Thirty Years Abroad

By: Kaiping Han

Thirty years ago today, on January 6, 1988, I stepped onto a plane bound for the United States, carrying little more than a suitcase and a heart full of dreams. It was a day that would divide my life into two halves—the past I was leaving behind and the unknown future that lay ahead. For more than two years, I had toiled relentlessly, overcoming hurdle after hurdle, passing exam after exam. It felt as though I had traversed a battlefield, breaking through five barriers and vanquishing six generals just to arrive at this moment of departure.

As the plane lifted into the sky, I watched my homeland shrink beneath me, a familiar world slipping beyond the horizon. A wave of emotions washed over me—exhilaration, trepidation, longing. At last, my long-cherished dream of studying abroad had come true. And yet, questions loomed in my mind like distant storm clouds. What would this foreign land, scarcely known to me beyond books and whispers, truly be like? Would I find my place in a country so distant in language, culture, and spirit from the one I had always called home?

Time, elusive and relentless, has since carried me through three swift decades. My years in America have been a ceaseless pursuit—earning a Ph.D., navigating the uncharted waters of an unfamiliar world, and carving a path in a land that once felt impossibly foreign. But before America, there was China, where my first thirty years unfolded like the pages of another life: the hard years spent laboring in the countryside as an “educated youth,” the momentous 1977 college entrance exam that rewrote my destiny, and the profound awakening of the Reform and Opening-up era.

Two countries, two lives—one shaped by history, the other by resilience. I have walked the winding road of two worlds, forging my way through trials and triumphs alike. Though the journey has been steep and unrelenting, it has been mine to claim, mine to endure, and mine to embrace.

With the rise of China’s economy and the rapid transformation of society, studying abroad today bears little resemblance to what it was in the late 1980s. As I mark thirty years in the United States, memories long tucked away rise to the surface, especially those from my earliest days in this unfamiliar land.

I remember it vividly—the afternoon of January 7, thirty years ago, around 2 p.m., when I found myself alone in Newark Airport. My connecting flight had been delayed due to bad weather, then canceled altogether as night fell, rescheduled for 7 a.m. the next day. The announcement left me stunned. A first-time traveler in a foreign country, I stood frozen in place, overwhelmed and unsure of what to do. I wandered the terminal in search of another Chinese traveler, someone who could guide me through this moment of helplessness. But in that vast, bustling airport, I did not see a single familiar face.

Exhaustion bore down on me. I had not slept properly in over thirty hours, and the throbbing in my head made it hard to think. The idea of waiting alone in the airport until morning filled me with dread. I knew no one in New York, and with no other options, I thought of calling the Chinese consulate. Yet even this proved impossible—I had no change for the payphones and no idea how to use them. Frustration and despair welled up inside me, and I could not stop the tears from falling.

Then, as if by fate, a kind airport staff member noticed my distress. He approached me gently, asked what was wrong, and, seeing my predicament, helped me dial the consulate—three times. I explained my situation again and again until, at last, I was granted permission to stay there for the night. The next morning, I made my way back to the airport through heavy snow, only to be met with another announcement: the pilot could not make it due to the storm, and my flight was delayed once more. Watching the snow pile up outside, I feared I might never leave.

After several more changes to my ticket, I finally boarded a plane at 12:30 p.m. and arrived at my destination at 2:30 p.m. It was only then that I learned the city had just endured its worst snowstorm in a decade. From my departure in Beijing at 9:30 a.m. on January 6 to my arrival on January 8, I had spent a total of 63 hours in transit and had my ticket changed five times. The exhaustion, the isolation, the uncertainty—these moments cannot be summed up in mere words. In those days, there were no cell phones, no easy way to reach my family. I was utterly cut off, adrift in a foreign world. Today, the world is a “global village,” where a single phone call could ease such a journey. But thirty years ago, traveling alone across continents was not just an ordeal; it was an adventure, a test of will. Overcoming that experience was my first trial abroad. From that moment forward, I knew—I would never again be afraid, no matter where life took me.

I also remember that just three days after arriving at the university, I was already seated in my first class. Back then, few of us had strong English skills, particularly in scientific vocabulary. Listening to lectures felt like deciphering an alien language. I still have a friend in China who kept the letters I wrote her all those years ago. In one, I described how, every evening as I reviewed my notes, I would cry after reading each page, forcing myself to digest the material word by word, concept by concept. Some courses had no textbooks—only the professor’s handwritten notes, scrawled in indecipherable cursive that left me unable to look up words in the dictionary.

Every day was a struggle, a battle against endless reading, relentless new vocabulary, and the creeping despair of feeling perpetually behind. That first month, I was in constant distress, haunted by the thought of giving up. More than once, I regretted coming at all. But there was no way back. Gritting my teeth, I pushed forward, pouring every ounce of energy into my studies, stretching my mind and memory further than I ever thought possible. After each exam, I would collapse onto my bed, utterly spent.

But perseverance yields its rewards. By the end of the semester, my efforts bore fruit, and I achieved results I could be proud of. In one of my letters, I wrote: “The greatest joy here is receiving letters from home and getting good grades.”

From my second year onward, I was awarded a teaching assistantship, leading three laboratory sections each semester. It was both an opportunity and a test—students evaluated teaching assistants each term, with a maximum score of 4.0. My score was 3.71, the second highest in the department, accompanied by many kind words from my students. With the scholarship, my financial burdens eased somewhat, but the weight of academic expectations remained relentless.

The path to a Ph.D. was a gauntlet of trials: passing the rigorous qualifying exams, selecting a viable research topic, completing coursework, conducting intricate experiments, poring over endless references, writing and defending a dissertation, and enduring both written and oral comprehensive exams. It was another uphill battle, a journey requiring unwavering resolve. To earn a doctorate is not merely to gain knowledge, but to withstand years of tireless effort, intellectual perseverance, and unyielding determination. Yet, in the end, the struggle bore fruit—before I even graduated, my first doctoral paper was published in a leading journal in my field. My time as a Ph.D. student instilled in me a rigorous scientific mindset, a foundation that would serve me well in both academia and industry. Many more publications followed, including a co-authored article in the esteemed journal Nature.

I also remember, with vivid clarity, the house where I first lived upon arriving in the U.S.—a dwelling likely a century old, its walls thin, its amenities sparse. Five of us shared a single large bedroom, our mattresses salvaged from the streets. A brutal snowstorm had just passed, and misfortune struck—the heating system failed, and repairs were not immediate. Each night, I would wake with aching legs, cramped from the unrelenting cold.

One morning, reaching into the refrigerator for milk, I was startled to feel a strange warmth against my fingers. Puzzled, I turned to a Washington Monument-shaped thermometer on the table, marked in both Fahrenheit and Celsius. The reading stunned me: -2 degrees Celsius—inside the house. I could hardly believe my eyes. But as I looked around—the breath misting from my lips, the heavy down coat draped over my shivering frame, the thin walls offering no respite from the elements—I understood. The air indoors was scarcely warmer than the frigid world outside. The refrigerator, absurdly, had become a refuge of relative warmth.

In that moment, a memory surfaced from years past—my days as a “sent-down youth” in rural China, living in a house with paper-thin windows, wrapping my face in cloth to keep my nose from freezing in the night. How strange that an experience meant to be so different could, in its own way, feel so familiar.

In that first year, my roommates and I lived with the utmost frugality, stretching every dollar as far as it would go. We endured not only the bitter cold of winter, but also the merciless heat of summer, rationing our use of the air conditioner to just half an hour before bed each night. Yet, among all the hardships, nothing unnerved me more than the scurrying of mice—bold, unafraid creatures that darted freely through our house. Often, as I stood at the stove, small black mice would weave between my feet, their tiny claws scratching against the floor. I dared not look down, fearing the sight of them, but not looking meant risking the horror of stepping on one. The mere thought sent shivers down my spine.

I could not bear it any longer. My revulsion toward mice was deep-seated, a fear I had carried since childhood. Desperate, I turned to my advisor, who immediately took me to buy traps. One by one, the unwelcome guests were driven away or eliminated. Only then could I breathe easier. Looking back, our living conditions that year were riddled with challenges, full of strange and unexpected trials. Who would have thought that life in a developed country could feel, in some ways, even more difficult than in China?

Yet, above all, the deepest wound of those years was not hardship—it was separation. Before I left for the United States, my four-year-old daughter clung to me, fearful of my departure. I dreaded the moment of farewell, afraid that I would break down. But on that day, just as I was preparing to leave, she stood on the bed, her small hand reaching out to gently push me forward. “Mom, you can go,” she said softly, “but you have to come back early.”

Her innocence and understanding pierced straight through me. My throat tightened, my eyes blurred with tears. I turned away quickly, afraid that if I lingered, I would not have the strength to go.

Who could have foreseen that this parting would stretch into years? In those early days after arriving in the U.S., I would walk back to my lonely residence after long, exhausting days, humming the nursery songs she loved, my voice trembling as tears streamed silently down my face. Each night, I wrote to her in my diary, recording my love, my longing, the ache of our separation. In letters home, I clung to every detail of her growth, trying to capture in words the moments I was missing.

When she turned seven, she sent me a letter, scrawled in her childish handwriting: “Mom, I want to call you ‘Mom’ a hundred times.”

What words can describe the pain of a mother and child torn apart by distance? In an era before cell phones, before video calls, the emptiness of missing someone felt even more unbearable. For five long years, we were bound only by ink and paper, our voices silent, our longing left unanswered. And then, at last, the waiting ended.

When she finally arrived in the United States, stepping off the plane and into my arms, she clung to me tightly and whispered, “Mom, this isn’t a dream, right? We’ll never be apart again.”

I believe my story is not mine alone—it is the story of an entire generation of Chinese students who came to the U.S. in the late 1980s. At that time, we were few in number, a handful of pioneers navigating an unfamiliar world. At my university, there were only a few dozen Chinese students, most from the class of ’77 and ’78, already in their thirties, shaped by the hardships of a turbulent era. We had grown up with adversity, and so, when faced with the trials of studying abroad, we met them with resilience and quiet perseverance.

Thirty years have passed in the blink of an eye, leaving behind a trove of memories—some bitter, some sweet, all unforgettable. Through it all, I have been sustained by love and gratitude. To my husband, whose more than 300 letters across the ocean became the pillars of my spirit. To my parents, who lovingly raised my daughter in my absence, giving me the freedom to pursue my dreams. To my siblings and friends, whose unwavering support carried me through the darkest days. To my professors and mentors, who guided me in my academic journey. And to the classmates and colleagues who extended their kindness in times of struggle.

Now, as my professional career draws to a close, I look back and see not just the struggles, but the choices that defined my path. The Reform and Opening-up era gave me the opportunity to change my destiny, but it was perseverance that shaped the road I walked. Every challenge I faced, every hardship endured, was met with the refusal to surrender. And as I step into the next chapter of life, I can only hope to meet the challenges of old age with the same courage I had when I first set foot on this foreign shore.

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Dr. Kaiping Han holds a doctorate in biology from the University of South Carolina. Her career has been devoted to advancing cancer research through immunology, where she served as a senior scientist in the biotechnology sector. Her work has been published in Nature and other respected medical journals.

Originally from China, she immigrated to the United States in 1987 to pursue higher education and to build a life of freedom and opportunity for her daughter. Now retired, she spends her time writing and traveling the world with her daughter and grandchildren.