Author: Ke Guo
My life has been a tale of navigating two salt cities.
I was born in the coastal town of Yancheng, literally “Salt City” in Chinese, and it was named after the surrounding sea salt harvest fields from bygone days. I rarely visited the beach in Yancheng: the coast is always windy, gloomy, and packed with visitors. That is the Yancheng way of life: crowded, even on the infamous muddy silt beach. Then there’s my home in the States. Surrounded by 10,000-foot mountains and far above sea level, Salt Lake City is dry, occasionally snowy, and quiet.
When I first came to the US, I knew nobody here. My closest relative at the time lived in California. I envisioned my life similar to what I’ve seen on Keeping Up With the Kardashians: phrases like “literally stop” and “Bible” recurred in my head. That was how I pictured the US: the promised land of excitement and entertainment portrayed on reality TV. But when I landed in Utah, there were no surfers, beaches, or Kardashians. Life in Salt Lake City felt strange to me.
During my first weeks here, I felt alone, and my thoughts drifted back to my crowded but bustling multigenerational home in Yancheng. Our Salt Lake City home consisted of only my parent and me (parent, singular: I could only see one of them at a time because the other had to travel back to China for business). Even after I attempted to imitate phrases my classmates used and gingerly followed them to ski down moun’ains of the Wasatch Range, learning alpine sports I never imagined experiencing in Yancheng (a city with an altitude of 40 feet), the sense of otherness was still something I felt hard to shake off.
I did eventually find my sense of belonging here. As my language proficiency improved, I became the spokesperson and manager of our Salt Lake City home. I grew into and glimpsed the adult life of an immigrant, and I understood the dedication and sacrifices required for one to build a home in a foreign country. My parents never went to college, but they were determined to immigrate to an unfamiliar environment so they could offer me better educational opportunities. As I drove past the familiar streets and locations where I shipped mail back to China, paid the utility bills, obtained my driver’s license, and performed the translation tasks during parent-teacher conferences, Salt Lake City came to feel more like home. Taking on these responsibilities in my newly-found home was my way of giving back to my family and showing gratitude.
When I returned to Yancheng during the summers and reconnected with friends and family, the educational privilege I enjoyed in the States became visible. Many schools in Yancheng lacked faculty members to operate a full orchestra, and the art education programs were also heavily underfunded. When I caught the look of surprise and envy on my peers’ faces, out of a sense of guilt, I almost regretted telling them about the instruments I learned to play at school and the studios fully equipped with easels and oil paint. These painfully realistic encounters inspired me to take a volunteer teaching job to offer English classes to Chinese students from underdeveloped regions. I hoped my efforts could help close the educational disparity gap and give them a chance to enter college, step out, and see a wider world.
Though only one “lake” apart, the two salt cities are quite distinctive. However, both offered me enough room to reflect on my identity as an immigrant and a first-generation college student. Between them, I saw the responsibilities I must carry for my family and underprivileged communities. I believe my tale won’t simply stop at the shores of two salty bodies of water; it will expand into a lifelong service to learn, educate, and build bridges to lift up others and form meaningful connections.