In 2000, my parents folded their Beijing apartment into neat little piles, tucked their lives into three striped suitcases, hugged closely what couldn’t be taken, then flew to America. Too wise for dreams of a white-picket fence, they dreamed instead of “better.” They dreamed of America.
In 1966, my parents were born into houses without plumbing, without books, without lights in every room. Eggs and meat were delicacies, reserved for birthdays and holidays. Store-bought clothing was a luxury that rarely met their skin. Summers without air conditioning, winters with a wood stove. My mom’s first dogs were killed for their pelts. My dad’s family couldn’t afford dogs. Simply put, they were farmers trapped decades behind their urban counterparts.
In 1996, my sister was born in Beijing, China. She was allergic to every single brand of baby formula except for the expensive, American brand, which happened to cost four times as much. So expensive, in fact, that my mother’s entire monthly salary was set aside for formula.
In 2002 I was born, in Havertown, PA. At this point, my parents had it all. They were poor immigrants, hard to understand, even harder to respect. I’ve many times by now heard the hushed story, told each time with giggles, about how my parents managed to qualify for more food stamps by listing “me” as a member of the household before I was born. I’ve heard every single variation of “they could not understand my accent.” I remember being a fourth grader, waiting by the post office door, keeping guard as my mom collected coupon circulars from the recycling bins.
My parents now live in a yellow house, windows lovingly adorned with green shutters and lace curtains. They have a shed, a garage, a basketball hoop, and a pool in the back. A white picket fence surrounds the property.
Claire Sun is a senior at Lower Merion High School.
