Yesterday marked the 17th anniversary of my immigration to the United States. This time every year, I take a minute to reflect on how far my family has come to get to this point. Explaining the meaning of this day is difficult to put into words. And unfortunately, talking about immigration without some level of political undertone is nearly impossible in this day and age, especially with the upcoming Presidential Election. But here goes. Continue reading On being an immigrant
For as long as I can remember, my father always worked. The first sounds that carried through my ears almost every morning were his footsteps, followed by the opening and shutting of our front door. He was off to work.
For as long as I can remember, my father worked. 7 days a week, almost 365 days a year.
I can’t say I know that much about my father. Aside from the basics, I never got to know him deeply. From what my aunt tells me, he was quite the ladies man all his life due to his incessant ability to serenade. Until he met my mother, of course. From what my grandpa once told me, he used to cry endlessly because his family could only afford white rice for meals back in the early days. Gramps concluded he was quite the bratty child. Seems like I inherited the latter part of my father’s traits and not the former. Definitely not the former. Continue reading On fatherhood