The Troubles of Being an Immigrant

I realise that the title of this is highly misleading. I expect you will think me as someone who left their home country in search of a better life; who had to work night and day in order to support their family on a minimum wage paycheck, all the while experiencing discrimination like there was no tomorrow.

That is not me. That is my parents.

I am the product.

The daughter of two hard working immigrants. The ungrateful child that realized too late what my parents had to go through in order to get this far. The sacrifices my mother made so I could have a different life.

I’m one of the luckier ones. I’ve always had a roof over my head. I had the unconditional love of two amazing people. People who would skip their own meals if it meant getting me a stupid toy that would make me less sulky. My mother always makes fun of my father about how attached he was to me when I was growing up. He still is, but he’s learning to tone it down.

My mother never denies that he is more attached to me than she is. This has never lead to her treating me terribly; but she never shyed away from critisizing me when she thought I needed it either.

I am grateful for them. I am greatful for my family.