When my mother alongside my brother and I immigrated from Haiti to the United States, I can’t lie and say that although it did give me a chance at a better life I didn’t feel like a piece of my identity was missing. We moved here when I was three months shy of my fifth birthday and I was sent straight to kindergarten not having one clue in the world as to what had happened to the place I had called home for those years before. My mother had forbidden speaking creole in the house and only spoke English to us due to her fear of my brother and I would become ostracized because our accents would strip us of any chance of being true Americans. By the time I finished kindergarten, I had lost my native tongue, although I can still understand bits
