How my family helped me get a full ride to Brown

My mom told my dad I got into Brown and he cried

I never expected to see my name in the same sentence as “full ride” or “Brown University”, let alone both. Yet earlier this summer, I was told that the next four years of my life would be “no worries”, or at least the financial aspect of it.

When I was told the news of my award, my school’s head, my counselor, and the members of the scholarship committee had all expected me to jump in joy, I instead awkwardly smiled. As I mentally calculated the many zeroes this entailed, I couldn’t help but feel a bit overwhelmed.

Up until this past year, I never considered attending an “elite school” growing up. Applying was not necessarily discouraged, but it was a well-accepted fact in my community that such chances were rare. A teacher jokingly once remarked that a person was more likely to get hit by a bus then get into an Ivy. While this may seem dramatic, statistically speaking “the odds were not in our favor”.

Needless to say, I was elated when I received the award. The long nights of studying, hunched over a textbook, a narrative that many students can probably relate to, had paid off. As a result, I was regretting less that I had decided to take six AP classes this year and the restless nights spent trying to understand magnetic flux or writing that last minute paper.

The greatest satisfaction, however, did not come from receiving the award, but my parents’ reaction. Sitting at the desk of my school head, everyone around watched in anticipation as I dialed the number of my parent’s small Chinese restaurant on the main street. My mom picked up and as soon as I told her, the phone line went dead. Initially, I was bewildered; however, when I went home I was even more surprised. It had turned out that my mom had dropped the phone in order to tell my father, who immediately began to cry.

Left to right: my mom, my aunt, cousins: Amy (front), me (back), Vincent, Colline (front), Daisy (back), Cai (back), my grandmother (front right); Taken thanksgiving 2015

My father is a man of few words. He is the type of parent who always stands on the side, actively listening. Whenever I have a rough day at school, he waits for me at our restaurant with a bowl of my favorite noodles. As a young man who was not encouraged to pursue education seriously, he immigrated to the United States for better opportunities. With his brothers, he established a small take-out restaurant, which he has worked since for the past 28 years. Every morning before he leaves for work, when I see him at the breakfast table dressed in his usual grey polo tee and $10 jeans from Walmart, I am reminded of the sacrifices that he has made along with the rest of my family for my sake.

My family has always been oddly tight-knit. In some odd Brady Bunch fashion, my family of three was quickly joined by my grandmother, two aunts, three uncles, and five cousins, totalling 13 people. While living in close quarters with so many people has never been easy, it’s always nice to return home to a scene that could be from My Big Fat Greek Wedding: my aunts and uncle shouting over each other as my cousins argue about who might have eaten the last pizza.

Because our parents wanted to provide me and my cousins with the opportunities they never had, when one person wished to do something growing up, everyone had to try it. This entailed being shuttled to and fro by our parents between ballet classes, piano lessons, Chinese school, and much to my chagrin, numerous failed sports. Nevertheless, I acknowledge that many of these trial-and-errors have led me to where I am today and not everyone has the support that I have had. Beginning in the second semester of my junior year of high school, even my younger cousin, Daisy, would take my usual weekend shifts at my parents’ restaurant so that I could take whatever standardized test being given that week, which I still haven’t thanked her enough for.

As a result, a full ride means so much more than four years of no worries. It is the result of years of my family’s handwork and the opportunity that they sought when they immigrated to the United States nearly thirty years ago. While I believe such an opportunity will open doors for me, I am even more thankful for the privilege of having people around me who care.

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