In airports, I have never been a resident alien; I am a traveler, just like everyone else.
The authenticity of chop suey was always the authenticity of survival, of adaptation. And so, like generations of Chinese Americans, chop suey stayed.
I’ll drive with that tender balance of guilt and curiosity and a lifetime of learning and unlearning, still looking for an America that was there, is there, and will be there.
Yes, I dared to eat a peach. And I had to live, so I could eat another.
Adapted and reinvented and reborn—not venerated, but persistent, present, iconic. Is this such a bad fate?
What kind of story would you like to write?
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