I had the grand honor of being born into a culturally diverse family. Although Dominican culture dominates our customs, we are 25% Middle Eastern from Lebanon, and 25% Spanish from Barcelona, Spain.The cultures have all laced into each other in such a way that I find it utterly ordinary to eat Arabic food while listening to Dominican music while serving Spanish desserts. My parents came to America at around the age that I am now, met each other, and my mom had my first sister at 18 while my father was 22. My mom went back to high school to finish her GED while my father enrolled in an institution that he never got around to finishing because his english was not well. My parents never got the opportunity to further their education because they had my sisters and I at such an early age. My parents have worked since the day they stepped foot in New York precisely so that I could get the prestigious education that they had always longed for. My parents separated when I was eight years old and my father was never really around after; as a
As an immigrant, relocating to America does not necessarily mean a permanent settlement. More often than not, my family moved in multiple occasions as my family found it challenging to achieve a sustainable way of life. During the span of my childhood, I have moved to seven cities within a span of fourteen years and enrolled at five schools. Being an oriental immigrant proved to be enough of an embarrassment to my moral standards, but being labeled as “the new kid”, activated my deepest insecurities. Forcibly putting myself in an environment where diversity was not apparent, I implicitly harnessed an arrogance and hatred to my own culture. And the lack thereof resulted in disrespecting my parents; I began to question their parenthood and I would frequently engage in verbal disputes between my parents. I remember hating myself and the Korean identity that I yearned to be forgotten.
As a child of immigrant parents, my formative years in elementary and middle school were shaped by two important factors: the environment in which I lived and my background. My parents worked hard to settle into a new life in a foreign country to provide better opportunities for our family. This meant that we had to be flexible about where we lived due to relocating for jobs, and fluid about our ideas of culture. I recall the daunting nature of moving to a new city, twice, as a child. The prospect of leaving everything that was familiar to me and forming new friendships in an unfamiliar environment was a challenge. Through each of these moves however, I met people from differing backgrounds and learned to cross cultural barriers. I became accustomed to
One, two, three, four, five, there's too much too count. As we drove through the street of what is called the state of California, I looked out the window and I was amazed at how many cars there were. I sat back down properly in my seat and felt the leather on the seat like it was a new spectacle. I've ridden in a car once before back my home country but never one that was this nice. I looked over to my mom as she flashes a smile but I can feel that she is nervous about something. After a while, we reached our destination and the taxi driver helped us load our luggage off the taxi. My dad helped me with my luggage and was about to walk into the house when the taxi man called him back and spoke in an irritated voice like he was asking for something. My mom nudged his arm and pointed at his wallet. My dad noticed and smiled awkwardly as he dug his wallet out from his pocket and paid the taxi man. The taxi man snatched the money, spitted on the side walk and he mumbled from what I could hear, "Stupid immigrants.” I didn't know what it meant but I could tell he spoke in an angry tone.
I am a daughter of a refugee and an immigrant. My father left Ethiopia and walked across several countries finally coming to America. While my mother came after 15 years since the communist advance into South Vietnam. I come from a household of parents from two different continents.Their arrival america gave an unique atmosphere in the household. The aroma of home-cook Vietnamese food and the constant shift between English and Vietnamese was my life was at home. My parents would frequently share their stories of their upbringings and struggles and how life here is very different.
Being a child of immigrant parents is not easy. You are constantly living in the fear that one day you’ll wake up and you parents won’t be there with you anymore. Specially now that we have a new president, things are getting more challenging. But don’t get me wrong, I live a happy life. I am proud to call myself a Latina. Being a child of immigrant parents has taught me so much. For example, being able to work hard for what you want. At school, I always strive to get A’s. My parent’s have taught me to never settle for anything less than a B. They know that in order for me to go to college and be successful, I not only have to get good grades but work hard to get there. I love a good challenge. Sometimes it’s not about the obstacles you face,
Being Hispanic has taught me a whole world of things. It has taught me that the world is not what you expect it to be. Going to a public school and being th minority is completely different than going to a see my cousins where every thing is different. The way we talk, the food we eat. Its all different. To me, being hispanic is probably the biggest blessing I could ever get. I love being hispanic. Being able to know that my culture is completely different than those at school. It has brought so much knowledge that telling other people about makes them want to be hispanic. Although the majority of it is happy experience, I have had my share of negative experiences. From racism or being mistreated for being the minority. Although those things do impact how I feel, I
Thesis: In this paper, I will focus in analyzing the relationship between immigrant parents and their first-generationers children and discussing how first-generationers identify their complicated identity clearly.
In the film Documented and The New York Times article “My Life as an Undocumented Immigrant,” Jose Antonio Vargas describes his experience as an undocumented immigrant in the United States and provides a passionate argument for creating a pathway to citizenship for others like Vargas, who are undocumented as well. Although both the film and article give the viewers and readers an insight into Vargas’ difficult journey, a particular scene in the film sends an unspoken message about the United States as a whole. In Documented, the scene in which Jose Antonio Vargas attends a Mitt Romney campaign rally is detrimental to the immigration debate because it demonstrates the need for Americans to be educated about undocumented
More than twelve million immigrants will make their first stop in America at Ellis Island Immigration station in the years ahead between 1892 and 1954, at least that's what we read. Who knew a small island in the New York Harbor would become my life saver ?
Reflecting on my development as a first-generation immigrant, I can attribute a large portion of my characteristics and aspirations to my experiences growing up and to the role model whom I have admired, my mother. More specifically, being exposed to the tireless work ethic of a single parent who had to overcome the dual pressures of assimilation and poverty has imparted in me a respect for the ideals of continual self-improvement and advancement. My mother’s sacrifices have always been to better our family’s situation and to provide me with the best education opportunities. Recognizing my mother’s hard worked and what she has given up for me, I put my best foot forward in every situation to honor her. Looking back at the hardships such as racial discrimination and language barriers my mother had to transcend, as
In the mid 1980’s my mother immigrated to the United States of America with the help of one of her sister who was already living in California. She left me in the care of my grandmother who became like a mother overtime (Hondagneu-Sotelo, 2007:25). Growing up in Mexico I never considered the type of work my mother was doing in the US, but I would hear las lenguas (people talking) in my neighborhood, saying that my mother was likely barriendo los doloras (sweeping up dollars) from the streets en el Norte (in the North). At night, I would lay in bed thinking about my mother sweeping up dollar bills from the streets. I imagined her with a smile -contenta (happy). The dollars she was supposedly sweeping up allowed her to provide for me, but also reinforced
Mr. Millar, a Spanish teacher at my high school and the advisor for our chapter of the National Honor Society, was a man whom I grew to respect and admire during my first year in NHS. Sure, he was a little eccentric, but his students loved him for his easy going method of teaching and his cross country runners cherished his countless amusing idiosyncrasies; consequently, I was shocked when I stumbled across a particular article on a local news website. “The Michigan State Police notified Howell Public Schools that Duane Millar, a Howell High School teacher and coach was arraigned in the 54B District Court in Ingham County.” My mind raced as I read on, “the charges were on one count of possession of child sexually abusive material... as well as one count of using a computer to commit a crime.”
As a child of a Vietnamese immigrant , the stories and the past memories that are brought up by my mother, gives me an understanding of how hard it is to leave your mother country and how sometimes you must do what’s best for yourself. There are times when i think to myself and wonder how it would have been like if my mother had not immigrated to the states, I probably would not be here today, or if i was that i would not have been born and raised in the United States. Being a child of an immigrant is not difficult, it does not put me in a disadvantage either , but it instead spreads the message of how it is okay to be different and how it is okay to take risks that will benefit you in the following years. All these messages and lessons have
I want to start my story before I was even born. My dad came to the United States but my mom was still in the Philippines. Then when I was born in the Philippines, my mom took care of me for five years while my dad was working a minimum wage job in the U.S., trying to earn enough money to send both my mom and I to the United States so we could all have a better life, one where we could prosper more due to the opportunities that the U.S. provides. I grew up going to a public school from kindergarten to 5th grade where I met people of different races. When I was in school being in ESL (English as a Second Language) exposed me to even more people of color such as Mexicans, Middle Eastern people, Turkish people, Latinos, and other Asian people.