To be the child of immigrants is live life with a hand at the back of your neck.
That you are luckier than the rest,
because you are here and not there.
That your parents have left love behind for you,
that they have parted seas and swallowed miles,
how lucky you are.
That America was a cure for a sickness you never knew you had.
That you cannot be depressed, or anxious or god forbid something worse.
The American Dream is better than therapy,
better than Prozac.
Do you know how lucky you are?
To be the child of immigrants is a gift and a burden,
a mark of pride and a debt,
that can never be repaid.
It’s a voice at the back of your mind that you will never outgrow.
To be the child of immigrants is to grow up on a fault line.
Living between places both foreign and familiar that you will always be afraid to call home.
You will never know what you are allowed to claim,
whether you really belong to yourself.