Silver Lining

Through no fault of their own, my parents’ cultural ignorance destroyed my childhood beliefs about Santa Claus and his flying reindeer.  While this realization is a normal part of growing up, I felt that I was robbed of this innocence at the very young age of five.  I recall being tearfully disappointed on Christmas day as my dreams of playing with new toys disappeared into a dark abyss, despite the “Dear Santa” letters that my brother and I perfected and optimistically addressed to the North Pole.  As trivial as these dreams were, they were cheerful moments which I had joyously anticipated.  While my friends all found holiday delights on Christmas day, I sobbed uncontrollably in my parents’ dark closet.  I felt overlooked and alone, left in solitude to comfort myself.

Andrew Mendoza, a boy I met through a mentoring program last year, brought this memory back to life.  I came to appreciate him as a priceless piece of pottery whom I could help to mold and into which I poured my time, thoughts, and feelings.  When I first met Andrew, I felt like I’d met an eight-year-old version of myself.  His upbringing reminded me of my early life with its first generation immigrant struggles.  I listened in wrenching empathy as he told me stories about his empty Christmases.   Looking back at my own experiences, I knew that he didn’t deserve such disappointment at an early age, but it was one of the realities of the culture clash that our immigrant families encountered daily.  Like Andrew, I remember watching my parents fight to balance their schooling with raising children, working part-time jobs, and learning English.  Over many years, I had slowly learned to restrain myself from demanding frivolous things like toys and cookies, especially during the holidays when the budget was tight.  I also began to understand the importance of keeping my life in perspective—there is always someone who is less fortunate—and learning to analyze my life through an objective lens.  However, young Andrew, still new to the struggles of an immigrant family, was always saddened by the holiday season.  To him, Christmas was a constant reminder of his feelings of isolation, and this sadness began to overshadow his vibrant spirit and his sparkling dreams.

Being a son to first-generation immigrant parents is a blessing.  I have come to reflect on the advantages of a difficult childhood, something I hope I was able to insinuate into Andrew’s mind.  This personal belief has helped me to help another child, Andrew, come to grips with his own difficult childhood, and more importantly, to analyze the past, and utilize its teachings.  Whereas I once thought that I was at a disadvantage in being born to immigrant parents, I now see the strength and determination that their struggle has instilled in my being.  From this solid foundation consisting of my parents’ sweat and tears, I have been able to build my own life and even influence others’.  Now, every time I think about Andrew, I see him as a priceless piece of pottery shrouded by bright, silver lining.