My grandmother came to the United States by boat from Hong Kong, like many immigrants seeking a new beginning. Hearing her stories -- about the journey, the unknowns, and the hope that brought her across an ocean -- deeply moved me. I felt drawn to write a story from a first-person perspective, imagining what it might have felt like to travel from one continent to another, unsure of what lay ahead in pursuit of the American Dream. As her granddaughter, I, Zoë, wrote this piece to honor that experience.

My father lived in the United States for about ten years. In order to gain citizenship, you had to live in America for at least four or five years – and that’s exactly what he did. The goal was always to bring the whole family over. We all pictured America as a free country, a land of possibility where things wouldn’t be as hard as before. My father wanted us to have what people called a “better” life. The famous American Dream.

While my father worked in America, my mother, two older brothers, and I remained in Hong Kong. At first, it was difficult to say goodbye to everything I knew – my childhood friends, my neighborhood, the comforting presence of our extended family. But I held on to one thing: the hope that soon, we’d be together again, and I wouldn’t have to be alone. Not that I was ever truly alone – my mother and brothers were with me – but a part of our family had been missing, and I longed for us to be whole again. That’s what any little girl wants.

For five years, my father and I had written letters back and forth. We knew that he would bring us over once he earned his citizenship, but we never knew when. Every letter carried that sense of waiting – of building toward something. He was working tirelessly, not only to provide for us from afar but to earn the right to reunite with us in a new land.

It was the year 1960. I was eleven years old and full of hope, even knowing the journey ahead would take fourteen days by sea. Alongside my mother and brothers, I boarded the President Cleveland – a towering white ship that shimmered under the Hong Kong sun – and we left behind everything familiar.

The first few days on the ship were rough. My brothers and I felt sick from the rocking waves. But eventually, we adjusted to the constant hum of the engines and the rhythmic slap of the sea against the metal hull. We spent our days running along the deck, laughing under wide open skies, and dreaming about the new world ahead.

The ship stopped in places like Japan and Hawaii to pick up more passengers. Each new face was a potential friend. I didn’t know much English then – it was the language most people used on board – but I began picking up words just by listening. One day, my mother gave us some candy to keep us quiet, and I decided to use it as an excuse to make a friend. I spotted a girl about my age sitting quietly by the railing. I walked over and held out a piece of brightly colored candy from my pocket.

“Hello. You want sugar?” I asked, smiling.
She looked confused. “Sugar?” she repeated, tilting her head. I didn’t realize at the time that “sugar” and “candy” weren’t the same thing in English. But to me, they were both sweet – and offering something sweet felt like a kind gesture.

Despite the language mix-up, we giggled, and she accepted the candy. We played for a while, and I felt, for the first time, that even in a sea of strangers, I could find connection.

Traveling by boat was far cheaper than flying, especially with a family and all our luggage. Airplane tickets were too expensive, and even if we could afford them, they limited how much we could bring. The ship allowed us to carry the things that mattered – clothes, photos, keepsakes – our past packed into suitcases.

We didn’t travel in luxury. The sleeping quarters were like dormitories, shared with strangers. I remember our room had around ten people, all crowded together with our beds and bags.

Eventually, the ship arrived in San Francisco. From there, we boarded a plane to New York City. After so many days at sea, the flight felt quick – just five hours – but to an eleven year old, it was still a lot of traveling.

When we finally landed, my father met us at the airport. I remember seeing him – older, tired, but smiling – and feeling something inside me click into place.

He drove us through the bustling streets of Manhattan and into Chinatown. Chinatown was unlike anything I had seen. The narrow streets buzzed with energy, full of vendors shouting in Cantonese, roasted ducks hanging in windows, and the comforting smell of soy sauce and sesame oil in the air. It felt like Hong Kong and New York had collided. The signs were in both English and Chinese, and I could hear my native language spoken all around me. I no longer felt so foreign. I felt rooted.

We moved into a small apartment, and I enrolled in PS 130, a public school nearby. That’s where I met Ellen, another Chinese girl who was also new to America. She sat next to me on the first day, sensing my nerves. We became fast friends. She was learning, too, stumbling through English, but having someone to go through it with made all the difference.

From there, my life in the United States only grew more layered and beautiful. Over time, my parents had three more daughters, and I became an older sister – something I was definitely not used to. We built a life. And today, I’m blessed with a beautiful family and grandchildren of my own – each of them carrying a piece of this journey in their blood, even if they don’t know it yet.

If your story is anything like mine – if you came here young, maybe eleven or twelve – it may have been easier for you to adapt. Children are resilient. They don’t cling too tightly to the past, and they learn fast. Even though I barely spoke English, I picked it up quickly because I had to – and because I wanted to belong.

For me, everything came back to this: Trust God. Trust His timing. Trust the plan he’s written just for you. That’s what carried me across the sea, into this new life, and into the person I’ve become.

(Unless you type the author's name
in the subject line of the message
we won't know where to send it.)

Book Case

Home Page

The Preservation Foundation, Inc., A Nonprofit Book Publisher