My mother immigrated to California from Taiwan in 1976. With her were two pairs of golden chopsticks, a family heirloom with engravings in Archaic Chinese that had been passed down for generations. At eight years old, she learned that the American Dream was not in San Francisco. She moved to New York soon after, where her parents worked at a mail facility. Her father’s doctorate in law and her mother’s degree in teaching meant nothing if not in English. The golden chopsticks were shut away in a kitchen drawer. We use forks and knives in America.

In China, chopsticks made from precious metals (usually silver) symbolize wealth and safety. In ancient times, nobles were afraid of being poisoned. Silver and gold would become tainted and turn dark if in contact with certain poisons, so noble families ate with chopsticks made from those metals. The benefit was twofold: a parade of luxury and the calmness of safety. These utensils sometimes also had engravings on the side. My mother’s chopsticks said “Bring Auspiciousness.”

My mother worked towards this goal for years. As she grew older, she seemed every part the quintessential daughter. A division I athlete at Columbia University. Perfect—until she had to transfer. After all, how can an immigrant afford an Ivy League education on a mailman’s salary?

Yet, the engravings on the chopsticks did not rust; her goal stayed the same. She graduated from Baruch and stayed for her MBA, where she met my father, and then started at a top law firm. The chopsticks were polished for her wedding, sitting centerpiece at the dining table. The party was not just a celebration of love, but also for the hard work of her parents. She was their American Dream.