On March 1, 2014, I had no idea what was happening. Hurrying out of our Beijing apartment home for the last time; shoving suitcases and bags into the trunk of a taxi amidst the morning hustle-bustle of the street; skidding and sliding on a polished white marble floor, trying hard not to let our luggage get trapped in people’s legs; seeing rows upon rows of metal seats in front of the large window, airplanes resting outside like a colony of insects—

And for some reason, Mom is arguing with a lady behind the counter. I peek around the crook of Mom’s elbow and glimpse the young woman with too much makeup layered on her face and scarlet-red lips pursed with barely-contained frustration.

“You don’t have our membership card with you!” she spits out. “You can’t come inside.”

“What do you mean?” Mom retorts, voice tinged with anger. She leans forward until her face is only inches away from the receptionist stationed at the airline's waiting room entrance. “I told you, we do have a membership card. My husband will come by later and show it to you!”

The lady rolls her mascara-outlined eyes in irritation, opening her mouth to snap back, “Then where is he now?”

Suddenly, someone clears her throat behind us, and the employee’s gaze darts to the wavy gold hair, light gray eyes, and stunning white teeth of an American teenager.

Immediately, the receptionist grins, powdered cheeks splitting into a wide smile. Somehow, the smile doesn’t quite reach her dark brown eyes. “Welcome!” she exclaims in heavily-accented English, bowing overenthusiastically. “Please be comfortable in waiting room.”

I’m confused. Aren’t people supposed to respect their elders? Not the other way around, right?

I glance up at Mom. Her expression is unreadable and nothing like her usually fierce gaze. She just stares silently at the pale-skinned, bubble-gum-chewing high-schooler who has just walked into the waiting room without even needing to prove her membership.

As the door shuts behind the girl with a click, Mom pulls me away with a final scathing glare at the receptionist.

"Listen, sweetie," she speaks in a low tone. "When we arrive in America tomorrow, don’t let others look down on you. China may not be the best country, but it’s no worse than the United States.”

Before the receptionist disappears from my sight, though, I catch a last glimpse of her:

Hatred, resentment, and disdain are twisted onto her face. But what I don’t understand is the hint of fear evident in her eyes.

Was she frightened of my mother?

Or was she frightened of the young white girl whose cheeks were even paler than her powdered ones?