The Divide Between Immigrant Parents and Their Children
I am a first-generation immigrant. After coming to the U.S. at age 7 without a word of English under my belt, it took 2–3 years before I stopped failing all my elementary school classes (except math, of course). My mother taught me my ABCs, while my teachers re-explained the 123s I had already learned in kindergarten.
The understated complexity of first-generation immigrant parents AND their first-gen children is difficult to grasp. We empathize with American-born Asians in some ways: not being Asian nor American enough. Speaking my native language at home at a third-grade level, while mixing my “him/her” pronouns because that grammatical distinction isn’t made in many East Asian languages.
However, what ABX (American-born *insert Asian country*) doesn’t relate to as directly is the divide that forms between children who have learned to adapt and assimilate much faster than their parents. 1.5 and 2nd generation children were born with an innate cultural gap, from childhood. Attending American schools from childhood versus coming from your native schooling system (dual-language kindergarten programs did not exist 15 years ago in China)?
This divide comes from one key characteristic: my parents and I both started at Ground Zero — new location, culture, and language.
While they were focused on learning to rent their very first townhouse in a foreign location with a contract written in a foreign language . . . I was trying to make friends by Americanizing myself at school. The vast differences in responsibility despite similar circumstances create a rift between parents and children that the “first-generation experience” trope rarely addresses.
The day we pledged American citizenship, my mom was crying while I was watching TV on my phone, bored out of my mind. I wasn’t mature enough to understand the implications of citizenship and how long the journey from green card to independence-themed passport pages was for my parents — even though I was on that journey with them from Day 1.
Two Distinct Generations Being Able to Share an Experience is Rare
Being able to finally order for them at our local Starbucks in the suburbs, or for them to learn the difference between 2% and 5% Greek yogurt, yet always buying me the wrong one; seeing the joy on my mom’s face the day I was no longer ashamed to bring dumplings to school.
My parents: a decade apart. A singular source of income from 5,597 miles away to support the American life they wanted for me.
The first-generation experience is inexplicably difficult and absolutely praise-worthy. Perpetual imposter syndrome, guilt for my parents’ sacrifices, and being an outcast at school are just glimpses.
