天下为公


The gold-rimmed arch greets me, beckoning me to enter and stare in awe. The top of the arch says in beautiful metallic calligraphy, “天下为公 (Tiānxià wèi gōng),” meaning, “Under this sky, we are all equal.” Walking through the gates of Chinatown, I feel that proverb resonate inside me. It is a reminder of the daily struggle people of color face in this country.

In my little glass house, there have been few safe boulders in my life, but my culture has always been a comfort to me. Through my culture, I can reminisce about good memories and feel safe.

In the new year, everything is bursting with red. We start off with a bang, yelling “恭喜发财,祝你身体健康,平平安安 (Gōngxǐ fācái, zhù nǐ shēntǐ jiànkāng, píngpíng ān’ān)!” to wish a happy new year with good health and peace. We stash 红包 (Hóngbāo) in our pockets, going from relative to relative like messengers delivering mail. Joy is thick in the air: every household, every building is decked in beautiful paper 春联 (Chūnlián). It’s noisy; the chorus of voices bounce from house to house, like beams of light in a mirror house. The clashing of pots and pans mixed in with the quiet hushing of steam floods the streets to make a symphony of celebration.

China comes alive. 

When I visit China, I always stay with my grandparents. My 外婆外公’s (Wàigōng wàipó) quaint apartment barely fit all of us, and my uncle 舅舅’s (Jiùjiu) tall form towers over my parents, like a lithe willow tree. Another older couple is in the doorway, but although I don’t recognize them, I greet them respectfully.

Here, family is a warm hug. 

On the other side of the globe, I try my best to cling onto this warmth.

Chinatown is a mess of smells: the sourness from sewage joined with the warm steam of shops feels just like home. Navigating the narrow allies while threading myself through clumps of people… these small things leave fleeting touches that make me glow. Here, shops line the street like railroad tracks, every single one jutting out in a new shape, like a geometrical design. Twin flags fly from lamposts, accompanied by bilingual signposts, with Chinese characters engraved in the streets everywhere.

Arm and arm, matching stride by stride, a new adventure every visit. What new restaurant shall we try? What new tastes and smells will I experience today? I shiver with elation. The hunger for belonging is a mouthwatering yearning. 

Today, my mom drags me through a maze of streets. She’s made it a goal to eat at a new shop in Boston each time we visit, and she’s kept a good record. This restaurant is called “他湘.” Never heard of it, never seen it, just another random boat in the sea. My nerves of going into a new restaurant are instantly quelled by the spicy chili smell wafting towards my taste buds. 

My mouth waters, I can practically taste the menu. 

When we get seated, I notice the hanging red lanterns fan out like a blooming flower, with the strings flowing underneath it as its roots. The clashing of pans, the shushing of steam and barely comprehensible Chinese play in the background, filling the small restaurant with noise.

Our first dish is 口水鸡 (Kǒushuǐ jī), also called “mouth water chicken.” The cool, red spicy chili oil slides across the white chicken into my throat. The nuts garnished on top crunch in my mouth. The pork dish is paired with pale white buns around the circumference of the plate. Fat melts in my mouth, releasing streams of juice dripping down my fingers and chin. My mom orders our last dish: potstickers that remind her of Shanghai. These particular ones are like soup dumplings, except encased in a crunchy exterior. The dipping sauce gives each bite a sour-sweet taste before being washed away by the soft, juicy filling. 

Dessert today is a sweet drink recently mainstreamed: 珍珠奶茶 (Zhēnzhū nǎichá) or bubble tea! The liquid is sweet with gummy boba balls at the bottom. The warm, brown sugar milk tea accompanies me as I trudge back towards the train station with a cold body, but a warmed soul. 

We stop by some small bread shops with doorways decorated with Chinese calligraphy. Of course, these desserts aren’t ordinary desserts, they’re not bright rainbow colored or sprinkled with sugar. Instead, they don browns and maroons, hiding their goodness behind an ugly exterior.

As we leave with the baby blue sky above us, and the frozen ground under our shoes, I am filled with a foreign feeling. As a Chinese-American who oftentimes feels more American than Chinese, Chinatown is a place woozy with nostalgia. 

Here, the people greet us with, “你好,几位 (Nǐ hǎo, jǐ wèi)?” instead of “Hello, how are you?” 

Here, the language of my ancestors is embedded in every stone, every nook in this foreign city.

Here, “天下为公 (Tiānxià wèi gōng),” feels real.


Thank you for reading the short story 天下为公 by Angel Liang, our staff writer! Stay tuned for more works by Angel in the future and read more about her here. Stay tuned for future literary works by Angel and our other writers.

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