my immigrant parents story essay

College Essay: My Parents’ Sacrifice Makes Me Strong

After living in Texas briefly, my mom moved in with my aunt in Minnesota, where she helped raise my cousins while my aunt and uncle worked. My mom still glances to the building where she first lived. I think it’s amazing how she first moved here, she lived in a small apartment and now owns a house. 

My dad’s family was poor. He dropped out of elementary school to work. My dad was the only son my grandpa had. My dad thought he was responsible to help his family out, so he decided to leave for Minnesota   because  of  many  work opportunities .   

My parents met working in cleaning at the IDS  C enter during night shifts. I am their only child, and their main priority was not leaving me alone while they worked. My mom left her cleaning job to work mornings at a warehouse. My dad continued his job in cleaning at night.   

My dad would get me ready for school and walked me to the bus stop while waiting in the cold. When I arrived home from school, my dad had dinner prepared and the house cleaned. I would eat with him at the table while watching TV, but he left after to pick up my mom from work.   

My mom would get home in the afternoon. Most memories of my mom are watching her lying down on the couch watching her  n ovelas  –  S panish soap operas  – a nd falling asleep in the living room. I knew her job was physically tiring, so I didn’t bother her.  

Seeing my parents work hard and challenge Mexican customs influence my values today as a person. As a child, my dad cooked and cleaned, to help out my mom, which is rare in Mexican culture. Conservative Mexicans believe men are superior to women; women are seen as housewives who cook, clean and obey their husbands. My parents constantly tell me I should get an education to never depend on a man. My family challenged  machismo , Mexican sexism, by creating their own values and future.  

My parents encouraged me to, “ ponte  las  pilas ” in school, which translates to “put on your batteries” in English. It means that I should put in effort and work into achieving my goal. I was taught that school is the key object in life. I stay up late to complete all my homework assignments, because of this I miss a good amount of sleep, but I’m willing to put in effort to have good grades that will benefit me. I have softball practice right after school, so I try to do nearly all of my homework ahead of time, so I won’t end up behind.  

My parents taught me to set high standards for myself. My school operates on a 4.0-scale. During lunch, my friends talked joyfully about earning a 3.25 on a test. When I earn less than a 4.25, I feel disappointed. My friends reacted with, “You should be happy. You’re extra . ” Hearing that phrase flashbacks to my parents seeing my grades. My mom would pressure me to do better when I don’t earn all 4.0s  

Every once in  awhile , I struggled with following their value of education. It can be difficult to balance school, sports and life. My parents think I’m too young to complain about life. They don’t think I’m tired, because I don’t physically work, but don’t understand that I’m mentally tired and stressed out. It’s hard for them to understand this because they didn’t have the experience of going to school.   

The way I could thank my parents for their sacrifice is accomplishing their American dream by going to college and graduating to have a professional career. I visualize the day I graduate college with my degree, so my  family  celebrates by having a carne  asada (BBQ) in the yard. All my friends, relatives, and family friends would be there to congratulate me on my accomplishments.  

As teenagers, my parents worked hard manual labor jobs to be able to provide for themselves and their family. Both of them woke up early in the morning to head to work. Staying up late to earn extra cash. As teenagers, my parents tried going to school here in the U.S .  but weren’t able to, so they continued to work. Early in the morning now, my dad arrives home from work at 2:30 a.m .,  wakes up to drop me off at school around 7:30 a.m . , so I can focus on studying hard to earn good grades. My parents want me to stay in school and not prefer work to  head on their  same path as them. Their struggle influences me to have a good work ethic in school and go against the odds.  

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My immigrant family achieved the American dream. Then I started to question it.

by Amanda Machado

In summer 2007, I returned home from my freshman year at Brown University to the new house my family had just bought in Florida. It had a two-car garage. It had a pool. I was on track to becoming an Ivy League graduate, with opportunities no one else in my family had ever experienced. I stood in the middle of this house and burst into tears. I thought: We’ve made it.

That moment encapsulated what I had always thought of the “American dream.” My parents had come to this country from Mexico and Ecuador more than 30 years before, seeking better opportunities for themselves. They worked and saved for years to ensure my two brothers and I could receive a good education and a solid financial foundation as adults. Though I can’t remember them explaining the American dream to me explicitly, the messaging I had received by growing up in the United States made me know that coming home from my first semester at a prestigious university to a new house meant we had achieved it.  

• I spent the last 15 years trying to become an American. I've failed.

And yet, now six years out of college and nearly 10 years past that moment, I’ve begun questioning things I hadn’t before: Why did I “make it” while so many others haven’t? Was this conventional version of making it what I actually wanted? I’ve begun to realize that our society’s definition of making it comes with its own set of limitations and does not necessarily guarantee all that I originally assumed came with the American dream package.

I interviewed several friends from immigrant backgrounds who had also reflected on these questions after achieving the traditional definition of success in the United States. Looking back, there were several things we misunderstood about the American dream. Here are a few:

1) The American dream isn’t the result of hard work. It’s the result of hard work, luck, and opportunity.

Looking back, I can’t discount the sacrifices my family made to get where we are today. But I also can’t discount specific moments we had working in our favor. One example: my second-grade teacher, Ms. Weiland. A few months into the year, Ms. Weiland informed my parents about our school’s gifted program. Students tracked into this program in elementary school would usually end up in honors and Advanced Placement classes in high school — classes necessary for gaining admission into prestigious colleges.

My parents, unfamiliar with our education system, didn’t understand any of this. But Ms. Weiland went out of her way to explain it to them. She also persuaded school administrators to test me for entrance into the program, and with her support, I eventually earned a spot.

It’s not an exaggeration to say that Ms. Weiland’s persistence ultimately influenced my acceptance into Brown University. No matter how hard I worked or what grades I received, without gifted placement I could never have reached the academic classes necessary for an Ivy League school. Without that first opportunity given to me by Ms. Weiland, my entire educational trajectory would have changed.  

The philosopher Seneca said, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.” But in the United States, too often people work hard every day, and yet never receive the opportunities that I did — an opportunity as simple as a teacher advocating on their behalf. Statistically, students of color remain consistently undiscovered by teachers who often , intentionally or not, choose mostly white, high-income students to enter advanced or “gifted” programs , regardless of their qualifications. Upon entering college, I met several students from across the country who also remained stuck within their education system until a teacher helped them find a way out.

Research has proved that these inconsistencies in opportunity exist in almost every aspect of American life. Your race can determine whether you interact with police, whether you are allowed to buy a house , and even whether your doctor believes you are really in pain . Your gender can determine whether you receive funding for your startup or whether your attempts at professional networking are effective. Your "foreign-sounding" name can determine whether someone considers you qualified for a job. Your family’s income can determine the quality of your public school or your odds that your entrepreneurial project succeeds .

These opportunities make a difference. They have created a society where most every American is working hard and yet only a small segment are actually moving forward. Knowing all this, I am no longer naive enough to believe the American dream is possible for everyone who attempts it. The United States doesn’t lack people trying. What it lacks is an equal playing field of opportunity.  

2) Accomplishing the American dream can be socially alienating

Throughout my life, my family and I knew this uncomfortable truth: To better our future, we would have to enter spaces that felt culturally and racially unfamiliar to us. When I was 4 years old, my parents moved our family to a predominantly white part of town, so I could attend the county’s best public schools. I was often one of the only students of color in my gifted and honors programs. This trend continued in college and afterward: As an English major, I was often the only person of color in my literature and creative writing classes. As a teacher, I was often one of few teachers of color at my school or in my teacher training programs.

While attending Brown, a student of color once told me: “Our education is really just a part of our gradual ascension into whiteness.” At the time I didn’t want to believe him, but I came to understand what he meant: Often, the unexpected price for academic success is cultural abandonment.

In a piece for the New York Times , Vicki Madden described how education can create this “tug of war in [your] soul”:

To stay four years and graduate, students have to come to terms with the unspoken transaction: exchanging your old world for a new world, one that doesn’t seem to value where you came from. … I was keen to exchange my Western hardscrabble life for the chance to be a New York City middle-class museum-goer. I’ve paid a price in estrangement from my own people, but I was willing. Not every 18-year-old will make that same choice, especially when race is factored in as well as class.

So many times throughout my life, I’ve come home from classes, sleepovers, dinner parties, and happy hours feeling the heaviness of this exchange. I’ve had to Google cultural symbols I hadn’t understood in these conversations (What is “Harper’s”? What is “après-ski”?). At the same time, I remember using academia jargon my family couldn’t understand either. At a Christmas party, a friend called me out for using “those big Ivy League words” in a conversation. My parents had trouble understanding how independent my lifestyle had become and kept remarking on how much I had changed. Studying abroad, moving across the country for internships, living alone far away from family after graduating — these were not choices my Latin American parents had seen many women make.  

An official from Brown told the Boston Globe that similar dynamics existed with many first-generation college students she worked with: “Often, [these students] come to college thinking that they want to return home to their communities. But an Ivy League education puts them in a different place — their language is different, their appearance is different, and they don’t fit in at home anymore, either.”

A Haitian-American friend of mine from college agreed: “After going to college, interacting with family members becomes a conflicted zone. Now you’re the Ivy League cousin who speaks a certain way, and does things others don’t understand. It changes the dynamic in your family entirely.”

A Latina friend of mine from Oakland felt this when she got accepted to the University of Southern California. She was the first person from her to family to leave home to attend college, and her conservative extended family criticized her for leaving home before marriage.

“One night they sat me down, told me my conduct was shameful and was staining the reputation of the family,” she told me, “My family thought a woman leaving home had more to do with her promiscuity than her desire for an education. They told me, ‘You’re just going to Los Angeles so you can have the freedom to be with whatever guy you want.’ When I think about what was most hard about college, it wasn’t the academics. It was dealing with my family’s disapproval of my life.”

We don’t acknowledge that too often, achievement in the United States means this gradual isolation from the people we love most. By simply striving toward American success, many feel forced to make to make that choice.

3) The American dream makes us focus single-mindedly on wealth and prestige

When I spoke to an Asian-American friend from college, he told me, “In the Asian New Jersey community I grew up in, I was surrounded by parents and friends whose mentality was to get high SAT scores, go to a top college, and major in medicine, law, or investment banking. No one thought outside these rigid tracks.” When he entered Brown, he followed these expectations by starting as a premed, then switching his major to economics.

This pattern is common in the Ivy League: Studies show that Ivy League graduates gravitate toward jobs with high salaries or prestige to justify the work and money we put into obtaining an elite degree. As a child of immigrants, there’s even more pressure to believe this is the only choice.

Of course, financial considerations are necessary for survival in our society. And it’s healthy to consider wealth and prestige when making life decisions, particularly for those who come from backgrounds with less privilege. But to what extent has this concern become an unhealthy obsession? For those who have the privilege of living a life based on a different set of values, to what extent has the American dream mindset limited our idea of success?  

The Harvard Business Review reported that over time, people from past generations have begun to redefine success. As they got older, factors like “family happiness,” “relationships,” “balancing life and work,” and “community service” became more important than job titles and salaries. The report quoted a man in his 50s who said he used to define success as “becoming a highly paid CEO.” Now he defines it as “striking a balance between work and family and giving back to society.”

• Vox First Person: If ambition is ruining your life, you need to read Thoreau

While I spent high school and college focusing on achieving an Ivy League degree, and a prestigious job title afterward, I didn’t think about how other values mattered in my own notions of success. But after I took a “gap year” at 24 to travel, I realized that the way I’d defined the American dream was incomplete: It was not only about getting an education and a good job but also thinking about how my career choices contributed to my overall well-being. And it was about gaining experiences aside from my career, like travel . It was about making room for things like creativity, spirituality , and adventure when making important decisions in my life.

Courtney E. Martin addressed this in her TED talk called “The New Better Off,” where she said: “The biggest danger is not failing to achieve the American dream. The biggest danger is achieving a dream that you don't actually believe in.”

Those realizations ultimately led me to pursue my current work as a travel writer.  Whenever I have the privilege to do so, I attempt what Martin calls “the harder, more interesting thing”: to “compose a life where what you do every single day, the people you give your best love and ingenuity and energy to, aligns as closely as possible with what you believe.”

4) Even if you achieve the American dream, that doesn’t necessarily mean other Americans will accept you

A few years ago, I was working on my laptop in a hotel lobby, waiting for reception to process my booking. I wore leather boots, jeans, and a peacoat. A guest of the hotel approached me and began shouting in slow English (as if I couldn’t understand otherwise) that he needed me to clean his room. I was 25, had an Ivy League degree, and had completed one of the most competitive programs for college graduates in the country. And yet still I was being confused for the maid.

I realized then that no matter how hard I played by the rules, some people would never see me as a person of academic and professional success. This, perhaps, is the most psychologically disheartening part of the American dream: Achieving it doesn’t necessarily mean we can “transcend” racial stereotypes about who we are.

It just takes one look at the rhetoric by current politicians to know that as first-generation Americans, we are still not seen as “American” as others. As so many cases have illustrated recently, no matter how much we focus on proving them wrong, negative perceptions from others will continue to challenge our sense of self-worth.

For black immigrants or children of immigrants, this exclusionary messaging is even more obvious. Kari Mugo, a writer who immigrated to the US from Kenya when she was 18, expressed to me the disappointment she has felt trying to feel welcomed here: “It’s really hard to make an argument for a place that doesn’t want you, and shows that every single day. It’s been 12 years since I came here, and each year I’m growing more and more disillusioned.”

I still cherish my college years, and still feel immensely proud to call myself an Ivy League graduate. I am humbled by my parents’ sacrifices that allowed me to live the comparatively privileged life I’ve had. I acknowledge that it is in part because of this privilege that I can offer a critique of the United States in the first place. My parents and other immigrant families who focused only on survival didn’t have the luxury of being critical.

Yet having that luxury, I think it’s important to vocalize that in the United States, living the dream is far more nuanced than we often make others believe. As Mugo told me, “My friends back in Kenya always receive the message that America is so great. But I always wonder why we don’t ever tell the people back home what it’s really like. We always give off the illusion that everything is fine, without also acknowledging the many ways life here is really, really hard.”

I deeply respect the choices my parents made, and I’m deeply grateful for the opportunities the United States provided. But at this point in my family’s journey, I am curious to see what happens when we begin exploring a different dream.

Amanda Machado is a writer, editor, content strategist, and facilitator who works with publications and nonprofits around the world. You can learn more about her work at her website .

First Person  is Vox's home for compelling, provocative narrative essays. Do you have a story to share? Read our  submission guidelines , and pitch us at  [email protected] .

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First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide .

Illustration by Rachel Wada

I have a confession. Despite the fact that I, too, lived over a convenience store run by my immigrant parents, I have never watched an episode of Kim’s Convenience . I’ve heard the show is incredibly well written and witty, but in all honesty I was unsure about how I would feel watching the similarities of my childhood reality played out in a sitcom.

My parents immigrated to Canada when my sister and I were 6 and 3, respectively. They left their professional jobs behind in Taiwan, in addition to their families and friends, to give us “the best opportunities in life,” as we so frequently heard growing up. Now, raising my own three children, in significantly more privileged circumstances, I am at a crossroads – how do I give them what they need and foster their independence, yet still ensure that they live their lives with empathy and gratitude?

My father became an entrepreneur out of sheer necessity to secure a roof over our heads. With limited English skills, employment options were non-existent. They spent their savings on the purchase of a small convenience store, which we also lived above, as many families did then and continue to do so now. My mother, a former midwife and nurse, spent much of our childhood learning to speak English while being a cashier at our quaint neighbourhood corner store. I have many memories of her playing a role similar to a confused Vanna White, but instead of turning letters on Wheel of Fortune, Mom was trying to decipher what brand of cigarettes a customer wanted from behind the counter.

They worked seven days a week, 12 to 14 hours a day, often longer. As a child, I never understood why they needed to work so much or why no one ever volunteered to bake cookies or chaperone school field trips. One day, my fourth-grade teacher called my mother in to speak with her. During a class assignment, I had written a story about how “my parents love money more than they love me.” I can only imagine the embarrassment and stabbing pain my mother felt during that talk. I wish I could go back in time.

We attended a public school out of our district that comprised mostly of white children from well-to-do families. My father would pick us up and drop us off in our “secret” location a block away from the school so that the other children would not see us coming out of a clunky old cargo van, only meant for produce and non-perishables. In hindsight, I’m not sure if he was trying to hide his embarrassment or ours, perhaps a little bit of both.

Nevertheless, my parents did their best to shelter us from their daily struggles. While other kids went on ski trips and spring break vacations, my sister and I spent our free time together. Summers were completely unsupervised, consisting of entire days spent swimming in public pools, biking around the city and reading in the library: Judy Blume and Beverly Cleary, what would we have done without you?

We became experts at making our own meals, a rotating menu of Chef Boyardee, TV dinners and Lipton Sidekicks noodles. We ate our food directly from the pots that we cooked them in, and in front of the TV, watching our favourite shows. We were latch-key kids. My key was tied directly around my neck, never ever to be removed.

We used the aisles that were full of groceries as our personal playground – I’m still convinced that there are few things more fun to a child than stocking shelves or scanning lottery tickets. We had first access to the latest issues of Mad Magazine and Archie comics, expertly reading them without leaving creases.

At Christmastime, gifts were often old items around the house, wrapped in colourful newsprint. My mother was the original “zero waster.” We participated in the Inner City Angels after-school programs provided by the city. We made toys out of discarded boxes – I was so pleased that the screen of my cardboard computer “moved” by turning a roll of paper towel inside. As much as we were without, we never felt it. We were, mostly, happy kids.

People say that the world was easier back then, that it was a better place, that things are different now. In retrospect, I’m not sure if that’s true, especially for children of immigrant families. We were just kids back then, and if you had any semblance of good parents, they simply did their best at making you feel like the world was a great place.

I often find myself in awe of the courage my parents must have had to embark on their journey into so many unknowns. Their struggles motivated me to do well in school, appreciate the value of a hard-earned dollar and, most importantly, to respect others no matter what our differences. In today’s heightened climate, I believe that this has been their greatest gift.

My children are growing up with a basement full of toys, many of which bring them no more than five minutes of joy. I want them to realize the privileges and opportunities given to them that many children do without, as is the wish of every generation, and the generation before them.

As my parents did, I will try my best to expect more from them, to make them appreciate their circumstances in a world that can seem unforgiving. I want them to be curious about how others live and understand that our way of life is not the only way of life. To embrace change and overcome challenges with resilience, not fear, just as their grandparents had. And no matter what their struggles, there is always room to lend a helping hand to someone less fortunate.

To many, my childhood probably seems quite unremarkable, but to me it was a time when optimism, hope and determination collided. A moment of sweet nostalgia, when our family had no one but ourselves to lean on and that was all that mattered. Us against the world. Perhaps it’s time for me to grab a bowl of popcorn, put up my feet and find the first episode of Kim’s Convenience .

Wan Lu lives in Toronto

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How to Write a Standout College Essay about Immigrant Parents

Kate Sliunkova

AdmitYogi, Stanford MBA & MA in Education

If you're a high school student, chances are you've been asked to write an essay before. Writing about your immigrant parents can be a daunting task, but it can also be a beautiful opportunity to share your unique perspective. With the right strategies and mindset, you can craft an essay that not only showcases your writing skills but also honors the sacrifices and experiences of your immigrant parents.

Acknowledge the Significance of Your Parents' Journey

Before delving into writing your essay, it's crucial to acknowledge and appreciate the significance of your parents' immigration journey. Recognize the sacrifices they made, leaving behind their home country, family, and familiar surroundings, to provide a better life for you and your family. This appreciation will help you approach your essay with a deeper understanding and empathy. To explore successful college essays that highlight the importance of family sacrifices, visit AdmitYogi for inspiring examples.

Use Their Story as a Springboard for Self-Reflection

Your parents' immigration story serves as a powerful springboard for self-reflection. Reflect on the impact their journey has had on you - your identity, values, and aspirations. Consider how growing up in a multicultural household has shaped your worldview and influenced the choices you've made. This self-reflection allows you to connect your personal growth to your parents' experiences, providing a rich and compelling narrative. AdmitYogi can provide additional guidance on how to effectively incorporate self-reflection into your essay.

Choose a Meaningful Essay Topic

Selecting the right essay topic is crucial to capturing the attention of college admissions officers. Instead of focusing solely on your parents' story, choose a topic that reflects your own experiences and values, while weaving in elements of their journey. For example, you can explore moments where you grappled with language barriers and how those challenges fostered your determination to excel academically and embrace diverse perspectives.

Consider discussing the cultural differences you navigated while transitioning to the United States. Highlight the lessons you've learned about cultural diversity and your ability to adapt and thrive in new environments. This demonstrates your resilience and adaptability, qualities that colleges value in their applicants.

Infuse Your Essay with Personal Anecdotes

To make your essay engaging and memorable, infuse it with personal anecdotes that illustrate key moments or lessons from your own journey. Share specific stories that demonstrate your growth, resilience, and unique perspective. For instance, you can write about a time when you bridged a cultural gap between your parents' native traditions and American customs, showcasing your ability to navigate cultural complexities with sensitivity and openness.

By incorporating personal anecdotes, you showcase your individual experiences and emphasize how you have been shaped by your parents' immigration story, while maintaining the focus on you.

Reflect on the Intersection of Your Identity and Values

Colleges are interested in understanding who you are as an individual and the values you hold dear. Reflect on how your parents' immigration journey has influenced your own identity and values. Discuss the lessons you've learned about perseverance, determination, and the importance of education.

Highlight the ways in which your parents' sacrifices have motivated you to seize educational opportunities and strive for excellence. Emphasize how their story has instilled in you a deep appreciation for the value of education and the pursuit of knowledge.

Showcase Your Personal Growth and Aspirations

A compelling college essay should demonstrate personal growth and aspirations. Reflect on how your parents' experiences have influenced your own aspirations and goals for the future. Discuss the career paths, community involvement, or social initiatives that you are passionate about, and how they align with your values and the experiences you've had growing up as a child of immigrants.

Craft a Narrative That Captivates Admissions Officers

To make your essay truly standout, craft a narrative that captivates admissions officers. Start with a powerful and attention-grabbing opening. This could be a personal anecdote, a thought-provoking question, or a vivid description that draws the reader in from the very beginning.

Throughout your essay, use descriptive language and storytelling techniques to paint a vivid picture of your experiences and the impact of your parents' journey on your life. Engage the reader's senses and emotions, allowing them to connect with your story on a deeper level.

Writing a college application essay about your immigrant parents is an opportunity to celebrate your unique perspective and honor their experiences. By focusing on you and infusing your personal growth, values, and aspirations into the essay, you create a compelling narrative that highlights your individuality.

Remember to reflect on the intersection of your identity and values, choose a meaningful topic, and craft a narrative that captivates admissions officers. AdmitYogi , a trusted resource for successful college essays, offers a wealth of examples and guidance to help you throughout your writing journey. With these strategies and the support of AdmitYogi, you can write a standout essay that makes colleges eager to admit you and the incredible journey you represent.

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10 Things I Learned From My Immigrant Parents

Growing up, I really struggled with my identity. I was raised in a predominantly white suburb of Chicago as the child of Chinese immigrants, and was always left with a sense that I was different from my peers. When I started preschool, I couldn’t even fully understand English, and I was terrified. I became aware of how I couldn’t effectively communicate with others, and as I got older and tried to find myself, the struggle morphed into multiple identity crises involving my appearance, my beliefs, my struggle with learning two languages, my social life, and even the food I eat. How do you navigate assimilation without losing connection to your former culture?

Throughout all this, my parents have always been there for me. They are my rocks; my solid ground to stand on and lean on for support. As I’ve gotten older and reflected on my experiences, I’ve come to realize how much my family has shaped me. They have taught me—through their words, actions, and personal experiences—some very important life lessons that I will hold onto and hopefully pass along to my own children. 

I would say the way I’ve been raised is interesting. While it has many things in common with other immigrant children’s upbringing, parenting is extremely personal. As an adult, I now see the choices and sacrifices my parents have made for the benefit of their kids. I am extremely grateful for the foresight and self-awareness my parents have that helped me to become who I am today.

Here are 10 lessons I’ve learned from my parents. 

1. Hustle hard

Moving to a completely new country halfway across the world is hard—like, really hard. My dad was determined to make a better life for himself and his family, so he busted his ass to do so, taking test after test and applying to graduate schools in the United States until he finally got accepted. That was his ticket to success. but the hard work didn’t stop there. He continued to work tirelessly, providing for our family of four, doing his best so that we could live comfortably. He’s shown me the value of working hard for what you want in order to accomplish your dreams. It takes guts and it takes perseverance. Some of my biggest fears in life are failure and rejection; it’s what stops me from making more daring decisions. But when I’m reminded of my family, I am able to reach inside of me and emulate their strength, finding myself reaching higher and higher, taking steps to achieve my dreams.

2. Being strong in the face of adversity

My parents experienced many atrocities throughout their childhoods and faced many difficult situations. They both grew up during a time of civil unrest and survived a food shortage, essentially living in poverty. They didn’t even have consistent access to electricity until they were out of college. That seems worlds away from the life in which I was raised, but never once have I ever heard my parents speak of their past with even a hint of bitterness. They keep their chins up and soldier on, looking forward to the future, no matter what. I see true strength in them and they never fail to remind me that people are capable of so much, and we can always work toward overcoming our struggles.

3. Health should always come first

The topic of health is a constant point of conversation in our household. My parents have drilled into my head that health comes before all else. It’s very difficult to take proper care of our business or others if we don’t take care of ourselves—it makes it so much easier to become overwhelmed. My mom always uses the analogy that our bodies are like batteries that need charging. If you’re depleted of all energy, how can you accomplish anything? If we’re able, then we should take diligent care of ourselves through cleanliness, proper nutrition, exercise, and sleep (though I am definitely terrible at that last one, sorry mom!). Through this constant reminder, I’ve come to better understand the value of this and see the truth behind it. We all wear many hats and I definitely think I am a better person all around when I take care of myself. It’s easier to be present and be a good daughter, friend, sister, student, and person overall.

4. Never stop learning

Something I learned very early on from my parents is that “brains are like sponges.” We are constantly learning things and we should never stop trying to. Knowledge is power, and no matter how old we get or what challenges we face, we can always gain something—an insight, a new idea, more understanding. They encouraged my curiosity, encouraging me to seek out the answers I wanted. My dad always gets so excited when I teach him something new, like a recipe or an interesting fun fact about a topic he doesn’t usually think about. I associate curiosity and the desire to learn with simply having enthusiasm for life.

5. Love can appear in many different forms

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned from my parents and through our culture is how everyone may show love differently. In some Eastern cultures, it is more typical that we show love through our actions rather than our words. My mom happily helping me with laundry or cooking food for me was an act of love, not just an act of obligation or devotion. But from living in the United States for so long, my parents have, over time, learned how to become more communicative as well. They’ve gotten much better about verbalizing how they feel and I love seeing how they change and grow as people. That desire to connect with their kids through their words showed their love as well. They wanted to bond with us and express their love in a way that their Westernized children could better understand. It shows that people all show love and affection in different ways—both culturally and individually.

6. Always choose kindness

My parents are two of the kindest, most generous people that I have ever known. They’re always quick to offer a helping hand or go out of their way to assist someone in need, and they never do anything with the expectation of having those favors be returned—they do it just because they’re good people. They have shown me that it doesn’t matter your background, your socioeconomic status, whether you’ve had a bad day or not—you can always choose to be kind. It’s taught me to always seek out the silver lining of every single situation, even when there doesn’t appear to be one at first. They have always emphasized that it’s important to put positivity out into the world and treat people well. In this sense, it’s kind of like good karma. When I make the effort to be positive in my thoughts, attitude, and behavior, I tend to receive it back in the form of kindness from others and opportunities and it becomes a positive loop. Plus, you never know what someone else is going through and it’s always worth it to try to make someone’s day.

7. Frugality

Of course, living a life of hardship leaves its marks on a person. Like many other immigrants, my family was very frugal. A sort of survival instinct was deeply embedded in their daily lives and habits. There wasn’t enough food to go around for a while, so they had to learn how to ration and share. New clothing was a luxury and a rarity, so learning to mend fabric was a necessity. Stocking up on supplies when they were available and affordable was a means of survival. Though we now live comfortably and don’t need to keep up some of these habits for survival, old habits die hard, and they’ve passed on some of these instincts to me. I find myself doing things like avoiding too much food waste, using supplies like paper towels and soap sparingly, and watching my water usage. Though it’s not entirely necessary, learning the skill of frugality has been helpful to me. I’ve learned to balance my spending between necessities and “wants,” and it even helps me be prepared in case something like an emergency happens.

8. Choose your friends carefully

My mother was always extremely adamant that I be careful about who I befriended. The people you are closest to most affect your development , personality, and behavior. She’d had her fair share of critics when it came to her choices over how she’s led her life and her actions. She’s been criticized for how she tried to raise her kids in a more moderate way, allowing us to become more Westernized, and how she gave up her career to move to another country, amongst other things. And honestly, who needs that kind of negative energy? We all deserve to be surrounded by those who love and support us.

9. How to bridge differences

Obviously, growing up in a household trying to merge and navigate two different cultures can be difficult. At times it’s both frustrating and messy not being able to see eye-to-eye on things, or not even be able to totally understand each other due to language barriers. Throughout the years, we’ve had to practice lots of patience with each other and try to keep an open mind. As I’ve grown into myself, it’s become more and more apparent that many of our opinions differ drastically. Being able to hold conversations about contentious topics we don’t agree on can be very aggravating and emotional. We’ve gradually learned how to express those opinions without stepping on each others’ toes too much, and I think this lesson has greatly aided me in my life in general. I love being able to talk to people who don’t necessarily agree with me and being able to have a constructive conversation about our opinions without offending each other.

10. Food goes beyond simple nutrition

Eastern medicine was a major part of my upbringing. Every time something was physically wrong with me, my parents tried to fix it with some concoction of herbs. Honestly, sometimes it seems like mumbo-jumbo, and to many people it probably is, but I’ve grown to accept and respect it more and am quite fascinated by it. Some have become more interested in traditional Chinese medicine, and there have been more efforts to research it. It goes back thousands of years—and hey, I’m an avid tea drinker anyway. What’s the harm in drinking some tea that’s supposedly good for me? It’s taught me that some of the foods we already consume can be used to purposely fuel and heal ourselves. For example, garlic has antimicrobial properties and chrysanthemum may help to decrease inflammation . I was raised to believe we can use food to heal ourselves from the inside out, and I think that’s kind of magical. Because of this, I’m very conscious of what types of foods I consume and pay very close attention to how it affects me. My mother has given me some herbal teas, and truthfully, whenever I feel a cold coming on, I always reach for them just in case. Maybe it’s a placebo or maybe it actually helps, but I usually end up feeling better, and that’s just fine with me.

What types of lessons have you learned from your family?

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Waking Up from the American Dream

By Karla Cornejo Villavicencio

If you are an undocumented person anywhere in America, some of the things you do to make a dignified life for yourself and your loved ones are illegal. Others require a special set of skills. The elders know some great tricks—crossing deserts in the dead of night, studying the Rio Grande for weeks to find the shallowest bend of river to cross, getting a job on their first day in the country, finding apartments that don’t need a lease, learning English at public libraries, community colleges, or from “Frasier.” I would not have been able to do a single thing that the elders have done. But the elders often have only one hope for survival, which we tend not to mention. I’m talking about children. And no, it’s not an “anchor baby” thing. Our parents have kids for the same reasons as most people, but their sacrifice for us is impossible to articulate, and its weight is felt deep down, in the body. That is the pact between immigrants and their children in America: they give us a better life, and we spend the rest of that life figuring out how much of our flesh will pay off the debt.

I am a first-generation immigrant, undocumented for most of my life, then on DACA , now a permanent resident. But my real identity, the one that follows me around like a migraine, is that I am the daughter of immigrants. As such, I have some skills of my own.

You pick them up young. Something we always hear about, because Americans love this shit, is that immigrant children often translate for their parents. I began doing this as a little girl, because I lost my accent, dumb luck, and because I was adorable in the way that adults like, which is to say I had large, frightened eyes and a flamboyant vocabulary. As soon as doctors or teachers began talking, I felt my parents’ nervous energy, and I’d either answer for them or interpret their response. It was like my little Model U.N. job. I was around seven. My career as a professional daughter of immigrants had begun.

In my teens, I began to specialize. I became a performance artist. I accompanied my parents to places where I knew they would be discriminated against, and where I could insure that their rights would be granted. If a bank teller wasn’t accepting their I.D., I’d stroll in with an oversized Forever 21 blazer, red lipstick, a slicked-back bun, and fresh Stan Smiths. I brought a pleather folder and made sure my handshake broke bones. Sometimes I appealed to decency, sometimes to law, sometimes to God. Sometimes I leaned back in my chair, like a sexy gangster, and said, “So, you tell me how you want my mom to survive in this country without a bank account. You close at four, but I have all the time in the world.” Then I’d wink. It was vaudeville, but it worked.

My parents came to America in their early twenties, naïve about what awaited them. Back in Ecuador, they had encountered images of a wealthy nation—the requisite flashes of Clint Eastwood and the New York City skyline—and heard stories about migrants who had done O.K. for themselves there. But my parents were not starry-eyed people. They were just kids, lost and reckless, running away from the dead ends around them.

My father is the only son of a callous mother and an absent father. My mother, the result of her mother’s rape, grew up cared for by an aunt and uncle. When she married my father, it was for the reasons a lot of women marry: for love, and to escape. The day I was born, she once told me, was the happiest day of her life.

Soon after that, my parents, owners of a small auto-body business, found themselves in debt. When I was eighteen months old, they left me with family and settled in Brooklyn, hoping to work for a year and move back once they’d saved up some money. I haven’t asked them much about this time—I’ve never felt the urge—but I know that one year became three. I also know that they began to be lured by the prospect of better opportunities for their daughter. Teachers had remarked that I was talented. My mother, especially, felt that Ecuador was not the place for me. She knew how the country would limit the woman she imagined I would become—Hillary Clinton, perhaps, or Princess Di.

My parents sent loving letters to Ecuador. They said that they were facing a range of hardships so that I could have a better life. They said that we would reunite soon, though the date was unspecified. They said that I had to behave, not walk into traffic—I seem to have developed a habit of doing this—and work hard, so they could send me little gifts and chocolates. I was a toddler, but I understood. My parents left to give me things, and I had to do other things in order to repay them. It was simple math.

They sent for me when I was just shy of five years old. I arrived at J.F.K. airport. My father, who seemed like a total stranger, ran to me and picked me up and kissed me, and my mother looked on and wept. I recall thinking she was pretty, and being embarrassed by the attention. They had brought roses, Teddy bears, and Tweety Bird balloons.

Getting to know one another was easy enough. My father liked to read and lecture, and had a bad temper. My mother was soft-spoken around him but funny and mean—like a drag queen—with me. She liked Vogue . I was enrolled in a Catholic school and quickly learned English—through immersion, but also through “Reading Rainbow” and a Franklin talking dictionary that my father bought me. It gave me a colorful vocabulary and weirdly over-enunciated diction. If I typed the right terms, it even gave me erotica.

Meanwhile, I had confirmed that my parents were not tony expats. At home, meals could be rice and a fried egg. We sometimes hid from our landlord by crouching next to my bed and drawing the blinds. My father had started out driving a cab, but after 9/11, when the governor revoked the driver’s licenses of undocumented immigrants, he began working as a deliveryman, carrying meals to Wall Street executives, the plastic bags slicing into his fingers. Some of those executives forced him to ride on freight elevators. Others tipped him in spare change.

My mother worked in a factory. For seven days a week, sometimes in twelve-hour shifts, she sewed in a heat that caught in your throat like lint, while her bosses, also immigrants, hurled racist slurs at her. Some days I sat on the factory floor, making dolls with swatches of fabric, cosplaying childhood. I didn’t put a lot of effort into making the dolls—I sort of just screwed around, with an eye on my mom at her sewing station, stiffening whenever her supervisor came by to see how fast she was working. What could I do to protect her? Well, murder, I guess.

Our problem appeared to be poverty, which even then, before I’d seen “Rent,” seemed glamorous, or at least normal. All the protagonists in the books I read were poor. Ramona Quimby on Klickitat Street, the kids in “Five Little Peppers and How They Grew.” Every fictional child was hungry, an orphan, or tubercular. But there was something else setting us apart. At school, I looked at my nonwhite classmates and wondered how their parents could be nurses, or own houses, or leave the country on vacation. It was none of my business—everyone in New York had secrets—but I cautiously gathered intel, toothpick in mouth. I finally cracked the case when I tried to apply to an essay contest and asked my parents for my Social Security number. My father was probably reading a newspaper, and I doubt he even looked up to say, “We don’t have papers, so we don’t have a Social.”

It was not traumatic. I turned on our computer, waited for the dial-up, and searched what it meant not to have a Social Security number. “Undocumented immigrant” had not yet entered the discourse. Back then, the politically correct term, the term I saw online, was “illegal immigrant,” which grated—it was hurtful in a clinical way, like having your teeth drilled. Various angry comments sections offered another option: illegal alien . I knew it was form language, legalese meant to wound me, but it didn’t. It was punk as hell. We were hated , and maybe not entirely of this world. I had just discovered Kurt Cobain.

Obviously, I learned that my parents and I could be deported at any time. Was that scary? Sure. But a deportation still seemed like spy-movie stuff. And, luckily, I had an ally. My brother was born when I was ten years old. He was our family’s first citizen, and he was named after a captain of the New York Yankees. Before he was old enough to appreciate art, I took him to the Met. I introduced him to “S.N.L.” and “Letterman” and “Fun Home” and “Persepolis”—all the things I felt an upper-middle-class parent would do—so that he could thrive at school, get a great job, and make money. We would need to armor our parents with our success.

We moved to Queens, and I entered high school. One day, my dad heard about a new bill in Congress on Spanish radio. It was called the DREAM Act, and it proposed a path to legalization for undocumented kids who had gone to school here or served in the military. My dad guaranteed that it’d pass by the time I graduated. I never react to good news—stoicism is part of the brand—but I was optimistic. The bill was bipartisan. John McCain supported it, and I knew he had been a P.O.W., and that made me feel connected to a real American hero. Each time I saw an “R” next to a sponsor’s name my heart fluttered with joy. People who were supposed to hate me had now decided to love me.

But the bill was rejected and reintroduced, again and again, for years. It never passed. And, in a distinctly American twist, its gauzy rhetoric was all that survived. Now there was a new term on the block: “Dreamers.” Politicians began to use it to refer to the “good” children of immigrants, the ones who did well in school and stayed off the mean streets—the innocents. There are about a million undocumented children in America. The non-innocents, one presumes, are the ones in cages, covered in foil blankets, or lost, disappeared by the government.

I never called myself a Dreamer. The word was saccharine and dumb, and it yoked basic human rights to getting an A on a report card. Dreamers couldn’t flunk out of high school, or have D.U.I.s, or work at McDonald’s. Those kids lived with the pressure of needing a literal miracle in order to save their families, but the miracle didn’t happen, because the odds were against them, because the odds were against all of us. And so America decided that they didn’t deserve an I.D.

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The Dream, it turned out, needed to demonize others in order to help the chosen few. Our parents, too, would be sacrificed. The price of our innocence was the guilt of our loved ones. Jeff Sessions, while he was Attorney General, suggested that we had been trafficked against our will. People actually pitied me because my parents brought me to America. Without even consulting me.

The irony, of course, is that the Dream was our inheritance. We were Dreamers because our parents had dreams.

It’s painful to think about this. My mother, an aspiring interior designer, has gone twenty-eight years without a sick day. My dad, who loves problem-solving, has spent his life wanting a restaurant. He’s a talented cook and a brilliant manager, and he often did the work of his actual managers for them. But, without papers, he could advance only so far in a job. He needed to be paid in cash; he could never receive benefits.

He often used a soccer metaphor to describe our journey in America. Our family was a team, but I scored the goals. Everything my family did was, in some sense, a pass to me. Then the American Dream could be mine, and then we could start passing to my brother. That’s how my dad explained his limp every night, his feet blistered from speed-running deliveries. It’s why we sometimes didn’t have money for electricity or shampoo. Those were fouls. Sometimes my parents did tricky things to survive that you’ll never know about. Those were nutmegs. In 2015, when the U.S. women’s team won the World Cup, my dad went to the parade and sent me a selfie. “Girl power!” the text read.

My father is a passionate, diatribe-loving feminist, though his feminism often seems to exclude my mother. When I was in elementary school, he would take me to the local branch of the Queens Public Library and check out the memoir of Rosalía Arteaga Serrano, the only female President in Ecuador’s history. Serrano was ousted from office, seemingly because she was a woman. My father would read aloud from the book for hours, pausing to tell me that I’d need to toughen up. He would read from dictators’ speeches—not for the politics, but for the power of persuasive oratory. We went to the library nearly every weekend for thirteen years.

My mother left her factory job to give me, the anointed one, full-time academic support. She pulled all-nighters to help me make extravagant posters. She grilled me with vocabulary flash cards, struggling to pronounce the words but laughing and slapping me with pillows if I got something wrong. I aced the language portions of my PSATs and SATs, partly because of luck, and partly because of my parents’ locally controversial refusal to let me do household chores, ever, because they wanted me to be reading, always reading, instead.

If this all seems strategic, it should. The American Dream doesn’t just happen to cheery Pollyannas. It happens to iconoclasts with a plan and a certain amount of cunning. The first time I encountered the idea of the Dream, it was in English class, discussing “The Great Gatsby.” My classmates all thought that Gatsby seemed sort of sad, a pathetic figure. I adored him. He created his own persona, made a fortune in an informal economy, and lived a quiet, paranoid, reclusive life. Most of all, he longed. He stood at the edge of Long Island Sound, longing for Daisy, and I took the train uptown to Columbia University and looked out at the campus, hoping it could one day be mine. At the time, it was functionally impossible for undocumented students to enroll at Columbia. The same held for many schools. Keep dreaming, my parents said.

I did. I was valedictorian of my class, miraculously got into Harvard, and was tapped to join a secret society that once included T. S. Eliot and Wallace Stevens. I was the only Latina inducted, I think, and I was very chill when an English-Spanish dictionary appeared in our club bathroom after I started going to teas. When I graduated, in 2011, our country was deporting people at record rates. I knew that I needed to add even more of a golden flicker to my illegality, so that if I was deported, or if my parents were deported, we would not go in the middle of the night, in silence, anonymously, as Americans next door watched another episode of “The Bachelor.” So I began writing, with the explicit aim of entering the canon. I wrote a book about undocumented immigrants, approaching them not as shadowy victims or gilded heroes but as people, flawed and complex. It was reviewed well, nominated for things. A President commended it.

But it’s hard to feel anything. My parents remain poor and undocumented. I cannot protect them with prizes or grades. My father sobbed when I handed him my diploma, but it was not the piece of paper that would make it all better, no matter how heavy the stock.

By the time I was in grad school, my parents’ thirty-year marriage was over. They had spent most of those years in America, with their heads down and their bodies broken; it was hard not to see the split as inevitable. My mom called me to say she’d had enough. My brother supported her decision. I talked to each parent, and helped them mutually agree on a date. On a Tuesday night, my father moved out, leaving his old parenting books behind, while my mom and brother were at church. I asked my father to text my brother that he loved him. I think he texted him exactly that. Then I collapsed onto the floor beneath an open drawer of knives, texted my partner to come help me, and convulsed in sobs.

After that, my mom became depressed. I did hours of research and found her a highly qualified, trauma-informed psychiatrist, a Spanish speaker who charged on a sliding scale I could afford. My mom got on Lexapro, which helped. She also started a job that makes her very happy. In order to find her that job, I took a Klonopin and browsed Craigslist for hours each day, e-mailing dozens of people, being vague about legal status in a clever but truthful way. I impersonated her in phone interviews, hanging off my couch, the blood rushing to my head, struggling not to do an offensive accent.

You know how, when you get a migraine, you regret how stupid you were for taking those sweet, painless days for granted? Although my days are hard, I understand that I’m living in an era of painlessness, and that a time will come when I look back and wonder why I was such a stupid, whining fool. My mom’s job involves hard manual labor, sometimes in the snow or the rain. I got her a real winter coat, her first, from Eddie Bauer. I got her a pair of Hunter boots. These were things she needed, things I had seen on women her age on the subway, their hands bearing bags from Whole Foods. My mom’s hands are arthritic. She sends me pictures of them covered in bandages.

My brother and I now have a pact: neither of us can die, because then the other would be stuck with our parents. My brother is twenty-two, still in college, and living with my mom. He, too, has some skills. He is gentle, kind, and excellent at deëscalating conflict. He mediated my parents’ arguments for years. He has also never tried to change them, which I have, through a regimen of therapy, books, and cheesy Instagram quotes. So we’ve decided that, in the long term, since his goal is to get a job, get married, have kids, and stay in Queens, he’ll invite Mom to move in with him, to help take care of the grandkids. He’ll handle the emotional labor, since it doesn’t traumatize him. And I’ll handle the financial support, since it doesn’t traumatize me.

I love my parents. I know I love them. But what I feel for them daily is a mixture of terror, panic, obligation, sorrow, anger, pity, and a shame so hot that I need to lie face down, in my underwear, on very cold sheets. Many Americans have vulnerable parents, and strive to succeed in order to save them. I hold those people in the highest regard. But the undocumented face a unique burden, due to scorn and a lack of support from the government. Because our parents made a choice—the choice to migrate—few people pity them, or wonder whether restitution should be made for decades of exploitation. That choice, the original sin, is why our parents were thrown out of paradise. They were tempted by curiosity and hunger, by fleshly desires.

And so we return to the debt. However my parents suffer in their final years will be related to their migration—to their toil in this country, to their lack of health care and housing support, to psychic fatigue. They were able, because of that sacrifice, to give me their version of the Dream: an education, a New York accent, a life that can better itself. But that life does not fully belong to me. My version of the American Dream is seeing them age with dignity, being able to help them retire, and keeping them from being pushed onto train tracks in a random hate crime. For us, gratitude and guilt feel almost identical. Love is difficult to separate from self-erasure. All we can give one another is ourselves.

Scholars often write about the harm that’s done when children become caretakers, but they’re reluctant to do so when it comes to immigrants. For us, they say, this situation is cultural . Because we grow up in tight-knit families. Because we respect our elders. In fact, it’s just the means of living that’s available to us. It’s a survival mechanism, a mutual-aid society at the family level. There is culture, and then there is adaptation to precarity and surveillance. If we are lost in the promised land, perhaps it’s because the ground has never quite seemed solid beneath our feet.

When I was a kid, my mother found a crystal heart in my father’s taxi. The light that came through it was pretty, shimmering, like a gasoline spill on the road. She put it in her jewelry box, and sometimes we’d take out the box, spill the contents onto my pink twin bed, and admire what we both thought was a heart-shaped diamond. I grew up, I went to college. I often heard of kids who had inherited their grandmother’s heirlooms, and I sincerely believed that there were jewels in my family, too. Then, a few years ago, my partner and I visited my mom, and she spilled out her box. She gave me a few items I cherish: a nameplate bracelet in white, yellow, and rose gold, and the thick gold hoop earrings that she wore when she first moved to Brooklyn. Everything else was costume jewelry. I couldn’t find the heart.

I realized that, when my mother found the crystal, she was around the same age I am now. She had probably never held a diamond, and she probably wanted to believe that she had found one in America, a dream come true. She wanted me to believe it, and then, as we both grew up, alone, together, she stopped believing, stopped wanting to believe, and stopped me from wanting to believe. And she probably threw that shit out. I didn’t ask. Some things are none of our business. ♦

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By André Alexis

By Molly McCloskey

By Camille Bordas

LAist is part of Southern California Public Radio, a member-supported public media network.

Dreams And Struggles

‘you can accomplish anything you want’.

M y parents met at LAX.

It was 1967, the very day my mother landed here from El Salvador.

The story, at least on its face, is the stuff that romanticized American immigrant origin stories are made of.

But not every American origin story has a fairytale ending.

This story is part of an LAist series called Being American . It’s inspired by the success of our year-long Race In LA series , in which Angelenos shared personal stories about how our race and/or ethnicity shapes our lived experience.

My parents were both raised in stable middle-class families in El Salvador, believing in the myth of the American dream. They were young and restless, in search of something else; a promise perhaps, one that only a foreign land could fulfill.

But the gains made by emigrating to America can be fragile and fraught with loss. Émigrés are caught in a gelatinous melting pot that doesn’t so much melt as compel them to shed parts of themselves and subdue their identity in an effort to assimilate, or neatly fit into boxes, while simultaneously reinforcing that they are “other” and do not belong. A skin tone a slight shade beneath what is acceptable, or an easily detected accent, mark them and serve as opportunities for others to oppress them.

This was especially true in the 1960s, when my parents arrived here.

My father, Carlos, emigrated to the United States from El Salvador in the early 1960s. He arrived on a tourist visa, applied to stay and became a naturalized citizen shortly thereafter. In El Salvador, he’d studied history and political science.

When my mother, Julia, came to the U.S. on a tourist visa in 1967, she came with her best friend Victoria, who also happened to be my father’s sister. She had studied accounting.

On the day my father arrived at LAX airport to pick up his sister, he met my mother for the first time.

They fell in love, and with the promise of a future beyond what a middle-class educated person could dream of in El Salvador. They were not refugees — this was many years before the war — but rather young people with big ambitions.

Like most immigrant parents, though, mine took jobs they never intended to hold. My father initially wanted to join the Army, but he did not meet the physical requirements. So he worked in a military airplane factory for a short while, then took a permanent job as a baker in the Fairfax district, where he worked from 4 a.m. to 12 p.m. six days a week for more than 30 years, never calling in sick.

He was saving for his own donut shop when he became ill and lost his savings and health insurance. He was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. After his illness left him unable to work, I remember his boss telling us that my dad, an American citizen, should “go back to his own country so he doesn’t become a burden to the American healthcare system.” It was almost as if once he no longer served a purpose in America, as an exploitable tool, he was disposable.

My mother faced challenges finding employment. There were limited opportunities for folks who did not speak English in the 1960s. She worked in various factories in the garment district of downtown Los Angeles where she and her sisters, who eventually joined her in L.A., learned embroidery and how to operate industrial sewing machines.

In the factories, my mother found a community of women like herself, trying to stitch together an American dream for their families. Factory life might not have been the career my mother had dreamed of the day she landed at LAX, but sacrifices had to be made in a foreign land without the benefit of a safety net or the support and warmth of her parents. She was tethered to her country of origin more than my father was, and the distance from her family was difficult to bear.

Together, my parents brought three beautiful brown baby girls into a world that they believed held a future for them.

Once my mother bore their first child, she stayed home. My father was the sole provider. It was important to him that we receive a private Catholic school education much like he had received in El Salvador, where he was reared by Jesuits.

The 1970s were a time of empowerment for women, and my parents felt this world would be safe, America would be safe. They held the belief that free elections and a democratic government were the measure of a great country. They made sure they voted in every election, and we were there to witness it. My father always emphasized how important it was not to take this right for granted.

He would corral us almost every day and repeatedly tell us, “You are American and you can accomplish anything you want!” This became a mantra in our household.

We, the byproduct of this American illusion our parents held, must contend with both the falsity and reality of this ideal. Those of us who inherit this legacy by way of immigrant parents bear a great responsibility to achieve in ways that honor their sacrifices, while continually challenging “monocultural...concepts of our social reality” as Anzaldua writes in the Chicano literary classic Borderlands . We ask ourselves, guiltily, if it is okay for us to acknowledge the cracks in the dream.

It’s true that my sisters and I would have opportunities beyond my parents’ expectations. But my parents suffered here.

My father physically sacrificed his body at that bakery, repetitively kneading hope to form a life worthy of us. But becoming ill and losing his work and insurance forced him into substandard care in the Medi-Cal system.

As for my mother, after years of living in an apartment by a gas station, she was diagnosed with cancer and given six months to live. I was 19 at the time. As a first generation American, I had no knowledge of how to navigate the social service and health care systems to help her access resources, or to advocate on her behalf.

She hung on a few more years, fortunately. But I would spend my late teens and 20s caring for two terminally ill parents, then burying them. All this time I struggled with multiple jobs and tried to finish my degree, just as they’d hoped I would.

‘Parental Threads’

At some point in our lives, we must reconcile with the reclamation of our own American origin story. Mine begins at LAX.

A few years ago, I tried to capture that life-altering moment at the airport, and its aftermath, in a poem called ‘Parental Threads.”

I see them standing in the mid-century LAX lobby, I see my father strutting out of a 1960 Ford Mustang, with a prematurely peppered Brylcreem pompadour, I see my mother with a 1960s glossy synthetic bouffant wearing a polyester miniskirt, clutching her purse tightly standing by the arrival gate near an automatic door that opens behind her sensing the heat in the mid July air. Is there still time to turn around? They are about to meet, they are about to get married, they are about to have children. Not necessarily in that order. They are naive, they are fools, all they know is they are ready, I want to run to them and say GO BACK! This country will kill you. You are going to suffer in cruel ways, You are going to die. And your children will never recover. I want to run to them and say it. Her fair complexion, a vibrant rose Hers, unvarnished skin full of promise His, an olive complexion, sun kissed Him, a bon vivant, full of lofty ambitions I want to run to them, but I don’t because I want to live. (*This poem is a nod to my favorite poet, Sharon Olds, and was originally published in MORIA literary magazine.)

I sometimes ask myself, as I did in this poem, whether it was worth it for them, two parents who did not live to see me graduate from college.

Leaving home and family, embarking on difficult lives, sacrificing so much for their future children. For me?

Yet I would not be here had they not made the decision to leave their country. The fragility of the American dream, for first-generation immigrants, lies in what they lose — so that we, their children, may gain.

Monica Aleman Gibbs is a Salvadoran-American writer and a native of Los Angeles.

She has a Masters of Fine Arts in creative writing from Mount Saint Mary’s University in Los Angeles. Her work has been published in MORIA literary magazine .

She lives in Los Angeles and currently works as a political consultant.

Growing Up in America With Immigrant Parents

I wrote about how my parents taught me to love who I am by being true to myself.

 Being Assyrian has always been a huge part of my identity. As a child I felt so embarrassed to be who I am. No one had ever taught me to feel that way, I just didn't like how different my life seemed to be, compared to the other kids from my school. I had a unibrow and I had to take ESL classes because I was raised learning a mix of Aramaic and English. I refused to speak Aramaic publically. I was so ashamed of all of these things for some reason. I just wanted to be like the other kids at my school, blonde hair and blue eyes with a “normal” name. I hated my brown hair, brown eyes, my unibrow, and my “odd” name (Amena).

As I grew older, I started to become more accepting towards my background. This started happening around middle school age. I realized that there was no reason for me to be ashamed. I still felt different though. No matter how much I adapted I was still being raised differently from everyone else. My parents were always more strict that the others. They wouldn't let me hangout with certain people, I was never allowed to go to sleepovers, I couldn't wear certain clothes because they were “too revealing” even if everyone else in my grade was allowed to. I think that these are just things that you have to deal with when you have Middle Eastern parents. Things that were so normal for every other kid seemed to be so unbelievably offensive to my parents. I used to think it was so frustrating to deal with this.

To this day I still struggle with their grip. I can sometimes understand and appreciate why they raised me this way. As immigrants in America they dealt with a lot of the same feelings as I felt when I was younger. They struggled with not fitting in as a child just like me. When my mother's family moved here she was only a year old. She was raised in Davisburg Pennsylvania, she didn't have anyone to relate to around her other than her siblings. She had it so much worse than I did but today she loves being who she is. My dad moved to America when he was nine. He was raised in Detroit Michigan and in attempt to fit in he had to sacrifice some of his identity. Today I see him as the one of the most confident, down to earth people on this planet. He always stresses to me that I couldn't make a bigger mistake that being fake with myself. I think that all this time my parents were trying to point me in that direction. They wanted me to love who I am. They didn't want me to try so hard to be something i'm not just because I wanted to blend in. Instead they taught me how to stay true to myself and how to be comfortable in my own skin

Although it was frustrating at times I think overall it benefited me to be raised this way. I learned to do what's best for myself and have good judgment. They taught me to be comfortable in my own skin and put myself first. They taught me that no ones opinion matters except my own. Here in America you are able to do almost anything you'd want as long as you give it your all. Being true to myself is the only way for me identify my dreams. My parents wanted to make sure that I had my priorities straight so that I can focus on what's important.

It's ironic how I learned one of the most important American values from my immigrant parents. I thought this whole time that their “Middle Eastern morals” would separate me from everyone else but really they were what made me feel comfortable with myself now. They really have taught me so much about how to live a good, happy, healthy, American life! Today I live to please myself and the ones I love only. I know now that I don’t have to attempt to make everyone like me. I do what I please while still being reasonable and respectful. The only person really judging me is myself. I live by these morals and i couldn't be any more stress free.

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'I Had to Stand Up for My Parents': Your Childhood Memories of Translating for Family

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When a 10-year-old girl named Maggie called KQED Forum recently to ask a COVID-19 question on behalf of her parents, thousands of listeners heard her interpret from Spanish to English live on air — and recognized their own childhood in that moment.

KQED's Adriana Morga was one of them. And when she wrote a story about that experience, and how Maggie's call "represented the epitome of what immigrant children have to do in order to get information to their parents," it struck another chord with our readers.

We asked you whether Maggie's story reminded you of your own experiences growing up. The stories you sent were moving, proud, painful, bittersweet and frank, each one emphasizing the shared aspects that unite your experiences across place and culture.

Your stories also reveal the full responsibility young multilingual family members now face while navigating the coronavirus crisis on behalf of their loved ones — and the sheer weight of that potentially lifesaving role. That's why we've collected a list of resources to support kids like Maggie, or any families looking for multilingual information about COVID-19.

Scroll to read your stories and find those resources.

Some of these responses have been edited for length.

Being someone like Maggie for your family can be a heavy responsibility...

When I saw the tweet about Maggie, I cried. It was the first time I have ever heard or read anything in my whole life that so completely resonated with my experience as a young immigrant child translating for my mother. We immigrated to the Peninsula Bay Area when I was 5 years old, from Ukraine. I made so many calls, sent so many messages, did so many tasks as a kid that required me to translate between Ukrainian and English. These experiences forced me and many other kids to grow up too quickly. It’s now only exacerbated during these tumultuous times. Now I work in the state Legislature, hoping to be a part of improving how information is shared with all communities in our state, especially those most in need like Maggie’s family. — Anya

I could share so many stories of parent/teacher conferences, doctor's visits, immigration appointments or visits from the landlord (among other things) when I would hear the familiar "Ven, ven, Marisol... Dime qué dijo." Over the years, I picked up on certain words that I knew were important to know in preparation for these encounters, but there was always that moment of panic when an unfamiliar word would pop up. I would immediately imagine the possibility of being held back a grade, or having to pay extra for something, or leading to a misdiagnosis. Nothing that bad ever happened, but that pressure was always present. (As a teacher) my hope now is to be a part of and create learning communities and spaces where our students and our families can engage without having to imagine worst-case scenarios. — Marisol

...but for many, there are positive memories and pride

Being the child of an immigrant always comes with its own series of "club rules." If you know them, you know them. It’s a hard club to be a part of at times, but I’m happy to be a part of it. I’m happy to sacrifice my time and energy to an immigrant parent who has sacrificed so much, for me to be American. — Glenda Cota

(At 8 years old) I had to go to my grandmother's doctor's appointments specifically to translate. It was just her and I, navigating our way through public transportation. I was intimidated by the front desk ladies, and scared of hospitals, afraid to miss important information to translate. However I was proud to stick up for my grandmother (the staff was not always kind) and be able to help her. To this day I still feel the same compassion to help translate for co-workers, family members and strangers that I see that need help. We all need the power of information. — Zara

There was a period of time where I resented it a bit, because I felt like I was forced to grow up very quickly in order to help out when my parents didn't understand something. However, I learned to embrace my role because it was my way of giving back to my parents, for all that they have done for me. Growing up under the circumstances that I did is what forged the distinct Chicanx identity I have today. I knew what I was doing was important and bigger than me. I was helping my family navigate a system that I'd later learn was tricky and discriminatory. — Omar Vega

Your childhood experiences can steer your career path

My Vietnamese refugee parents resettled in Santa Ana, California after fleeing from the Vietnam War. Growing up, I translated documents for my parents and helped them navigate life here in the United States. I learned how to be an advocate at an early age because I had to stand up for my parents when I saw them experience discrimination. I am the first in my family to pursue a Master's degree and I chose to work in education because I want to work with youth who have gone through similar experiences. I want them to know that coming from an immigrant family is their superpower and to encourage them to keep advocating for their families even when times are hard. I also want to challenge our government agencies to be more inclusive of these immigrant experiences. Having translated documents is just the bare minimum. — Kathy Tran

When I was 14, I translated for my grandmother when she was battling cancer. That experience has left an indelible mark on my life. Because of those early experiences translating for my family, I have pursued a career in science, and am now working on my masters in public health at UC Berkeley and applying to medical school. — Daniel Mota

I began interpreting for my parents as a child at school, stores, doctor's offices and pretty much anywhere my parents needed services. Both my parents are indigenous Mexicans, whose primary language is Mixteco and secondary language is Spanish. I was raised speaking Spanish, and so I primarily interpreted from English to Spanish and vice versa. I have dedicated my entire life to advocate for those that can’t be heard, and today I’m a proud co-founder of Herencia Indigena (Indigenous Heritage). We specialize in training trilingual individuals to become qualified advocates/interpreters for hospitals, clinics and government agencies both private and public. — Irebid Gilbert

For many, there's a standout memory that lingers

As a second-generation Vietnamese American, my parents relied on me often to look over everything from utility bills to dealing with landlords. One moment stands out to me when I was a teenager and having to write a letter to appeal to the landlord who wanted to take my family's whole security deposit, which would have been a lot of money. I remember trying to use everything I learned in English composition classes to write this letter, and I recall feeling a great sense of justice. We didn't end up getting that security deposit back, but I'm glad I was able to help my parents regardless. — Jeannie Pham

When I was six-years-old, I traveled to Mexico with my grandmother. Upon our return we were held at immigration at LAX and the TSA agents expected me, a six-year-old child, to explain my grandmother’s immigration status and to translate a very complex conversation using words I had never heard before. It was so scary. I did my best because I was worried my grandmother would be deported, because I was told by the TSA agent if my grandmother could not give them the information they needed she would be sent back to Mexico. I did not completely comprehend everything that was being said, yet I was expected to translate. — Anonymous

My mother had a court date for a traffic citation (come to think of it, this may be where my fear of public speaking began). She took me as the designated interpreter. As I stood before the judge and hearing mother tell me "dile, dile lo que te dije" (tell him, tell him what I told you), I froze. When I finally spoke, my voice was low and timid. I no longer recall what I said but luckily the judge sympathized with me. He asked me my age (I must have been 13 or 14 at the time) and then proceeded to tell me there were careers in the future for me. Nevertheless, the look I got from my mother told me I had failed. Many years later, I did in fact become a trained interpreter. Although that particular memory is bittersweet, I recognize the dire need for my mother to want to relay her thoughts and emotions, something perhaps she felt only a family member could do. — Anonymous

One of the most memorable (recollections) was how my mother loved the show "Friends," but did not understand a lot of the jokes. So I would translate it for her. — Anonymous

One summer day, when I was 9, I was home alone with my mom. That's why, when the phone rang and it was her boss, she asked me to translate for her. I introduced myself to the man on the other end of the phone and he brusquely, and without preamble, said "Tell your mom I'm laying her off, so she doesn't have to come to work on Monday." I didn't know what that meant so I asked him if she could go on Tuesday. — Anonymous

You frequently tackled complex adult administrative work...

As a young girl, I often translated for Haitian relatives who were newly arrived in the U.S. I would take them on rounds to all the usual places one needs to go in order to get established in a new land, such as the Social Security Administration. It taught me a sort of resourcefulness and built my resilience, but it was also a challenging burden for someone so young. Under normal circumstances, the life of an immigrant child is not carefree and often complicated by real economic hardship. With COVID their work is doubly hard. Immigrant children and families deserve better support. — Sally Seraphin

As soon as I learned to write and read in English, it was my responsibility to fill out applications and write letters of earned household income so my siblings and I could get Medicaid. I was also responsible for reading all government and official documents for my family. I had a hard time reading the documents, and don't know if I told them the right thing every time. — Elodia Caballero

As the oldest kid, just having turned 13 when we arrived (in San Francisco from Mexico in 1984), I remember the many times I translated for my parents things that children should not be aware or exposed to. My mother became pregnant shortly after our arrival and I had to go to her medical appointments and translate. One time I had to translate the risk of her pregnancy and the possibility that her baby in the womb might have Down syndrome. Even as a teen or young adult, translating legal and financial issues is intense as one becomes fully aware of the fragility of our family’s situation. — Maru Salazar

...and you learned a lot about adult systems of power and discrimination

I am 80 years old and arrived in NYC from Puerto Rico in 1947. I was the oldest child in our family and the first one to learn English. I still have a bitter taste in my soul from having to translate the scorn of the then-called "home relief" (later welfare, later AFDC) workers who queried every aspect of our lives. I send Maggie love and admiration. — Angel Luis Martinez

My parents were hard-working immigrants from Nicaragua. While they eventually became somewhat fluent, I was the one they depended upon to navigate their dealings in their adopted country. It was always so interesting to hear the change of tone, clarification or additional information I would get once I took over, when they were having a hard time communicating with others. So sad that so many others did not have the benefit of a daughter who could go toe-to-toe with those who sought to take advantage of their lack of English-speaking skills! — Anita Martinez

I remember feeling frustrated and fearful trying to make sense of bills, notices, and other official documents. At the same time, there was such an acute awareness that I had to do it. I remember accompanying my parents to health care appointments to fill out forms and translate. I don’t ever recall anyone questioning it. Why did that ever seem acceptable? I’m now a health care professional and it’s one reason I feel so strongly about advocating for appropriate and consistent access to language resources. It’s not OK for a child to be in a position to interpret important information for others. Our immigrant parents deserve better. — Anonymous

In the '90s, medical letters were sent in English only, so imagine having to translate life-changing medical notices at 8 years old to your parents. It took advocates years of fighting for language access to be available in publicly funded places like rec centers, libraries, public transit, DMVs, public hospitals, etc in San Francisco. As a kid of monolingual immigrant parents, you learn early on how to navigate large institutions like courts, hospitals, schools, etc. It's a feeling that never leaves you. You witness at a young age how these institutions make your relatives matter less just because they don't speak English. You grow up with a "get shit done because no one else will help you" mentality. More people need to know our stories. Having language access allows for immigrant communities to thrive and regain agency. — Vida

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Your chance of acceptance, your chancing factors, extracurriculars, writing about being a first-generation immigrant in my college essay - tips.

Hi all, I'm a first-generation immigrant and I want to write my college essay about how this experience has shaped me. I'm not sure how to approach this topic without sounding cliché. Does anyone have any tips or suggestions for writing about this? Thanks in advance!

Hi there! Writing about your experience as a first-generation immigrant can make for a powerful essay. However, keep in mind that it is a common topic among immigrants. To avoid sounding cliché, try focusing on a specific aspect or unique experience that has had a significant impact on you.

For example, instead of talking about the general struggle of learning a new language, you might share a specific conversation you had and what you learned from it. Or instead of writing generally about struggling to fit in, you could share an experience where someone was rude to you for being foreign, and how that motivated you to start sharing your culture more openly.

You can get more advice in our blog post on cliche essay topics + how to fix them: https://blog.collegevine.com/cliche-college-essay-topics

Finally, remember to show rather than tell. Use vivid details and anecdotes to illustrate your experiences, so the reader can truly understand and connect with your story. Good luck with your essay, and I'm sure you'll create a compelling narrative!

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Once Ashamed of My Mexican Immigrant Parents, But Not Anymore

EDITOR’S NOTE: A previous version of this essay was published here . Alvaro is a regular contributor to Latino Rebels and he gave us permission to publish this piece.

When I first applied to UCLA, I wrote in my personal essay that I didn’t have any positive role models in my violent neighborhood.

Having grown up in East Los Angeles’ Ramona Gardens housing project, I wrote that most of the adults represented gang members, drug dealers, thieves, tecatos (heroin addicts), alcoholics, felons and high school dropouts (or push-outs). I also wrote about my disdain for housing authority officials and government workers for behaving like prison wardens and guards toward us: project residents who depended on government aid or welfare.

Moreover, I decried the police abuse that I had witnessed and experienced, like the time when a cop pointed a gun at me. My crime: being a 15-year-old making a rolling stop while learning how to drive.

Lastly, as the product of low-performing public schools, I highlighted the low expectations most teachers and counselors had for their poor Chicano students. Fortunately for me, I excelled in mathematics.

While I was eventually accepted to UCLA, I should have been more truthful in my essay. In fact, I did have positive role models: my Mexican immigrant parents.

But why didn’t I give them credit? Did they represent drug dealers, criminals or rapists, as some buffoons want to us to believe? No. They never committed a crime or received a parking ticket. It’s difficult to get a ticket when you can’t afford a vehicle.

Did they migrate to this country to take jobs from American workers? No. My father, Salomón Chávez Huerta, first arrived in this country as a farmworker in the Bracero program, a U.S.-Mexico guest worker program from 1942 to 1964. He also worked as a janitor and day laborer.

My mother, Carmen Mejía Huerta, worked for more than 40 years as a domestic worker, cleaning the homes and taking care of the children of white, middle-class families. Like millions of Mexican immigrants, my late parents took jobs that most American workers reject due to dismal pay, lack of upward mobility and low social status or stigma, i.e., immigrant jobs.

In retrospect, I should have written about their remarkable stories of hard work, sacrifice and resilience in a hostile society. It’s amazing how two Spanish-speaking parents with only a couple of years of education in a small rancho raised eight children, sending four of them to elite universities. This includes raising the most accomplished Latino artist, Salomón Huerta, in the United States.

Instead of being proud of my Mexican parents, I was ashamed of their low social status.

Actually, since I grew up in segregated neighborhood where all of the residents received government aid, like most of my childhood friends, I never thought of myself as Mexican or poor. As a kid, I assumed that all parents spoke only Spanish and kids wore hand-me-downs. I also considered food stamps to be the common currency for all Americans when purchasing food.

It wasn’t until being bused to a white-majority junior high school, Mt. Gleason Jr. High, in the suburbs that I first experienced overt racism and realized that I was poor. For the first time, I was different than most people. Not only was I different, but also labeled as inferior by my white classmates. It was the first time in my life that I was called a “wetback,” “beaner” and “low-rider.”

This idea of being different or inferior followed me to college. I will never forget my first summer class at UCLA, for instance, when the professor asked us to share about our parents. While we had other racialized minorities in the class, I was the only Chicano student from the mean streets of East Los Angeles.

“Both of my parents are UCLA alums, and they’re both attorneys,” an African American student said with pride.

“My mom is a doctor, and father is an engineer,” a Latina student boasted.

“I’m a foreign exchange student from Latin America, and my father is a diplomat,” another student said with delight.

I panicked. What should I say, I thought to myself? Should I say that my mother cleans homes and father sweeps floors in a factory?

Not being able to compete with my privileged classmates with their professionally accomplished parents, I uttered something general like, “My parents are workers in the U.S.”

While I will never forgive myself for not giving my parents credit for motivating me to pursue higher education, growing up in a society where brown people are scapegoats for America’s failures, it makes sense that I would feel embarrassed about my Mexican roots and working-class background.

While Mexicans in El Norte have become convenient targets for American politicians like Donald Trump, there’s a long tradition of Mexican-bashing in the United States. Since the military defeat of Mexico in 1848, American leaders and public figures have treated Mexicans in this country as second-class citizens and social burdens or threats.

For example, as an influential public figure, the late Harvard professor Samuel P. Huntington famously argued in his 2009 article “The Hispanic Challenge” that Mexicans and other Latinos represented a threat to the U.S. Where was the public outcry over his racist thesis?

As the largest ethnic group, accounting for more than 55 million U.S. residents, Latinas and Latinos in this country deserve to be treated with dignity and respect.

As a Chicano scholar with degrees from UCLA and UC Berkeley who, as a teen, internalized the pejorative narratives against brown people and the working class in this country, I have a clear message to Latinas and Latinos, especially young people: Don’t allow a bully like Trump or other American leaders to make you feel inferior due to your ethnic heritage or ashamed of your social status. 


Alvaro Huerta, Ph.D., is an Assistant Professor of Urban & Regional Planning and Ethnic & Women’s Studies at California State Polytechnic University, Pomona. He is the author of “ Reframing the Latino Immigration Debate: Towards a Humanistic Paradigm ,” published by San Diego State University Press (2013).

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Family-based immigrant visas and sponsoring a relative

If you are a U.S. citizen or permanent resident, you may be able to sponsor a family member for a Permanent Resident Card (Green Card). Learn about the process and who is eligible.

Categories of people eligible for family immigrant visas

Applying for a family-based immigrant visa is the first step in the process for the person you are sponsoring to become a permanent resident. There are two categories of this type of visa:

Immediate relative visas

These visas are for close relatives of U.S. citizens, such as spouses, unmarried children under 21, or parents. An unlimited number of visas are available for this visa category. These visas include:

• IR1 and CR1 for spouses
• IR2 for children
• IR5 for parents

Family preference visas

A limited number of family preference visas are set aside each year for:

• F1 visas unmarried children who are 21 years of age or older
• F3 visas for married children
• F4 visas for siblings
• F2A visas for spouses and unmarried children under age 21
• F2B visas for unmarried children who are 21 years of age or older

Check the U.S. Department of State’s chart of immigrant visa categories to learn more about each category of immediate relative and family sponsored visas .

How to apply for permanent residency for a family member

To sponsor your family member, submit a United States Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) Form I-130 . Each person you sponsor needs a separate Form I-130. You can submit the form online or by mail.

The process for your relative to immigrate to the U.S. requires that both you, as the sponsor, and your relative, as the visa applicant, complete the necessary steps.

The process is different depending on whether your family member is already in the U.S. or abroad.

• If your family member is in the U.S. - Learn about Adjustment of Status
• If your family member is outside the U.S. - Learn the steps for Consular Processing

Submitting Form I-130 is the first step of the immigration visa process. Learn what other steps are involved , including:

• National Visa Center (NVC) processing
• Fee payments
• Required supporting documents
• Interview preparation

LAST UPDATED: December 8, 2023

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