I emigrated from China to America when I was 10. When we arrived in the United States, my parents and I rented a room in a group home. The three of us shared one mattress, which we found next to a dumpster.

My father, a former professor in China, worked as a busboy at a Chinese restaurant in the northeast corner of Washington, D.C. Because he didn’t speak proper English, he couldn’t get a job as a waiter.

My mother, a former physician, worked as a live-in nanny for a Chinese family. That was the highest-paying job she could find.

Due to the one-child policy, I had no siblings. I cooked and ate by myself, since my parents were away at work.

To make it as immigrants, my family emphasized the importance of maintaining a positive outlook. When things didn’t go our way, we relied on the old adage that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Looking on the bright side was a kind of self-preservation — to actually face how hard life was would have been too painful to bear.

When I experienced a moment of sadness, my parents would brush it aside by referring to how they suffered much more in the past: “This isn’t 1960. Don’t be scared.” I was not allowed to cry.