous with a tangible, physical space. I chose to take the easy way out, as I fantasized about a beautiful house, where the rhythm of belonging hummed softly to comfort me. However, each time my family moved countries, my picture-perfect image became increasingly fractured, like a mosaic of pieces that never quite held together. I wondered if my odd life was not deserving of something like a home.

I was met many times with silent criticism from others when I tried to answer the
question, “Where are you from?” Random words spilled out of my mouth, as if they too, were uncertain of their purpose and destination. I felt the unspoken implication that my origins, divided and shifting, were less valued than those steeped in singularity.

The more I bloomed into a more mature individual, I came to realize that I should not have pushed myself into the shadows as I lived in confusion of who I really am. This new perspective was the start of my own journey to sanctuary.

I began to fall in love with the world of literature, where I found a peculiar sense of home in the novels that I read and in the movies that I watched. I embarked on adventures with Huck and Jim and went on a frivolous journey with Chris, Gordie, Vern, and Teddy. The ink and paper seemed to embrace me with the warmth of familiarity that became a refuge where the chaos of the world fell away. The characters’ struggles, triumphs, and moments of reflection mirrored my own, creating an unspoken bond. A thread of shared experiences wove us together into the fabric of human existence.

Through this discovery, I often found myself perplexed. How could a mere assemblage of paper and ink evoke the sense of belonging that I had longed for? How could a world, spun from the loom of imagination, offer such a welcoming hand? It forced myself to confront my sustained belief that a home was a structurally defined place.

A home, as I experienced, can also take the form of an art style. I found shelter in a studio, with its polished floors and mirrored walls, which became a sacred ground. It was not the studio itself that gave me a sense of home, it was how it housed a place where I could express myself in ways that I had never before, where I was both the performer and audience. Through ballet, I learned an entirely new language that spoke to me in a way words never did.

The rhythm of my breaths and the breaths of others synchronized into one. It was a silent but meaningful indication that the mere art form of ballet had brought me both a place for sanctuary and fictive kinship.

The Oxford Dictionary defines a home as “a place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household,” which is a seemingly straightforward and static notion. Yet, I find myself at odds with this definition, as it enforces the idea that a home is a fixed place, an address, and a place in which an individual is anchored for a lifetime. Even as I challenge the dictionary’s definition, there are moments when I long for the permanence that it reflects and when I yearn for the comfort of knowing exactly where I belong. My own internal diversity has led me to this hard fought journey, where I am able to confront my own definition of where I belong. My belief continues to evolve, but for now, I live by my own definition that a home is not measured by the land beneath my feet, but by the peace within my heart.

By Leah Hyolim Lee, age 14, New York.

Who I/Am

By Philip Shin, age 16, California.

(A poem expressing the duality of author’s heritage with authentic questions and observations.)

parts of a whole
parts with a hole
i am: of two places, of two minds, of two halves
of land and sea, of peninsula and coastline, of damp and dry, of lush greenery, trees stretching from moist soil, spindly limbs beckoning endless sky with verdant leafy hands

of bilingual pop, side dishes galore, vibrant colors and squishable characters with rosy cartoon cheeks, harmonic beauty of nature and man, of R. of Korea, and
of cold gray steel, cracked asphalt, emblazoned skyscrapers towering, challenging the heavens
of year-round sunshine, greasy hamburgers, of beaches and business,
of So and Cal

two puzzle pieces, together forever, one tarnished, decaying, colors fading, cobwebs staining, fabric fraying

is abstract art just as pretty, captivating, whole if half the canvas is burnt away?

i step onto the shores of my homeland and think to myself, i should recognize the corner stores, the animated billboards, the raindrops cascading down, the rhythmic syllables that dance smooth waltzes about my ears, my mother tongue of biology, not adoption

i recognize not; i recognize naught

i return to foreign lands, to scorched earth, to the misty supermarkets, the earthquake-proof apartments, the sunlight beaming down, the rapid syllables interspersed with boisterous laughter and fiery expletives
my mother tongue of adoption, not biology

and i think to myself, this is my homeland, but it is not my homeland, but it is my homeland

i have:
a tongue of one world, with sparse buds of another a culture of one world, with oft-forgotten elements of another

i am:
incomplete, part of a whole, part of a red, white, blue whole
part of a red, white, blue, black whole, half faded, melted, evaporated, into sands of time

who am i?

who i am.

By Philip Shin, age 16, Korean American, California. They write: “I have loved writing for my entire life. I write for fun, but also to better understand myself and my place in this vibrant, diverse, and multicultural world… I was spurred to write this poem after a trip to Korea.”

Why I Hate Writing Essays

By Neel Archis-Manish, age 17, Michigan.

It’s the fault of a rigid and purely grade-based public education system. I’m talking about why in today’s world, writings in schools have become a series of boring, formulative, information-stacked essays instead of genuine pieces of creations. I’m not blaming the public school teachers who simply mean well and are horribly underpaid. No, I blame historical education practices.

As a fourth year high school student in the US, I have written many essays in my ELA classes that respond to a specific prompt, include quoted sources, and require annotations on the side. All this basic system does is it makes me hate writing. I hate to say it, but it’s true.

I used to LOVE writing. I wrote poetry (it wasn’t great) and short stories (it was a laughing matter) and started writing my biography several times (I swear I’m going to get past Chapter 1 some day). But no matter how bad it all was, at least writing it didn’t kill my soul a little bit every time.

Language is a powerful tool that can be used to build empires and destroy them. Words are mightier than the sword not because nobody uses swords anymore, but because humans have the right to use words freely. High schoolers are so worried about their Grammarly scores and the 11:59 PM deadline that they often forget the importance of being present as a writer in their writings.

Quoted sources from all across the internet are great, and so are annotations. But neither helps an individual grow as an individual writer. The ‘classics’ we read in our English classes today weren’t classified as classics because they contained a well-researched bibliography, they were titled ‘classics’ because they were written from the deepest emotions from a true heart.

Formality kills humanity. Sure, you could decide to put on a fancy shirt and a suit and a tie and act like a functioning human being to charm yourself into some high-paying corporate job that covers dental insurance, but then what’s the difference between you and a slightly good-looking robot? Feelings are what humans have been doing best since the dawn of time. Let’s not forget our origins.

Love, respect, kindness, greed, envy, jealousy, selfishness, selflessness, humility, humanity, power, hunger, disgust, fear, sadness, anxiety, awkwardness, joy, pride, shame, disappointment, calmness, rage, confusions, desire, and so many more HUMAN emotions and feelings the world possesses. Why are adults teaching kids to bury all of them deep inside and instead turn to writing informative 2000-word essays about a global issue that then students pretend to care about for the sake of getting an A on a summative assessment?

I used to spend hours and hours reading books of mystery, fantasy, and historical fiction. I loved the feeling of being lost in a world where the real words ceased to exist. I loved the feeling of having to imagine, to create, and to be surprised. I used to come up with my own characters when reading stories about people. I used to make up landscapes and roam across Rome and Romania. I don’t do that anymore.

Writing based on information as opposed to human nature has killed the excited kid inside of me that once upon a time lived happily ever after. I’ve stopped reading books for fun. I’ve stopped being excited to enter a library and find a good book and open it in the middle and smell the smell of the fresh paper. I’ve stopped scribbling terrible poetry and weird short stories and unfinished memoirs on scraps of paper.

I once wanted to be one of those writers who wrote the first line of the first chapter of their first hit book on a napkin in a small bistro in a corner of a small town. I don’t want to do that anymore. Now, I just want to turn in my essay before 11:59 PM on the day of the submission deadline.

—Neel Archis-Manish, age 17, Michigan. He adds:

I was raised in Pune, Maharashtra, India in a house with two decent parents (they’re great!), a sister whom I hate passionately (it’s just a sibling relationship: I would give her my kidney, but not my phone charger), and a loving grandmother who’s cooking is, in one word, divine.

Growing up, I went to a Marathi-Medium school and learned Marathi (my mother tongue), Hindi, and English. When I was 15, my dad was fortunate to get an inter-company transfer. So in the midst of the Covid-19 Pandemic, our family relocated to Michigan in the United States of America.

I am currently enrolled at a good public school where I am able to make my Indian ancestors happy by performing well in academics, all while doing what I now love most: theatre. I am now the President of our school’s Drama Club. I participate (act, student direct, and head publicity and programs) in three productions each year, write and perform for our social justice theatre troupe, and have won numerous awards by doing forensics (competitive public speaking). Life is good.

I LOVE comedy. I have watched and re-watched and re-re-watched a ton of comedy sitcoms and TV shows. If you’re looking for someone to understand and laugh with you on niche Saturday Night Live references, I am your guy. Laughter is simply the best medicine, even when you’re not ill.

Currently, I’m looking at colleges and thinking about what I want to do. I’m at a point where ‘what do you want to be when you grow up’ is a legitimate question and not what an adult uses as an ice-breaker when talking to a child. Anyway, I’m fairly certain that I want to become a Secondary English Educator. Which led me to look into writing and publishing opportunities.

Save Them Bears

By Ya-Ting Yu, Taiwan

Black Bear recently moved north for climate change research. During the festive season, Black Bear’s colleague, Polar Bear, invited him to her family dinner. “No Bear should be alone on Christmas Eve,” she said when she heard the un-partnered Black Bear planned to hibernate in his cave. With no excuse to say no, Black Bear obliged.

That evening, Black Bear arrived at Polar Bear’s home with a basket of cloudberries in his paws. He’d agonized over the gift, unsure what to bring. Though he’d seen Polar Bear’s lunch boxes: ringed seals, whale carcasses, geese eggs, he still preferred chestnuts and persimmons. Honey and beetle larvae were rare treats he savoured after long hours of foraging through data at the lab, but to be inclusive, a value Polar Bear emphasized, he chose cloudberries, safe for vegans, vegetarians, and the nut-allergic.

Polar Bear’s family welcomed Black Bear warmly, hugging, kissing and thanking him profusely for the cloudberries. Flustered by the sudden physical contact, Black Bear forced a courteous smile and awkwardly patted Polar Bear’s Mom’s back, relieved when she finally let go of his paw. It was his first time receiving kisses from complete strangers. Where he came from, in the East, Bears rarely even shook paws, sniffing was usually as close as they got.

But their habitat differences didn’t stop there. For an occasion like Christmas Eve, Polar Bear’s family usually indulged in seal and whale fat. Vegetation was more for decoration, except for the hippie Cousin who’d recently turned vegan to combat the melting ice.

Before dinner, the family gathered in prayer positions, bowing their fluffy heads to say grace. Black Bear, unfamiliar with their faith, looked from left to right at the table and hurried to mimic their gestures.

“Amen,” Black Bear echoed, a pace too slow.

“Do Bears in your forest also celebrate Christmas?” Polar Bear’s Mom asked.

Black Bear scratched his ear. “I guess so? But it’s more of a time when Bears hunt for deals—shopping sprees, fancy meals. We don’t get the day off, you see. Lunar New Year, now that’s a feast worth hibernating in Taiwan.”

“Oh, are you from Taiwan?” Polar Bear’s Aunt leaned closer, her snout twitching. “My son volunteered to build homes for the poor children in rural parts of your forest. Right, Cubby? He, sorry—they have an igloo architectural license.”

Mortified, Polar Bear injected, “Auntie, Cousin went to Thailand, not Taiwan.” Her fur bristled as she glanced at Black Bear.

“That’s cool,” Black Bear said. “But igloos? My Sun Bear friend told me they melt once the volunteers take off. At the end, it seems easier for them to sleep in trees.”

“In trees!” Polar Bear’s Aunt gasped. “Son, you must go back and build them un-meltable igloos next time. The poor cubs. Just imagine—they don’t even have blackout curtains!” She sighed sympathetically and turned to Black Bear. “Do you have blackout curtains in Taiwan? Don’t tell me you also sleep in trees.”

“Oh no,“ Black Bear said with an uneasy laugh. ”Mostly caves or tree cavities. The only time I climb trees is when I’m hungry—for honey and bee larvae. Have you tried them?”

“Bee larvae? That sounds disgusting,” Polar Bear’s Cousin said, wrinkling their nose, unfazed by Polar Bear’s death glare across the table. “Thailand fed us Pad Thai and Green Curry every day.”

“Son,” Polar Bear’s Uncle rumbled as he lumbered over with a platter of barbecued seal fat. “Don’t you know Formosan Black Bears are battling Giant Pandas to protect their territory? What propaganda are you watching all day on TikTok? Read the news.”

Polar Bear’s Aunt sniffled. “I heard about that conflict. Is that why you left, Black Bear? It must be so dangerous back home. Don’t worry. Stay here in the Arctic as long as you want. We’ll sponsor you.”

No longer able to tolerate her extended family’s political incorrectness, Polar Bear tried to stir the conversation. “So, Black Bear, how’s your research? Any insights to share?”

“Yes, actually,” Black Bear said. “Before coming here, I thought Taiwan did a terrible job on climate change initiatives. Sure, we mostly rely on fossil fuels, but imagine squeezing Australia’s population into an area the size of Switzerland. Add typhoons and earthquakes to the mix. Our islands need to generate energy for millions and the semiconductor industry, which, by the way,” he added, fixing his gaze on Polar Bear’s Cousin, “powers your AI, EVs, solar panels, and wind turbines. Charity case, eh?”

A beat of silence followed as Polar Bear’s family exchanged looks. The Cousin shifted in their seat, ears flattening. Minutes passed. Polar Bear cleared her throat.

“Did you know Taiwan is smaller than many of our icebergs?” she asked, her voice tentative, like a kind schoolteacher. “Every Bear does what they can with what they have. And really, isn’t that what this is about? Climate change affects us all—even those big-headed humans. Here we are, just bears trying to adapt.”

She surveyed her family, looking each in the eye, and finally at Black Bear. “And if Black Bear can adapt to seal fat and bear kisses, maybe we can try a little harder too.”

For the first time that evening, Black Bear felt the tension in his shoulders ease, melting faster than glaciers. Maybe he didn’t fully belong in the Arctic yet, but any bear could find a caring companion who understood, even in this icy corner of the world. He leaned in to sniff the barbecue seal fat and said, “Hold up. Let me get my soy sauce.”

Story and illustration by Ya-Ting Yu is a Taiwanese writer based in Taipei, with roots stretching to Toronto and Edinburgh. Writing in English as her second language, she weaves themes of identity and belonging, drawing on her background in counseling and psychology to tell the stories of East Asian expatriates and international students.

Save Them Bears was inspired by my own experience as a Taiwanese expat, navigating the nuances of cultural assimilation and identity. I hope to highlight how cultural misunderstandings can be wrapped in well-meaning gestures. By anthropomorphizing the characters, I aim to create a story that is somewhat ‘trigger-free’ yet thought-provoking.

Memories of Dumplings

By Julia Qi, educator, Nevada.

I remember a time when steaming dishes of dumplings were laid out before me on the dining table. I was five years old, and a bowl of Chinese vinegar with two drops of sesame oil sat under my nose, eagerly awaiting the three hot dumplings that my grandma would soon drop in.

She’d always break the dumplings in half for me so my little fingers could navigate my chopsticks, and that day, I was the pride and joy of my family for devouring a total of nine dumplings.

That was the last time I remembered looking at a plate of dumplings without fear—at least until recently.

Somewhere along the way, food transformed into something I avoided. Any plate became a conversion of fat-protein-carbs in my eyes. The rich fat on decadent, red-braised pork belly remained untouched on my plate, and even my mom’s delicious stir-fried dishes were secretly rinsed off in the sink before I’d attempt to pick away at them. Passing by bakeries consumed me with conflict for the rest of the day because they looked so, so delicious. I wanted a taste so bad, but no, I couldn’t.

What my family saw as a “glow-up” before college was, in reality, my refusal to cook with salt or oil. I limited myself to raw foods for weeks and pretended I had simply outgrown my love for my childhood favorite foods. Steering clear of soup dumplings, BBQ skewers, and hearty pots of Chinese stew, I opted instead for bland salads and spinach smoothies.

The restriction ate away at me as I started college. I refused to eat before drinking water to “avoid” the calories. Despite the arrays of dishes in the dining halls, I spent 90% of my time at the salad bar, and the rest of the time lurking in the dessert section mustering the occasional courage to nibble a cookie. The additional walking in New York City resulted in me rapidly losing weight my first semester, which, as I anticipated, was celebrated not only by my peers, but also by my family.

My mother’s beauty was hard to miss. She’s a slender petite woman with voluminous curly hair, big bright eyes, and her classy fashion choices were always a topic of envy. She taught me the meaning of strength, independence, and courage as I saw her create the life she wanted for us in America. When she bought her first house in 2019 after 13 years of moving here, those walls represented something only immigrant parents can really understand. Her words were, “I just wanted to give you a home.” What she meant was, this is something that is finally ours. In a place where we had to start over, we had something that finally belonged to us.

My mom imparted many invaluable lessons growing up, but our culture also taught us that a woman’s beauty is paramount. Despite her exhaustion our first few years in the states from working consecutive night shifts and still managing to get up in time to wake me, cook breakfast, and take me to school, my mom maintained her elegant appearance. She always reminded me that as immigrants, we must pay extra attention to how we looked; we shouldn’t give anyone a reason to look down at us. My naturally tan complexion contradicted the porcelain-white Chinese beauty standard, and the fixation on my appearance naturally grew towards my weight as I got older. While genetically slender, my mom and her three sisters dreadfully feared weight gain. As I rounded out my teenage years, comments about my weight, what I was eating, and what I was wearing gradually took up a dangerous amount of space in my head.

Eating disorders are addictions. You’re stuck in a cycle, and even though you know it’s bad for you, you don’t know how to stop. Years of restriction led to an overwhelming preoccupation with food, which manifested in binging, then overcompensating by purging. The painful details of my four-year struggle with bulimia are oddly blurry, numbed by a filter of shame as I walked around hiding this part of me that I despised but couldn’t let go.

In a culture where famine was still a childhood memory for many, food was not meant to be wasted. Food was nourishment, and the idea of intentionally restricting or purging would have been absurd to those like my grandparents who grew up in the countryside and never had enough to eat for their four little girls. Northeastern Chinese stews were hearty, crafted to keep hunger at bay. Buns and baos were designed to fill you up for hours. My actions were completely at odds with what I was taught, which is likely why I wouldn’t touch my favorite foods for years, at least without bringing it back up.

This past March, I visited my family in China for the first time in six years. There was a stillness unlike earlier springs. The winter chill overstayed its welcome, seemingly in response to my grandpa’s passing just a few weeks prior.

My grandpa always requested peanuts with his dumplings, sometimes a Tsingtao beer, if my grandma allowed it. He liked sauerkraut or chive filling, since meat was hard on his dentures, which made clicking sounds when he chewed. This time around, we bought giant sauerkraut dumplings from the morning market made of purple forbidden rice. My grandma still broke them in half for me, except only one giant dumpling could fit in my bowl. This time, I couldn’t eat nine, but I ate until I was full, and over the memories of my grandpa’s clicking and the warmth of my belly filling up, I found solace.

—Julia Qi, received her undergraduate degree a few years ago, Nevada.

Born To Be A Chef: Eileen Yin-Fei Lo

The Woman Who Taught America How to Cook Real Chinese Food

By Fanny Wong, author, New York.

Standing on the kitchen stool, Yin-Fei could barely see the wok on the stove. Who would expect a five-year-old to cook with a wok and a spatula?

It was Ah Po, Yin-Fei’s grandmother!

“Just the right age to learn cooking,” Ah Po said. “And never have a short temper or use bad words when you are in the kitchen.” She then pointed to a paper image of Jo Kwan, the Kitchen God, and added, “You want Jo Kwan to think well of this family.”

Baba, Yin-Fei’s father, instructed her, “Eat first with your eyes, then with your mind, then with your nose, and finally, with your mouth.”

Luk Gu Jeh, her aunt, was another teacher of hers. “With patience and practice, you can create something that brings happiness and miles of satisfaction,” she told her.

With a family like hers, Yin-Fei was born to be a chef.

Yin-Fei’s skills grew with Ah Po’s instructions.

“Chop the choy sum properly.”

“Stir the fish mixture in one direction to make it stick together.”

“Pour the hot peanut oil and soy sauce on the steamed fish.”

For Yin-Fei, the learning was easy, but finding the joy in cooking was hard.

Too much time cutting and dicing.

Too much time waiting for the oil to be hot enough to stir-fry.

Too much time waiting for the meat to be tender in the braising pot.

But then Ah Po’s birthday changed everything for her.

Yin-Fei was to contribute one dish for Ah Po’s birthday. She picked the White Cut Chicken recipe because in her Chinese culture, a chicken was always cooked for special occasions.

Yin-Fei placed the whole chicken breast side up in seasoned boiling water and covered the pot. When the water returned to a boil, she lowered the heat to simmer, turned the chicken and let it simmer again. She had to time the cooking just right, and allow the chicken to rest in the pot to finish the cooking. Otherwise, the chicken would be overcooked or undercooked.

Yin-Fei lifted the chicken from the pot. She prepared a dipping sauce of soy sauce and ginger. It looked perfect, but did it taste perfect?

Yin-Fei watched Luk Gu Jeh cut the chicken into bite-sized pieces with a cleaver. Ah Po, surrounded by her family at the table full of many delicious dishes, chose to eat the chicken first. She took a bite, closed her eyes, and chewed it slowly.

Yin-Fei held her breath and waited for Ah Po to finish swallowing.

“Hm….” Ah Po opened her eyes that crinkled with a wide smile and commented, “That was the best chicken I ever had.”

Everyone at the table loved the chicken! Not a single piece was left over! An eleven-year-old girl had made her loved ones happy with her cooking skills! From that moment on, making delicious dishes was her gift to others in the family, a way of showing her love and respect.

Now, she was eager to learn more from Ah Po. She learned that what people ate had to be balanced within their bodies.

Foods such as fish and most vegetables brought them coolness.

Foods such as most meats and some fruits brought their bodies heat.

The combination of these two types of food brought balance and good health to the body.

Yin-Fei learned to cook balanced meals for good taste and good health.

But life was not balanced in their village of Sun Tak. To escape the repressive government in China, 12-year-old Yin-Fei fled with her family to Hong Kong. There, she continued to improve her cooking skills by learning from her aunt. She also learned English in night school and picked an English name for herself—Eileen.

When she was 21, she met an American journalist named Fred Ferretti, and they fell in love and soon married. They moved to New York City. And that was when Yin-Fei’s life took another turn!

Her new in-laws brought her to a Chinese restaurant.

“What is this? This omelet is like an overdone pancake covered with a brown sauce,” she remarked.

“This is egg foo yung, our favorite Chinese dish,” her in-laws said.

From that moment, Yin-Fei had a mission! She wanted to teach Americans how to make good-tasting, authentic Chinese food.

First, she gave her friends Chinese cooking lessons at her home.

“You must write a book!” her friends said.

And she did. Eleven books in all! Each book taught readers how to cook traditional Chinese food at home.

She also taught at cooking schools and appeared in cooking demonstrations on television.

And when a renowned chef invited Yin-Fei to create a dim sum menu for his restaurant and teach his cooks, that’s exactly what she did. She took charge of his cooks!

“No, no, no, do it this way, let me show you.”

If she felt a Chinese restaurant was not up to her standards, she was not shy to say to the chef, “Make it this way, don’t Americanize your food!”

Yin-Fei had found a new passion. She wanted to teach others about how to make good Chinese food.

“Always learn, learn, learn, and never take a short-cut in cooking,” Eileen Yin-Fei Lo told her students. “The food you cook shows your love and respect.”

Yin-Fei became a great chef and a teacher who taught Americans how to cook authentic Chinese food. Born and raised near Canton, the capital of Guandong Province, Cantonese cooking was her specialty.

She taught at The New School in New York City and beyond—from Singapore to Helsinki. Cooking shows on television invited her to demonstrate how to make authentic dishes. She won two International Association of Culinary Professional Awards. Many Chinese food writers that came after her still think of her as the foremost Chinese expert chef.

Yin-Fei passed away at age 85 in 2022, leaving a delectable and mouth-watering legacy.

By Fanny Wong, Asian American author, New York. Fanny has written often on multicultural interest topics and been published in Skipping Stones frequently.