Essay about Being A First Generation Immigrant

1144 Words Dec 5th, 2015 null Page
Place with a Memory Just like everyone in the United States of America, excluding Native Americans, I’m an immigrant and/or come from immigrant descendants. This means everyone has a race or ethnic group from which they descend from, and they may or may not follow the cultural aspects of their kin. For me, I am an immigrant who moved to the United States from Pakistan at the age of two (2002), so while my parents grew up with a great deal of culture and tradition, I did not; I only have what they attempted to affix on me. Being a first-generation immigrant, I grew up with all of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents directly on the opposite side of the world from me, so to me my real family was only between me, my mom, my dad, and my older brother. I mean, I knew I had a massive number of relatives, and I mean massive, but because they were not with me growing up, they did not exactly exist in my world. Let us go back in time six years into the past (2009) to when I saw my relatives for the first time on a trip to Pakistan after 8 years of being apart. The first thing I saw after getting out of the airport from the dreaded sixteen hours flight was a huge crowd of people, and little did I know that two thirds of the crowd were my family members when one of my uncles ran up and hugged me. I was a day behind in my sleep schedule and all I could remember was almost screaming for my life. After that it just got livelier and livelier, meeting so many older but familiar…

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