Coming from an immigrant family, my role growing up was nothing like that of my peers. When I was in second grade, I would go to my classmate Alyssa’s house after school each Tuesday and wait for my mother to pick me up after work. Alyssa’s mother would sit us at the dining table, give us a snack, and help us with our homework. Everything felt so much simpler in their home. I just wanted to be like all the other children in my class. I wanted my mother to guide me and sit next to me at the kitchen table, correcting my errors, just like Alyssa’s mother did. One day, I asked my mother for help on my writing homework. I’ll never forget the apparent shame and helplessness on my mother’s face when she looked at me, her big blue eyes filled with tears, and said, “I can’t míja, I don’t know how to write in English.” It was that day that I realized my life was incomparable to that of my peers.
As I got older, I taught my father English, I taught my parents how to use a computer, and as for my academic career, I did it all on my own. I studied on my own. I applied for scholarships, loans, and colleges on my own. I held the weight of being the first to go to college on my back. Sitting at my small black desk in my room, my hand grazing over the chipped paint along the side, I would stare at my SAT prep book daily, hoping I could teach myself all the material before the big day. I read my personal statement over a hundred times, just hoping I would catch any mistakes before submitting them to colleges. How could I do this all on my own? My parents could only pass by and say, “Buen trabajo Alex” with a smile on their face, pretending they knew what I was working on. While I had all the emotional support I could ask for, I felt like no one understood how hard I was trying just to be average. I couldn’t help but think that the odds were against me and that the role given to me was weighing me down. I believed that all the success I had dreamed of, my parents had hoped for, and my life was counting on, would eventually crash and burn. My father would always tell me how fortunate I was to be surrounded by opportunities, and although I would respond saying “I know,” I was screaming, “You don’t get it!” or “Why can’t I be like everyone else?” over and over in my head. In my mind, he didn’t understand, he thought the world was handed to me on a silver platter. Each morning I would wake up hoping it would be an easier day. It was the ambition and drive instilled in me by my father and the little voice inside my head reminding me of my end goal that kept me going. Due to the constant feeling of being alone on this journey, and that any future success I could possibly obtain would be sheer luck, I failed to see the support, love, and care my parents had for me. It wasn’t until I saw my parent’s childhood through their eyes, that I finally gained clarity and appreciation of my circumstance. For as long as I can remember, my father would reflect on his childhood in Cuba. He was the story teller of the family. He would tell stories of his times sitting on the warm white sand and when he would play baseball with a stick and rock on the street, barefoot under the rain. The stories were endless. While I thought I understood his stories, the poverty, and the lack of human rights he described, I didn’t. When I was thirteen, my parents and I went on a family vacation to Cuba. Upon landing, I was filled with excitement to meet my family who had stayed behind and to see people dancing on the streets how I had seen it in the movies. However, when I looked at my parents, their faces were flushed as if they had been holding their breath, but I couldn’t understand why. Armed military officials surrounded the terminal, watching our every move; it was clear we were not in the United States anymore. The second we walked out of the airport, my father squeezing my hand as if he feared letting go, I imagined his stories. The smog from the old cars, the poverty, and the propaganda flooded the streets. After a few days of being on this trip and living with the family I just met, the childhood my parents described became a reality. The lack of food, sanitation, opportunities, and the deteriorating infrastructure was disheartening. Needless to say, the movies were wrong. Our last night there, my father and I took a stroll through the streets of Havana. Midway through the stroll, we stopped at a local park and sat side by side on the moist grass looking up at the clear sky. My father decided it was time to tell me one last story; one that would change my perspective forever. It was the story of his escape from Cuba in 1975: One summer night, my father jumped into the warm dark ocean, swam until he saw a ship nearby, and held on to it until he saw land. He then created a life without knowing a lick of English, or having a cent to his name. With only the clothes on his back, he started his own business, saving up all his money, which he then used to pay for my two aunts and grandparents to come to America. When my father’s story came to a close, I couldn’t help but cry. I looked him in the eyes and saw this look of relief, as if he had finally been able to breathe again since we had been at the airport. I treasured this moment. It brought my father and me together and formed a level of trust between us that I had never imagined were possible. My father trusted me with a story he had only told a select few, and I trusted that I had never been on my own, rather my parents had guided me in ways I never realized. My father taught me that regardless of my circumstance, with support, resilience, and ambition, I can be successful. What once seemed like a burden now felt like an honor to me. What I once saw like a never ending dark hole, now had light. I’ve been given the opportunity to get an education, I have food on my plate for every meal, and a roof over my head—privileges which I had taken for granted before. His story taught me the importance of being determined, the necessity to persevere through the face of adversity, and to always stand with pride the way he always has. Having an American education coupled with my strongminded support system has made me who I am. Coming from an immigrant family once seemed like a weight holding me back, when in reality it has pushed me to be an independent, strong, and opportunistic woman. Yes, at times my life felt unfair, and smy goals felt harder to obtain, but conversely, where I come from and how I have been raised has made me determined to be successful. This trip to Cuba made me realize that developing countries are many a times portrayed incorrectly, and taught me the importance of having a support system and most importantly, human rights. I am moved by the resilience of people in developing countries despite the hardships and economic barriers they face. I wish to advocate for the people of these countries, to make their voices heard and their circumstances clear to people in the United States. I intend to become involved with a foundation which will provide capital and resources that when paired with their aforementioned resiliency will enable them to effectively pursue a better life. Moreover, I wish to become involved with the social movement for education system reform, seeking to improve educational opportunities for children coming from immigrant families like myself. This includes a better system for English second language classes, as well as peer advisors and tutors readily accessible for children of immigrant families provided by the school. With these improvements, children won’t feel as if the odds are against them, rather they will have someone motivating and helping them through their academic career. With both the foundation and the education system reform, immigrants in the United States as well as people of these developing countries will have their voices heard, a support system, improved living conditions, and the opportunity to be successful the way I have been.
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