Dear First Gen, 

I'm sorry. I know if you are of the first generation this is something you don't hear often. So let me be the person to say it, I’m sorry. I'm sorry for what you have been pressured into. I’m sorry for the pain. I'm sorry for the fear. I want you to know; to give that feeling that you are not alone, even when you feel you are your only company in this struggle. I may not know exactly what you have been through, but you might be able to relate to my experience. 

Ever since I can remember, I can hear my parents telling me I've been given an opportunity that most would never get to see. I was given the opportunity to live in America and not in the poverty that my parents grew up in.  They told me not to waste my chance, to not fail.  That resounding voice in my head, echoed as I did anything in my life. I desperately wanted to make my parents proud, I wanted to succeed, I wanted to be enough. 

Growing up I rarely heard my parents, especially my father, say that they were proud of me. The only time they did say it was when I was at the top of my class when I was the best. That's the only way in life, they told me, to be the best, everything else is seen as a failure in their eyes, even if I put every ounce of my soul into whatever I was trying to accomplish, it never seemed to be enough for them.

 This caused me to strive and overwork myself to be what they wanted. I strived to be the best. Now that I look back at what they wanted, I realize it was an impossible thing for me to reach. It was an unachievable accomplishment. The more I tried, the more I pushed myself, the more I tore myself to pieces. The last time I remember hearing my father telling me directly that he was proud of me, is when I received the presidential award. I was so happy, I felt relief, but it was suffocating to me at the same time. In my mind, it set the bar of what my parents wanted from me. In order to receive their praise, I had to get recognition from the President of the United States. Thinking of how long that took me to earn, all that for a few congratulatory words? I put my all into receiving that award, school years, numerous days and nights, and thousands of hours. I put my everything into my school life, but in the end, I felt drained and hollow.  I didn’t care anymore, I didn’t care about myself, I felt like a slave to my parent's standards. If it took me years to hear it again, I can not say honestly if I would do it again. The ever-growing fear of failure still haunts me as I yearn to become enough.

Many kids that are the first generation face this pressure since they are constantly told about the sacrifice it took for them to even have the opportunity, regardless if it riddles them with stress. This idea has been ingrained into so many young minds, that people will break their own bodies and mentality so that their parents' sacrifice would not have been a waste. That's what I’ve lived through. I'm not saying immigrant parents don’t care, they really do, they want the best for their children. They want to see them succeed in ways they never could. Putting that pressure on children may get results, but how will it affect their relationship? A rope can only be tugged on so much until it snaps. Academic pressure isn’t the only struggle first-generation kids deal with; it easily passes onto home life. 

I've moved around a decent amount, and it was always rough for my family. My parents came here not knowing the language or what the culture was like. They came here seeking that American dream that anyone can be anything in America. Seeing what they would truly have to face, took a toll, and sometimes that toll gets passed onto their kids. 

When my parents moved to where we are now, our family got into a stable position. They started a restaurant business. Because of the business, they were not home much. I have a younger brother. It was mostly me caring for him emotionally since my parents had long shifts and when they were home we all really did our own thing. My mother would clean and I would be with my brother playing. My Father, however, is a more complicated case.  Ever since I was young, I can remember peeking into the living room to see my dad drunk on the couch after a long day of work. He would be surrounded by bottles of beer laying on the ground. Seeing him drink are the majority of my memories of my father, and unfortunately, this is still the case today. My father's alcoholism really did affect everyone in the house. It forced me, as an 8-year-old,  to make decisions a child should never have to make. Ones that keep a lingering fear in me. 

Most children learn English in school, so It kinda became my job to translate things my parents couldn’t understand. I remember sitting with my mother to help her with legal documents for my father’s citizenship. The memory of them getting frustrated with me because I didn’t know what the papers meant is seared into my brain. They would ask what I was doing at school, they would ask if I was learning at all. I would try to respond but they would see it as disrespectful and I knew I would be punished. 

I grew to fear my parents for reasons such as these, my father especially. I matured quickly as I realized how unpredictable my parents' tempers were. So I distanced myself from them to avoid the stress in general.  My brother was still young, so I tried my best to give him what I didn’t have; peace of mind. I tried my best to shelter him from all the things going on, but I knew he would eventually catch on.

 I remember crying in my room alone, hidden because I knew I would be punished for crying if my parents saw me. They perceived sadness as a sign of failure. I wondered why my mother would be angry at me instead of comforting me as they did in Disney movies. My parents told me stories of monsters under my bed or in my closet, or outside the window like most others do. I couldn’t help but have the childish thought that maybe those monsters would comfort me so I wouldn’t have to cry alone. I didn't want my brother to go through what I did, so I made sure he knew he could come to me for anything, I knew he shared that fear of mine.  We matured not out of respect for our parents but out of fear. Fear of pain and harsh punishment that was our destiny if we stepped out of line.

First generation who are the oldest siblings in the house tend to become a second parents to the younger siblings. They have empathy and want to give their siblings a better childhood than they had. They have to be the ones to break that chain of generational trauma, or at least they try to while living in such a foreign community as what their parents grew up in. 

Living in a predominantly white community was strange and a struggle, to say the least. No one really looked a lot like me and growing up I wondered why. I was young and naive.  I went to a private school and I was the only Mexican girl. I remember looking at all the girls' pretty straight hair and wondering why mine wasn't pretty like theirs. It made me envious. My classmates would ask me why I looked like that because we were all young and didn't really understand the concept of people from different places. I also had a much bigger physic than most of them too. I slowly started to notice these things and I felt like something was wrong with me. I felt like  I was out of place, the lost piece of a puzzle thrown under the table. It made me insecure to see my shadow next to other girls in line. I felt like my body was wrong,  it was ugly, and that it needed to change. Honestly, I still feel this way. 

As I grew up and started going over to friends' houses, I saw how it was so much different than my own. It was more peaceful than my own. Seeing families sit down together, it confused me at first, because  I didn’t know what a healthy family looked like. It made me envy them even more. I remember fearing for a friend when she got into an argument with her mother. When I heard her mother apologize to her, I thought something was wrong, like something crazy was happening. I didn’t know how to react; it was something I have never experienced. It is probably something many first-generation kids haven’t and might never experience. 

Our community has some pretty closed-minded people. And being of a different race, it came with a lot of racism. People told me to go back to my country, but this is my country, I was born here, was I not? They told me my people are a plague. Back then, I was confused about what they meant by “my people”. But as I grew up, I knew what they meant.  

I tried my best to not let their comments get to my head, but my mind wouldn’t let it rest. I thought of where I belonged. Do I belong in America? Do I belong in Mexico? Do I belong anywhere in the world? I wonder, am I too Mexican to be American? Am I too American to be Mexican? Am I just a person aimlessly wandering around with a gift, no tag, trying to find where it belongs? If it belongs anywhere that is.

From wandering around to going to the place of my roots. Having family in an entirely different country is cool and exciting, at first. But it has its downsides. For some people who didn't get the privilege to learn their parents’ language have that language barrier that prevents them from bonding with their relatives. But I am fortunate enough to have learned my parent's native tongue. Once my parents both got their citizenship they could finally go back to Mexico to see our family. It was an incredible experience, they liked the candy I liked, they had hair like mine, they spoke like me; they were like me. The first time I went to Mexico, I went to Durango with my Mom’s side of the family. I can’t remember ever being happier and at home than I felt there and then. I bonded with my family and I was not ready to have to leave.

 On the morning of our departure, My grandmother insisted on sending us away with gifts upon gifts, I didn’t realize why she wanted to do this at the moment. We loaded up into my uncle's truck to start the drive back into the city and to the airport. Then it hit me. Was I ever going to see them again? Will my Grandmother be alive the next time I come back if I ever did?

I worried I was going to get my last ever hug from my grandmother and I had just met her, I grew to love her so quickly. I didn’t wanna say goodbye. I didn’t wanna bid farewell. I didn’t want to let go. But I had no choice.

 I hugged my family goodbye, and I remember none of us could stop crying. We all knew there was a chance we wouldn’t see each other again. We all felt that heavy cloud of sadness hanging above us. I sat in the back of the truck and looked out the window as the engine started. All I could see was my grandmother waving goodbye with tears in her eyes. On the ride home, I worried my last memories of my grandmother would be of her weeping as we drove off into the distance. 

When we finally got to return to Mexico, it was about maybe 5 years later. My grandmother was older and frailer than before, but she still had her strong will and unrelenting spirit. Once I got to hug her again, I couldn’t help but sob. It felt as though a dam inside me snapped and let the water run and collide against my being. I remember her comforting voice as she told me she was glad she got another chance to hug me. Once again, I felt at home, I felt welcomed, and this time I knew I would have that joy ripped away from me. I tried my hardest to not let it bother me, to not cry in front of Grandmother.

 When the day came for us to go back to the states, I put on a smile and held my grandmother tight. Once again loaded into the same truck as before, but, I refused to look back, in fear of seeing my grandmother cry again. My vision was blurred from my own tears and I looked out the window trying not to let anyone see the water rush down my face. 

When I was down in Mexico I felt so at home, but going back to the states I know that feeling of being lost would return and wrap me in its cold embrace.

Have you ever had that feeling that you've found something that's been lost to you?  It can feel exhilarating, refreshing, and joyful. That feeling can come from a place, thing, or person. I found that feeling through a very dear friend. They are Mexican like me, and I could tell instantly that they were based on their habits and name. They may have not grown up in a Mexican household, but they still had some of the same experiences as I did. We bonded very quickly as we shared our experiences and interests. It made me feel less alone when I met them. As the only other person with Mexican roots in an all-white community, I felt like I had found a diamond in the rough. 

Finding someone like that especially if you live in a white community is great for first-generation kids that felt out of place. To me, it really helped me feel like I belonged somewhere. I hope everyone can find that friend, the one that makes you feel whole. 

Looking back on it all, seeing pictures of my younger self with a bright smile on my face, not a worry in the world. I sometimes wish I could go back to being that way, but as I sit and remember what has happened to me. If I choose to reject my experiences, positive or negative, I will truly lose myself.  Instead of letting those things chain me to a hollow husk of a body. I will try my best to learn and grow as my soul fills that husk. For everything I have endured, for everything children of first-generation immigrants have endured, it made us strong. It hurt us, it broke us, it changed us. But it MADE us as well. For you can not have created without destruction.

 In this life, we struggled in our given opportunities. Feeling as though the easiest way is to give up, because climbing that mountain of expectation seemed never-ending. At one point, I myself chose to give up and let myself tumble to the base of the mountain, but before I could hit the ground, there was someone there for me to pull me back up. What I want to say is that you don't have to go through this struggle alone, there are many others scaling the same mountain.

I'm sorry that it took so long for the fog of pain, of fear, of pressure, to clear away. But now that it has passed, we can forgive. Forgive ourselves for the pain, the fear, the pressure. To forgive is to restart, not to forget, to turn the page and continue on your story. 

Sincerely, 

A friend.