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We grew up behind a Burger King but preferred McDonald's. On the playground, it was Mickey D’s, but at home, it was most familiar to me as Muc-doh-no, as I heard it in my household. The golden arches instantly transported us into a movie-esque version of Americana, even in a food desert—a nearly impossible feat.
Was it part of the American Dream to split everything and have nothing of your own?
Our version of a kid's meal was the #2 : two cheeseburgers, one fries, and one soft drink to share with my sister. This was when the dollar menu still had items that truly cost $1. Throughout my childhood, we rarely had the chance to get a proper kid's meal. Those were for carefree American kids who didn’t have to be mindful of their family’s tight budgets. Occasionally, I would only get a hamburger, insisting I didn’t need the few extra cents for cheese. That’s how hyper-conscious I was about money, even in early elementary school. At 7 years old, I was tasked with being strong and sacrificing what wasn’t essential—except, of course, when McDonald's had the rare Hello Kitty kids’ meal giveaways.
Happiness felt too expensive, indulgent, and American for the children of refugees.
Toys and joy came at a cost—a cost that could jeopardize my family’s future. I tasted uneasiness with every bite, guilt lingering alongside the meaty, cheesy, oniony aftertaste. I starved for the freedom to have my very own happy meal, without judgment, free from the ties of responsibility or the weight of intergenerational sacrifice. As a first or second grader, that was part of my American Dream.
Decades later, after a long morning walk with friends, I couldn’t resist stopping at McDonald’s. Using discounts from the McDonald’s app, I indulged in a real kid's meal. The workers were kind enough to give me the Mario Kart Princess Peach figurine, one of the few “girls’” kids' meal toys. I wonder if they thought it was for me or for a younger child. The fries were smaller than I remembered, but I soaked in the joy of earning and gifting myself a piece of childhood happiness—however delayed—and finally completing my silly little but very real dream.
I realize now the fries from the #2 were bigger, and I don’t need the toy. But I understand the point: it wasn’t about the food. It was about reclaiming a moment of joy I had once believed wasn’t mine to have.
Betty Tran is a lifelong writer and reader, born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, and the daughter of Vietnamese refugees. She studied at USC, UPenn, and recently earned her MBA at Dartmouth. She is passionate about business, technology, languages, and Vietnamese history and personal narratives.
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