An Immigrant’s Daughter
I am the daughter of two Colombian immigrants.
When my parents were in their 20s, they crossed the US-Mexico border into this country illegally (*gasp* can I say that out loud?). They met as undocumented immigrants in New York City, married once my dad secured citizenship, and had three kids together—we’re each two years apart.
For much of my youth, I resented that my parents weren’t “American.” I felt like my life was harder because my parent’s native tongue wasn’t English. They didn’t get the things I obsessed over, they didn’t have a ton of money like my friend’s parents did, and they couldn’t help me with things like college applications, essays for scholarships, or job interviews.
Don’t get me wrong, they would have tried to help if I asked because they were always generous with their time and attention. It simply felt easier to get it done on my own because asking for help often required a long period of explanations. This time spent untangling foreign concepts to one’s parents is something I didn’t realize was a reality for a lot of children of immigrants. It’s not a small thing either . . .
You see, there is a certain level of fatigue that comes with having to explain everything to your parents. I’m not just talking about the “you were born in a different era” explanations—although children of immigrants experience that too. I’m talking about the “we weren’t born or raised in the same culture and neither of us understands the other’s culture” kind of explanation. And let me tell you, those are some difficult and draining conversations to have . . . especially when they’re done on a regular basis.
It’s one thing to have to explain yourself to strangers every once in a while. But when you have to do it at home and for concepts you don’t even feel are very significant, it can quickly cause you to become reluctant of bringing your parents into your world.
This idea inspired the novel I wrote, An American Immigrant. In the book, a young Colombian-American journalist is on the verge of losing her dream job. But one of her biggest struggles—and one that will prove to have many answers to her problems—is that she’s lived her entire life trying to push away a major part of her identity that she’s never connected with: her heritage.
The funny thing is, like the protagonist in my book, I didn’t realize how the most difficult part of my upbringing (growing up with parents who were raised in a different country) became the catalyst for what I believe are the best character traits my siblings and I share: independence and fortitude.
This really became apparent to me after reading a fantastic book by Julie Lythcott-Haims called, “How to Raise an Adult: Break Free of the Overparenting Trap and Prepare Your Kids for Success.” This book, and writing my novel, helped me realize what a gift it was to be raised by two Colombian immigrants.
Ironically, my parents didn’t “over-parent” intentionally.
When I was really young, they both worked multiple jobs. Overparenting isn’t a choice when you’re struggling to earn enough to feed your kids.
As we got older, moved out of New York City, and my parents found better paying jobs, they were able to slowly climb into the middle class. Only having to work one job each made them feel like they were rolling in dough compared to their early years in America.
Despite having both parents around more often, by that point in our lives, my siblings and I already knew the value of hard work, independence, and self sufficiency. We didn’t grow up with parents who were on top of us about our schoolwork. They didn’t have to ask if we’d completed our homework, finished that project for the science fair, or if they could review things like essays and exams. We knew what was expected of us (that they made very clear) and each of us accomplished those requirements in our own way.
Reading stories in Lythcott-Haims’ book about parents who showed up at job interviews with their children or called college deans to get information about their adult child’s life on campus blew my mind. Parents actually do that?? I’m not sure my parents would have even known how to get in touch with my college dean. Not because they’re unintelligent, but because the idea would have never crossed their mind.
It would have never occurred to them to speak to an adult on my behalf or fight a battle I was capable of fighting. By the time we turned 15, they encouraged us to find a part-time job so that we could pay for things we wanted. And once we’d moved out on our own, whether to go to college or our own apartment, none of us called home to find out how to do a load of laundry or fry an egg. These were skills we’d learned years before.
I wish I’d known then what a true gift it was to be raised by people who pushed us to be self-sufficient. Instead, I spent my time lamenting not having “normal” parents. But what would my life look like today if I’d been raised by “normal” parents? It’s hard to say, but what I do know is that my parent’s experience as immigrants shaped so much about me.
Unbeknownst to my parents, they launched my siblings and I into a world they were completely unfamiliar with, armed with every tool we would need to find our own version of success. And that is about the best gift any parent can give their child.
Today, I am ever grateful to call myself a daughter of immigrants and I find myself wondering what I can do to raise my own kids—kids who don’t have immigrants for parents—in a similar fashion.
