My Family’s Journey to Hope and Home

Guest Post – Amy Huang, Program Officer

I am a first-generation Chinese American. My parents immigrated to the U.S. as they faced the aftermath of a country that experienced political persecution and oppression, and economic instability. My family’s journey, their story, and by extension, mine, is shaped by sacrifice, grit, and a belief that there had to be a better life somewhere.

My mother’s side of the family was ethnically Chinese, but they lived in Jakarta, Indonesia. My grandfather had moved to Jakarta as a young boy, seeking economic opportunity, and eventually raised nine children. But the pressure to return “home” to China remained strong. When they finally did, they arrived just as the Cultural Revolution, a violent decade of suppression, dictatorship, and the stripping away of traditional values, was beginning. Scholars were condemned, education was discarded, and books were burned.

My parents were teenagers at the time and were forced to drop out of school to participate in mass industrialization efforts. My mom had a heart condition and was forced to walk for miles into rural areas to work in factories. They had to trek to the countryside and rural outposts with no food, no water—just fear and obedience. I remember her telling me about a community healer warning that if she kept walking, she could die.

One of the most defining stories in our family comes from my uncle. He was educated in Indonesia and strongly opposed the Cultural Revolution and was imprisoned multiple times. After one release, he swam twice from mainland China to Hong Kong, which was a British colony at that time. , He risked his life for the chance at freedom. He made it and became a refugee, eventually settling in New York. But after a violent attack, he decided to move to Seattle, as far away as possible from New York.

My uncle carried not only the physical scars of escape but also the burden of being the eldest son who had to pave the way for his family. His sacrifice allowed my grandparents, my parents, and their siblings to pursue a life where education and opportunity were not dangerous ideas but a path forward.

There’s a part of this story that haunts me. When my parents were still in China, the one-child policy was enforced. My brother had already been born, which put my mom in a precarious position when she became pregnant again. She ended the pregnancy, but soon after, she found out they were able to go to the U.S. I was born a year after they moved to Seattle, and I think a lot about the timing of this and see how precarious life hangs on moments like that.

When my parents arrived in Seattle, they spoke no English and had no money, but they had determination. My dad’s first job opportunity was as a truck driver delivering live chickens. I will never forget the smell. After school, he’d pull up in a white delivery truck, feathers flying everywhere, and I’d sit on a crate of chickens between the seats. If the police drove by, I had to duck. And I loved it. I never felt embarrassed—just proud because my dad worked so hard, but still made sure I was picked up from school. To this day, I admire my dad’s ability to get from one place to another without a map (including all the way from Seattle to Reno), and I know that’s from his days as a delivery driver.

My mom’s path to work was equally inspiring. She wanted to ensure my brother felt safe when he started Head Start preschool, so she began volunteering. That paved the way for a job as a kitchen aide, then as a substitute teacher, and eventually to a full-time teaching role. Over time, she became the head preschool teacher, all of which she accomplished despite knowing very little English. I remember attending night classes with her, helping her take notes as she earned her Child Development Associate credential. Her boldness and love of learning made a deep impression on me and likely influenced my passion for youth, education, and community.

We did get help acclimating to our new life. The Chinese Information Service Center assisted my parents in various ways, including helping them apply for citizenship and other services. The Seattle Chinese Southern Baptist Church provided my brother and me with social connections and support (and, yes, Chinese lessons). We lived next to the Chong Wa Benevolent Association, which hosted immigrant support programs, and later, my Chinese Girls Drill Team practices. It really was a community. And I feel lucky to have grown up in the heart of it.

Today, I see my family’s story reflected in many immigrant families. Their reasons may differ—poverty, violence, war—but what remains the same is the need to survive and the desire to belong. The public narrative often dehumanizes these families, but the truth is that no one works harder. The labor, the sacrifice, the constant effort to prove they deserve to be here is relentless. I don’t, and I encourage others to stop caring about people’s status. Everyone’s just trying to build a life.

I know my family’s history shaped my career choices. My curiosity about policy, race, and systems started in middle school when I worked on an eighth-grade project about Chinese railroad workers. In college, my first class in Asian American studies broadened my perspective. This was the history I had been missing—our history. I eventually studied ethnic studies and later earned a Master’s in Social Work with a focus on health systems. I completed my externship at Swedish Hospital. Now, I’m at Providence, doing philanthropic work with the St. Joseph Fund. Full circle.

My brother is a successful creative director for a global tech company. He pursued art, and my parents, despite all the stereotypes about immigrant parents, fully supported him. They never told us which fields we should pursue. They just said: “Do what you love. You’ll find your way.”

They were right.

I share our story because it’s not unique. But it is precious. Ours is one of many that shape the soul of this country, woven through courage, resilience, and sacrifice.