Sweet and Sour Pork
by Francis Sterling
March - August, 1981
It was 2 o’clock in the morning. The phone rang. I heard my parents’ frantic voice on the other end of the line: Are you okay? Are you okay? They hadn’t heard from me since I landed in the US seven weeks ago. They went to a government-owned phone company in China to place the call to make sure that I was still alive. They waited for three hours for their turn and had no idea the call woke me up in the wee hours. “Oh, I am fine. I like San Francisco. It is a very cold and windy city.” I wanted to tell them I was eating well, not starving to death, but couldn’t explain in words the jarring experience of tasting my first American sandwich. The cold bread, the overpowering cheese, and the raw lettuce blended to the most unappetizing alien flavor and texture. I gritted my teeth and choked down a sandwich at lunch on most days. Only at dinners when I held a warm bowl of fragrant rice and cooked vegetables, a heartwarming sense from another world returned to comfort me. I uttered “I eat sandwiches for lunch and Chinese meals at night. No worries, I will be okay,” and swallowed the rest of my thoughts. The cost for the call was 15 CNY per minute, with a 3-minute minimal charge, amounting to about a month’s worth of my mom’s salary. Okay, I would write back regularly, I said on the phone.
I arrived in San Francisco in March 1981. Some fortuitous life events gave me an opportunity to stay with SeiYi (Auntie 4 四姨) for a while. SeiYi’s husband had just recently returned to Taiwan with their 1-year old daughter, Winnie. As a minimum wage worker at Wells Fargo Bank, SeiYi had very little money to go around, making hiring a babysitter a big financial stretch. The plan was for Winnie to be cared for by her paternal grandma in Taiwan, allowing SeiYi to focus on her full-time job in the US. Lucky me, now I got to room with SeiYi. Her studio apartment was located at 555 Taylor Street, about 400 sq ft and equipped with a tiny bathroom, a closet, a queen-size bed, a small desk, and a two-person dining table next to the kitchenette. Small and unassuming, the studio was more than a shelter with a roof and a house with food on the table, it anchored me with stability and comfort when I was most uncertain about how my life was going to unfold. And it was the birthplace of my American Dream.
I arrived as a foreign student, holding a visa that required me to be a full-time student at the school that issued me the I-20 certificate. The school was Berkeley Adult School. Class would begin in five months on September 1, with tuition of $620 a semester. I brought with me my family’s entire life savings of 4000+ HKD, equivalent to about $700, which would cover the first semester. So the most desperate issue for me was to find a way to earn money to pay for subsequent semesters. (A minor inconvenience: foreign students were/are not permitted to work. One would face deportation if caught engaging in unauthorized employment: a serious violation. That’s another story for another day.)
Every day, I looked for jobs in the classified section of the paper. Unable to comprehend much in English, I opened the newspaper on one hand and a dictionary on the other, indiscriminately dialing every possible opportunity while looking up words in a job description. Speak English? Not really. Experienced? Not really. Live-in to help elderly? Sure but … able to drive? Not really. Two hours of babysitting in San Jose? Sure … but the commute took four hours? Each click of phone buttons echoed my prayers; each dialogue held a mix of anticipation and apprehension; all the crossed-out inquiries inked with an indelible mark of disappointment.
The studio was in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the city, where Union Square glittered with high-end stores, Chinatown hummed with tourists, and Market street thrummed with the heartbeat of the city. I walked the city’s arteries every day and moved through the maze with both eagerness and trepidation. “Are you hiring? Can I try?” I paused at each of the elusive “Help Wanted” signs and mustered the courage to ask at the slightest sight of a hiring possibility. Convenient stores, tourist shops, restaurants, grocery markets … I asked them all. Like the neatly arranged KitKats in Walgreens, the tempting DanTa (egg tarts 蛋挞) in the Chinese bakeries, and the quirky trinkets in the tourist shops, the allure of the American Dream teased and tantalized; it was so near yet so far. One by one they bore witness to my pursuits and rejections. The clock ticked on, from the misty March to the windy April to the hopeful blooms of May, the world was moving on but I was stuck.
One day, my uncle suggested I talk to a distant cousin Pei who owned Art’s Design Carpets 雅仕地毯, a carpet store on Grant Avenue in Chinatown. I walked into the carpet store the next day, introduced myself, and asked if he could use me as a floor associate. Pei agreed to let me try for the day. He asked that I stand in front of the store and capture pedestrians’ attention by waving the carpet samples. I did exactly that. I took some floor samples and began calling out loudly “Carpet on sale. Come in and take a look.” Hoarse and raw, I honestly thought I shouted as loud as I could. But my trembling voice was swallowed by the sounds of the streets and my sales pitch completely dissipated into the background noise. I felt rather feeble being thrust into an uncomfortable sales position, fumbling with the English language and carpeting lingo. Passersby ignored my pleas, and I felt like a failure with their dismissive glances. My self-assurance diminished with every dreadful minute that passed. Doubts and hesitations seeped in like the city fog, obscuring the tiny bit of confidence I once had. After a couple of hours, Pei told me I wasn’t right for the job. My earnest efforts proved inadequate despite his generous invitation for me to try. I felt smothered by the failure. My head hung low.
I wrote to my parents, attempting to update them about my recent experiences in the US: I met cousin Pei and worked in his shop today; there were many fancy stores in the US; I loved butter on white toast; we had hot water all day long; I got a nice red winter coat for $3 in a Goodwill store; Americans seemed nice as they said “Hi” to everyone they met on the street. What I put down on paper was like what we chatted about in that long-distance phone call - brief, direct, and uncomplicated. But all that richness of my new life was hidden in the undertones and the pregnant pauses. I had a thousand things to say but most were lost in translation. The excitement, curiosity, and possibility intertwined with uncertainty, anxiety, and desperation. What I had lived and felt were ineffable, buried in the in-between spaces of oceans, languages, cultures, and experiences.
I didn’t have fancy vocabulary to frame any of these experiences. There was no hero’s journey to construct, no positive self-talk about turning adversity into opportunity, and no awareness of neuroplasticity to cultivate a growth mindset. When you felt like you were stuck at the bottom of a barrel, the path forward was singular and the motion was straightforward: put one foot in front of the other, repeat and keep repeating until you emerge from the darkness of the barrel. I didn’t need a roadmap yet I must keep moving. The mere act of “doing” was essential and sufficient to get through whatever the day was going to bring. Though it seemed like stagnation, something was pulling me along, actually three things: my aspiration to thrive in this new country, my belief in its possibility, and my personal agency to make it happen. With purpose, faith, and action as the compass, hope guided me through the labyrinthine city streets, even as the twists and turns offered a glimpse of possibility but often led to deadends and discouragement.
Another calendar month page was turned and now it was June. Cousin Pei introduced one of his friends, Ming, to me. Ming was in need of help in his restaurant as his wife was near delivery. After the introductory call, Ming offered me a job: $2 an hour and 8 hours a day. (The minimum wage was $3.35.) The news left me beyond ecstatic. I quickly calculated: two months of work would cover a semester’s tuition, and I would have money left if I worked the entire three summer months!
The restaurant, Ming’s China Station, was located at 6336 Shattuck Ave at the border of Oakland and Berkeley. To get there, I could walk from SeiYi’s studio to the San Francisco Transit Terminal, take the bus to cross the Bay Bridge, then walk a few blocks to the restaurant. The one-way bus fare was 60 cents, which was obscenely high compared to what I’d make in a day. Luck was on my side. Ming and his wife lived in the Sunset district of San Francisco, which was near MYI’s (Auntie 5 五姨 ) house. MYi graciously offered to let me stay in her in-law unit in the basement. Every morning, I walked five blocks and waited at the corner of 46th and Taraval Avenue and got picked up by Ming and his wife at 8:30am. In the evenings, the couple was nice enough to drop me off at MYi’s house, sparing me a 15-minute walk in the dark. With this new residence, I could catch a free ride with Ming and his wife. A long commute but I could save every penny for my tuition.
Each day, we’d make our way through a collage of city neighborhoods and the Bay Bridge, our eyes scanning for the fastest routes, our minds preoccupied with the workday awaiting us. The majestic span of the bridge, the sparkling water of the bay, and the panoramic city skyline were mere peripheral blur as we focused solely on reaching our destination. No, I didn’t see any sailboats on the water. As soon as we arrived at the restaurant, Ming would be busy sorting out meats and vegetables from the refrigerator, calling around to restock restaurant supplies, and tending whatever was broken in the restaurant. My job was to help in every corner of the restaurant. I sliced through mountains of chicken and pork, turning them into bite-sized cubes. Countless cartons of eggs awaited cracking and whisking; ginger and garlic needed to be peeled and smashed. Jumbo onions arrived bundled in a 40-lb bag and carrots filled a sturdy 25-lb box. I peeled and chopped until my fingers tinged orange and tears welled up from the pungent onion. The last preparation was for the sweet and sour pork dish. I would chop up trays of veggies from red to orange, yellow and green: red peppers, tomatoes, carrots, yellow peppers, yellow baby corn, celery, and green onions. The colorful rainbow was uplifting, sparking imagination and possibility.
Next, I swiftly wiped the tables and floor clean, refilled the napkin holders, the soy sauce bottles, and the salt and peppers shakers, then dusted off the hand-written note “Credit Card Machine Out of Order Today.” I flipped the “Open” sign, and we were right on time to open at 11am. Ming was the chef. After customers ordered, he cooked in the tiny kitchen. I collected the cash, brought out the dishes when ready, and then cleaned up the tables afterwards. Ming didn’t like to process credit cards, so there was one less thing for me to learn on my initial days on the job. Every so often, customers would leave a quarter or small coins as a tip for me. Ming let me keep those. I was excited to count my extra earnings at the end of the day.
After the restaurant closed at 7pm, we would spend an hour cleaning up and getting ready for the next day. By the time we arrived home in San Francisco, it was close to 9pm. The twelve-hour work day was exhausting, but I was enthusiastic. Part of the good feeling was a powerful sense of working towards an achievable goal. After the first week, I got my first raise. Instead of $16, now I was paid $20 for a day. I didn’t care if it was any actual raise for my hourly labor. I was very happy to clock in enough hours to earn an entire $20 bill in one single day! As I held my first hard-earned $20 bill, I felt a surge of lift, like a bubble of air rising from the depth of a suffocating barrel. It was as if I had been crawling and gasping for breath, when suddenly this wrinkled and creased bill whisked in a breadth of fresh air, infusing me with new oxygen to carry on.
The restaurant was a small fast-food restaurant with three small tables inside. Most people opted for takeout, and occasionally a few would sit inside to eat their meal. The immediate vicinity bore the visible marks of urban challenges - trash was scattered on streets, unhoused individuals roamed the neighborhood, and most commercial stores were locked with rolling security doors at night. One day, Ming had to take his wife to the hospital in the middle of the day. He cooked a batch of Fried Rice and Chow Mein for me to handle potential take-out orders and asked me to guard the restaurant. It was a day I would never forget. Soon after Ming left, a man stumbled in, half-drunk and muttering incoherently. I froze in fear, like a deer caught in the blinding headlights of an oncoming car. My heart pounded as threat enveloped me - would my life end right then? Moments later, another man passed the restaurant, peeked inside, then started a loud rant for what seemed like an eternity. Was I his target? Where could I escape if he turned his anger towards me? As if these weren’t enough commotion, a homeless person in tattered clothes shuffled in and begged for food. I hastily scooped some rice into a container, praying that he would leave quickly. Each encounter seemed to carry a potential harm, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable. With the mature prefrontal cortex of a 17-year-old, I decided to stand outside by the door as a self-preservation strategy, mentally preparing to flee like a rabbit if danger arose.
Decades later, when we were touring UC Berkeley with Kira, the familiar scene revived the same anxiety I had experienced at the restaurant. Hot tears welled up as my motherly concerns weighed heavy on my mind. As a mother, nothing would frighten me more than imagining my children facing potential harm, and nothing would pain me more than seeing my children getting hurt. As I held the tenderness of the knot in my heart, I also remembered the courage that lay within me on that fearful day at the restaurant. We all have so much in us to withstand whatever challenges life throws our way. When faced with trials of life, our inner strength is often far greater than we or others realize, and we possess a reservoir of resilience far deeper than we or others expect. The conviction comforted me, softening my tightness and allowing me to sit with the unknowns Kira would inevitably face in college and in life. I have faith in her.
The restaurant offered typical Chinese dishes such as egg rolls, chow mein, fried rice, fried chicken, and stir fried vegetables. Sweet and Sour Pork was a distinctive dish. Pork was cut into bite-sized pieces, coated in cornstarch then deep-fried in oil. A chef usually stir-fried some mixed vegetables, then garnished it with a sweet and sour sauce. Pineapple chunks and cashews would elevate it to a perfect 5-star dish. Ming was keenly aware of the expensive ingredients that would cut into his laser-thin profit. He, instead, stir-fried in the rainbow of veggies that I prepared.
Sweet and Sour Pork was not well known in my homeland, albeit it was ubiquitous in this country. I like to believe it was invented by Chinese immigrants and took root in this country. Each presentation was as unique as the personal journey we took to craft it. Ming operated his restaurant on a shoestring budget, worked long hours, and squeezed every possible resource to fulfill his American Dream of owning a business. Like many new immigrants before me, I too started at square one, doing dull and dreary work with the sole purpose of surviving the transition. I was grateful for any job, no matter how underpaid and menial, because it was a lifeline providing me the means to stay afloat. English proficiency was and still is a lifetime handicap, but I was proud to count the number of new words I memorized at the end of each day. When I had a small moment of understanding of a cultural phenomenon, I held it dear as it was a sign of my growing roots in this new country. I had to be self-reliant with minimal support of friends and mentors. When lost or rejected, I kept showing up, drawing strength from the hardships unique to immigrants, which became my secret source of fortitude. To punch above one’s weight, I learned to go lower than low and reach higher than high. The progress was messy, steady, and sweet.
Years later, when I wrote to my parents that I had became an engineer working for an American company, they congratulated me with this Chinese proverb: 马到成功. But actually the journey of pursuing a dream was not a simple and smooth “success”, and there was not a clear-cut “before” or “after” moment when the dream was realized. It was a continual discovery and perplexity inherent in the in-between.
I tasted the duality of triumph and struggle, relishing the honey and appreciating the bees' work. Like the hallmark of a beloved gastronomical delight, the interplay of sweet and sour of an immigrant story captures the complexity of human experience reflecting resilience, adaptation, perseverance, creativity, and growth. As opportunists, we surpass what we believe we can.
