Growing up in New York City in the late 1990s wasn’t easy. In the midst of risks, such as gang violence and racism, growing up in an immigrant family was a never-ending journey of developing resilience against constant adversities. Growing up in two distinct cultural settings that emphasizes contrasting values, traditional conformity versus individualistic freedom, made you question how you defined yourself, in terms of not only cultural identity, but also your fit in society. Last year, I showed my parents a new television series called “Fresh Off the Boat,” which describes the childhood of Eddie Huang and his family, immigrants from Taiwan. Wanting to learn more of my childhood, I asked my parents if their experiences as immigrants were
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I remember that during Halloween, people would come throw eggs at our house, maybe because of the idea that we were doing financially well, despite being immigrants or maybe they had xenophobia. At that time, all I remember was hiding behind a wall, hoping that the window would protect us, that the window would protect us from the discrimination and racism against Asian-Americans. That, if I were to stay inside the house, I wouldn’t have to experience the harshness of reality and stay trapped within my illusion of bliss and perfection. As we cleaned up the mess the next day, I knew, for sure, one thing: I had to grow up fast, that because I was a first-generation, I had to adapt and adjust to American society. I didn’t have much of a childhood. To this day, I felt that I might have matured too quickly as my perspective on life became defined through my hatred for ignorance. It wasn’t until another Asian family moved in when life became better. My grandparents would go to our back patio and talk to them all day long and compare our gardens to theirs. It wasn’t until then that my neighborhood became to accept diversity, and it wasn’t until elementary school that I realized that my experiences were similar to the many other Asian students that lived in the
I remember that during Halloween, people would come throw eggs at our house, maybe because of the idea that we were doing financially well, despite being immigrants or maybe they had xenophobia. At that time, all I remember was hiding behind a wall, hoping that the window would protect us, that the window would protect us from the discrimination and racism against Asian-Americans. That, if I were to stay inside the house, I wouldn’t have to experience the harshness of reality and stay trapped within my illusion of bliss and perfection. As we cleaned up the mess the next day, I knew, for sure, one thing: I had to grow up fast, that because I was a first-generation, I had to adapt and adjust to American society. I didn’t have much of a childhood. To this day, I felt that I might have matured too quickly as my perspective on life became defined through my hatred for ignorance. It wasn’t until another Asian family moved in when life became better. My grandparents would go to our back patio and talk to them all day long and compare our gardens to theirs. It wasn’t until then that my neighborhood became to accept diversity, and it wasn’t until elementary school that I realized that my experiences were similar to the many other Asian students that lived in the