I feel flour on my fingertips. 

With my soft, fleshy palms I round the dough in a squishing motion with my hands. I mold it in all the ways I’ve been taught. The sweet aroma of fresh buns fills the air. A result of my grandmother’s skill. She is the focused woman who stands beside me. 

Fresh buns pile themselves on top of each other. The delicious scent tickles my nose. It is not long before a line of tourists and locals forms outside our small bakery in central Chinatown. They eye our selection of pineapple buns and piping hot egg tarts. 

My mom runs the front of the store, calling my name left and right.

“Clementine,” she says with a thick Chinese accent, “pass me that box over there!”

“Clementine! Take out the fresh tray.” 

Her orders ring in my ears, and I don’t mind. There is something oddly comforting about working in the corner of our small bakery. The constant chaos. The swerving to avoid running into each other. Something about all of it really feels like family.

My father, taking orders in the corner, switching from his Chinese dialect to his well-crafted English. My mother managing the tables and taking out hot trays. My grandmother making all the pastries. 

And yet, somehow, as beautiful as it is, I can’t help but feel disconnected from it all. 

“Clementine! Take this order!” My mother yells at me in Chinese as she runs to the back.

I stop my dough kneading, shaking the flour from my hands, rushing to take over. 

I am quickly greeted by an old woman. Her face is plump and round. Her cheeks are rosy and bright like the sweetness of bitten lava buns. 

“What do you recommend?”

She says it in fast Chinese, and I understand. I do. But from my mouth to my mind something doesn’t add up. And suddenly, it's like a river is opening between us. 

This is how I am disconnected. These unfamiliar feelings of loss. This gap between me and my culture. I stand frozen in a trance, until finally that buried part of me speaks up. 

The words are gritty, pried from my teeth. “The pineapple buns are good.”

My accent is thick. It is harsh and rusty with disuse. My Chinese is barely passing. I point to the closest shelf and as if taking pity on me, the old lady gives me an awkward smile. Hot embarrassment flames my face. She gives me a nod and I start packing up her order. 

My mother comes back from the kitchen and finishes the lady's order, handing over her change and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “You used your Chinese?”

She seems proud of me and I smile at her in return.

I do not tell her how foreign the words felt. I do not tell her how wrong they felt coming from my lips. I do not tell her how disgraced I feel. 

For the rest of the day I stay in the back, molding and baking and busying myself with tasks so I am not called to the front again. The day passes. I do not speak another word of Chinese.

As rush hour finishes up and customers slow to a steady trickle, I am awarded a break from the back.

I spot a little girl. Her smile is sticky with the dragon’s beard candy she holds in her small hands. Her family is seated with a bright pink box of our signature buns. The five of them pose for a photo outside our storefront. It isn't long before I too find myself smiling. 

That is, until I feel gunpowder on my fingertips. 

The click of the gun marking the moment my world finally cracks. 

The robber wears a black ski mask. He holds an intimidating stance and carries himself with confidence. He points the gun directly toward my mother.

He motions to the cash register. My heart rate speeds up. My breaths pause. I am frozen as I watch. 

Still, in all the chaos I find my gaze back on that little girl. She is huddled in the arms of her father. Her smile is gone. Her dragon candy is abandoned on the floor. It is crushed by her family's footsteps as they run from our shop. 

I see her pigtails exit the door. 

I wonder if she will ever come back again. I wonder if she will warn her friends in the future of the horror she witnessed in Chinatown. "Listen," she will tell them. "Robberies and danger, and..."

And I want to tell her no. 

But when I look out the doorway, that no is gone. My eyes see buildings that are crumbling. I see cracked store windows and police cars. The stores that once belonged to my childhood are gated. I no longer see the spirit of Chinatown. I see terror. 

And suddenly, I no longer feel the flour on my fingertips, or the gunpowder. I feel dust.