I know, I know. I’m sleeping on the job.
I told you at the beginning of this month that I was going to raise money for the Immigrant and Refugee Community Organization and then rocked back on my heels to take a breather from an unbelievably exhausting, yet energizing, month of April. Needed to take a breath. But now, I’m back. And I would ask that if you’re reading, and gain something — perspective, questions, appreciation, doubts, gratitude, solitude, motivation or otherwise, from this or other upcoming pieces, please consider making a donation to an organization that strengthens the resilience of recent immigrants and refugees to the United States, the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave.
The Lee family moved to the U.S. from Hong Kong when I was 5. When I ask my parents why they moved, they always politely and curtly answer that as two journalists (my Dad a photojournalist, and my Mom a reporter), that upon the Handover of Hong Kong back to Communist China, they were afraid their civil liberties and importantly — freedom of speech — would be impinged upon. Who knows if that is the real story. They also shared that they were looking to give us a life of opportunity, and the air (yes, the air) in the U.S. is better.
I’m lucky my Dad is a photographer. I have endless photos of my childhood, which is a boon for someone who has a terrible memory. My first early childhood memory is from when I was roughly 11 years old. Everything else I “remember” from that time is likely a re-memory, etched in my brain from the photos we possess.
The other week, I was at my parents’ house, and spied this little picture folio. The photos inside were taken at Yellowstone National Park, seven months after our family had traversed an ocean to find our adopted home on a vastly different continent.
The inscription on the front page of the folio, in my Dad’s neat and tidy script, reads: “It is a fabulous country, the only fabulous country; it is the one place where miracles not only happen, but where they happen all the time. — Thomas Wolfe”
Reading it over and over again last week, so many feelings surfaced. Gratitude for one. Deep gratitude that I got to fulfill my parents’ dream for all of their children, which was to grow up in a place full of opportunity. I also felt confused. Is America truly the one place where miracles happen? And do they really happen all the time? And then skeptical….Was my family privvy to the miracles as Thomas Wolfe described? And if we did have miracles happen to us, was that through supreme divination, or did we make our own luck?
Here is what I know to be true. My parents had a lot of support moving here (from my Mom’s parents, brother, and sisters who preceded her). We were not escaping violence or persecution in our home country. We did not have to leave behind anyone in Hong Kong who did not wish to be left behind. They made the choice to come to the U.S. When they got here, they did what any immigrant family trying to make it would do — they divided and conquered. My Mom, younger than my Dad by 20 years, worked hard to learn English. Actually, both of them worked hard to learn English, but it came easier to my Mom’s brain. She watched detective shows and daytime soaps to master the language. My uncle helped her find a job in the dental industry, where she eventually stayed for 25 years (completely new field for her!), so she could make a living and support our family. Meanwhile, my Dad was the Chief Operating Officer of the Lee household — shuttling us to all of our activities, making us all of our meals, and keeping up with the house/garden work. In the eighth grade, my Mom — ever the ambitious learner — decided that with three young kids and a full time job, she wanted to earn her Masters in Business Administration. And so she did — at a pre-eminent institution in the PNW that was located 64 minutes from our house (one way).
This happy chaos defined our lives. And it also meant the following:
- My mom worked two jobs, sometimes three (often equaling 100+ hour work weeks), to make the ends meet.
- She often wasn’t home for dinner, and couldn’t make it to many of our sports competitions or practices.
- A persistent language barrier made it difficult for them to connect with my friends’ parents.
- (Immigrant) isolation is a real thing! To this day, they have fewer friends than nearly any of my white friends’ parents. I would say few, very few, people sought them out as friends, confidantes, and mentors.
- I learned much later in life that with my Mom’s single earner income, we were more than qualified for public subsidies, but we didn’t know enough or were too proud, to take advantage of the help.
- I attended as many of my parents’ doctors appointments as I could, especially as a public health major who learned that poor health outcomes disproportionately impacted people of color, mainly due to clinicians making certain assumptions and self-editing their advice or actions, because of certain perceptions of their level of understanding.
- Neither ever felt qualified to help me or my brothers with our homework when we struggled. They were resourceful in finding help, but there were many times where I felt I worked and worked and worked to figure it out and do them proud, but felt stymied and stuck without knowing where to go to find/ask for help.l
- In my Mom’s workplace, racism and white supremacy meant that people couldn’t see/hear past a non-American accent. There was an assumption that maybe she wasn’t as smart, or couldn’t handle as much as her peers because she didn’t speak perfect English. Little did they know that English was her third language.
- I felt a persistent sense of shame (I wouldn’t have described it that way at the time) about my parents’ lack of fluency in English, which meant I didn’t love when they were the ones to lead the carpool with my friends. I think also as a result, I didn’t ask them about their childhood, young adulthood, or stories of our immigration — as I desperately wanted to fit in, be cool, and not be different.
- My brothers and I translated for my parents everywhere — Home Depot, Olive Garden (where we ate once a month as a treat), school principal offices, doctors — even though they didn’t actually need it, mostly because people would hear their accent and assume they were too dumb to understand.
I navigated all of the above while also balancing figuring out how to apply mascara, how to make it through puberty, and how to master the crossover dribble. I’m proud to share all of the above now, because essentially — we made it, despite, or maybe because of it all. But oof — it came at a steep cost:
- Thinking my parents were less-than-cool for far too long;
- Lots of lost hours and missed special moments with my Mom who was fervently working with only one thing on her mind — Make. Ends. Meet.;
- Not understanding our family history, culture and heritage because I spent so many years trying to distance myself from anything that was different/foreign.
Growing up, I felt envious of my white friends who did not have to be their parents’ guardians, translators, and keepers. As an adult, I realize that experience has given me the confidence to tackle nearly anything, because nothing quite compares to the challenge of that magnitude of responsibility at such a young age. You’d be hard — pressed to put a challenge in front of me that rivals the difficulty of growing up as an immigrant in America. If you’ve ever experienced me with a chip on my shoulder, first I apologize. In reflection, though no excuse, I now realize it’s a result of always feeling like the underdog. Never picked first. Mostly drafted last, with many sideways stares and quizzical looks greeting my attempts to fit in, be cool, and just Be.
There’s an Eleanor Roosevelt quote that I love. “Women are like tea bags. You can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.” I think immigrants and refugees can be described in much the same way.
If you’re in a position today of hiring an immigrant or refugee, or contemplating whether they’d make a good nanny, mentor, financial advisor, spouse/partner etc., I’d advise that you take your chances on them. I know I would put my bottom dollar on it. They’ve had to weather much more than belies their looks/years.
I also share my story because the mission, vision and work of the Immigrant and Refugee Community Organization (IRCO) deeply speaks to me for all of the above reasons. What if my family had access to the services of this type of organization when I was growing up? Maybe my parents wouldn’t have had to sacrifice so much, for so long. Maybe I would’ve felt much more proud to have been the child of immigrants. And maybe as a result, I would’ve spent much more time and effort learning the stories of my parents and ancestors, because I would’ve felt like we were superheroes for moving across the ocean and navigating a whole new country, cultural norms, and expectations with a greater sense of ease. And perhaps, that might’ve led to greater cultural enrichment of everyone that surrounded us in those early years. Ours is but one story, though likely emblematic of what many newcomers to the US feel, think, do, see, and experience.
This is why I love IRCO. Established in 1974 to serve immigrants and refugees in Portland, Oregon, IRCO has served more than 55,000 people through provision of programs and services that meet needs related to training and employment, health and aging, English language learning, naturalization and adjustment, community development, early childhood, parenting and youth development, education and interpretation and translation.
So I hope you’ll join me in donating this month to help amplify IRCO’s much-needed programming. I have confidence that their services will make it much more likely that current and future generations of immigrants and refugees can more assuredly proclaim what Thomas Wolfe has always thought to be true: “It is a fabulous country, the only fabulous country; it is the one place where miracles not only happen, but where they happen all the time. ”
