When I was a kid, my mouth was always hot.

My parents would force-feed me spicy food that they cooked and ate with ease. It was Hunan and Szechuan dishes they ate their entire lives, from coating white rice with Mapo Tofu to the fact that my parents would put mala sauce on everything, I was exposed to spicy food at a very young age.

I remember when my older brother laughed at me for my inability to handle spicy food, for the fact that I would run to the sink to drink water (which only made the burning sensation in my mouth worse) or the fact that I would go hungry some days because I couldn't handle the severity of the spice.

From when I was 4 on, I was consistently exposed to some of the most spicy Chinese dishes on the planet.

It was only with extreme joy that, six years later, at 10 years old, I mocked my mom, dad, and brother for their inability to handle spicy food the way I became conditioned to. Despite all the chaos that happened at home, from unemployment to the fact that my parents were going through a divorce, what united our family was that I could always make them laugh.

And I consistently reminded them that they were soft, that the student had become the master.

Now, at 22, not having seen my parents in a very long time, every time I have spicy food, snacks, or any dish that I ate at a young age, I'm reminded of home. I'm not saying that like it's always a good thing, because home wasn't always good. But I remember my family, and I remember the people God used to deliver me to where I am now, as a believer of Christ, as an inner-city teacher that does everything to do right by his kids.

My kids that I teach will do anything I ask for hot Cheetos, Takis, hot Doritos. It doesn't matter what reading level they're at: I know they love spicy chips and foods, and they'll take the test and do the assignment I ask in exchange for eating the foods they like.

And every time I buy hot chips, from Takis to hot Cheetos, I'm reminded a bit of my family and how much I miss them. I'm surrounded with and teach kids who have been through severe trauma, worse than I've ever been through. My kids have lost their parents to addiction. They have lost their parents to gun violence and sudden deaths. Many of them have never known their fathers, and some haven't been raised by parents at all.

Despite the fact that I believed I was raised in a dysfunctional family, the dysfunction was never as bad as when parents aren't around in the first place, when kids never knew what it was ever like to have a mother or father. I still, to this day, have two loving, living parents, who want the best for me despite not always wanting the best methods for it, and that scenario is much luckier than everything my kids have been through.

Szechuan, Hunan, and general spicy food was my family's way of initiating me into the family, and into the culture. I know now, as a member of the Fan family, that you cannot be a Fan and be called the name without being able to stomach ghost peppers, mala sauce, and order the spiciest possible sauce for your wings at every possible restaurant.

Yes, spicy foods may cause heartburn, but for me, spicy food is a part of my culture, a part of who I am. And when you're sick, and you stop doing the things that make you who you are in the first place, you only get sicker.

As I write this article, I'm munching on extra spicy Cheetos. I think about my students, who love spicy snacks so much they'll ransack my closet for them. I smile thinking about the kids who I wake up to live for on a day to day basis, who I'll love unconditionally because they're my kids.

But I also think about my family. I think about the dinners where Asian parents bickered, argued, and even became physically confrontational about how much they wanted to pay the bill. I think about my parents, who worked all the time to put a roof above my head and food on my plate, who dropped everything at times to drive me to practices or school. I think about how I haven't talked to them in over a week.

I think about my older brother, who I talk to on a daily basis about his mental health struggles, and how we used to share plates of tofu or beef doused with mala sauce. I think about how I have to call him tomorrow to ask him how his exam went.

And I wouldn't have any of these reminders for my family if it wasn't for my students' interests, if it weren't for the spicy foods that I subconsciously pursue to bring me back to home. Even if it's just for a moment.