An Essay About Sacrifice In America

I have no family in America.

Everyone who is biologically related to me lives in Bangladesh. Even the people who I call my family, aren’t. We are not related by blood, but rather, we are tied by our collective loneliness in this country. I think they’re what family feels like— although I suppose I wouldn 't know. In Bangladeshi-American culture, there’s a joke that we all somehow know each other. That if you give two Bengalis enough time, they’ll figure out how they’re connected. They’ll figure out that their uncle’s cousin’s neighbor 's friend know each other, which then leads back into how they know each other. There 's a reason why all Bengalis know each other, because whether we like to admit it or not, we all look to each other for family because many of us don 't have that luxury. Twelve years ago, my parents applied to get my family here and just now they 're getting approved. They 're all going to come and live with us. And finally, I 'll have a family. Because of that, sacrifices will be made.

And these sacrifices are not a bad thing.
In fact, it is an integral part of who I am.

What the word sacrifice means to you depends on what culture you were raised in. For many Americans, sacrifice goes hand in hand with suffering and pain. It is something they are not willing to do and would rather avoid at all costs.

I know it sounds odd, to be proud of your parents. Usually it’s the reverse. Parents say they are proud of their children. And my parents definitely are, but I feel as though a child has to fully appreciate their parents sacrifices in order for that to happen. The reason why I think so highly of them is because they immigrated from Bangladesh, a foreign country, to be here. They sacrificed everything to be here. If that isn 't something to be proud of, I don’t know what is. Since their accomplishments somehow feel like they are my own, I have to be proud; I can’t help