My Immigration Story
In response to questions about my identity, I invariably refer to myself as a recent immigrant from Hong Kong. I sometimes wonder how long the word “recent” will lose its effect, urging me to finally change this standard answer of mine.
Three years ago, I came to the United States only semi-willingly.
My family applied for immigration when I was only three years old, a fact unbeknownst to me until eleven years after that. It was done rather randomly. My aunt from my father’s side was the only relative living in the United States. She paid for the applications and did all the paper work in the hopes of getting all of us here. I still cannot figure out, even now, why she was so insistent that we come. She is a dictatorial person, so all the other family members just did whatever she commanded on them, without questions.
As the application took several years of processing, almost none of my family members remembered it. And then eleven years had passed. The application was approved.
After that, my aunt would call once in a while and promote to us how great America is, like a real-estate agent trying to reach sales quota before the imminent deadline. We did not think too much about the whole thing. We just went with what she said, and continued to do what is left to do to go to America.
Very soon, all the documents and actions were done; it was time to go.
Now, we were confused. We never actually thought about leaving where we were born and raised, until that moment that we needed to decide. As typical parents from Hong Kong, my dad, my mum and my aunt thought that sending their children overseas was a precious opportunity, and it would increase their chances of striving towards a bright prospect.
As children, my brother, sister, and I refused to leave a place we had planted a whole life of memories in. We strongly refused.
“Hong Kong is over, now that Britain abandoned it and China is devouring its liberty,” my father sighed about our once promising hometown, “You can get a better job if you got your education from overseas. People will look at you with greater respect.”
Sending children to receive overseas education is usually rich people’s plaything. Well-off parents would dump a bag of money to pay for their kids’ sky-high tuition as international students. Aware, my father thought it was a windfall that we now had a chance to get American education “in a cheap way.”
Unpersuaded by dad’s words, both my older siblings determinedly said they would not leave. My brother argued with my father that Hong Kong was just as great a city in its education and its future, and that he had no desire to run to another place. He continued his bachelor degree in Hong Kong, and my sister continued to pull all-nighters for the pre-university exam for Hong Kong, not with a second of considering the United States.
As for me, I did not have much an opinion, as a fourteen-year-old. Finally I nodded.
Though still hesitating, I was instilled with ideas by my parents over my “correct decision.” They also avoided my sibling’s disagreement with them from reaching to me.
Eventually, I left everything that belonged to (as well as defined) me — my friends, my language, my culture, my home, my parents, and came to the States alone. I remember being on the plane, surrounded by a cloud of melancholy, confused about what was next to come. That moment, I felt like I was not in control of anything of mine, not even my life.
On July 4th, 2012 night, as fireworks were sparkling in the night sky, and celebrative clamor probably suffusing the atmosphere above the land of America, I was as if on a lone planet. I stepped out the airport gate, and saw my aunt from afar. She was frowning, a portent I did not know was foreshadowing my stay with her family.
During the one year stay at her house, I was emotionally tested to which I never before imagined possible. I was extremely stressed. Therefore, my mother decided –– despite her old age and her not knowing any English –– to come to the States and take care of me. That was my struggle of pursuing what people referred to as “American Dream,” which is still as blurred and distant as a shooting star in the smog today. Will I ever catch it? Or should I ask, do I actually want to chase this fantasy anymore?
If time rewound, would I have assertively said no to my parents? I am still uncertain about having come to America. To this day, I still cannot figure out the pros and cons of being in either country. Coming to America, I feel like my life so far has only been a sketch by the adults’ decisions and designs. I really hope that some day, I could identify as somebody I become not without a fight.
I never felt comfortable talking about my immigration story. I have always been afraid that I would get responses like, “If you don’t want to be here, then leave.” I am not a hundred percent sure whether I want to be here or not, but it is absolutely true that I miss Hong Kong very much.
It has been three and a half years now. My vacillating mind is always the burden on my path to future. It kept me from being motivated to strive for what I want. Perhaps the experiences I will gain as I age will soon help me be single-minded in my future, and stop me from regretting what I missed or left behind. I should be resolute that my future is here. I need to clear my mind as soon as possible in order to move forward.
Nevertheless, I will never forget where I came from, and I will forever miss what I left behind, in a positive and nostalgic way.
