“How many of you were born here in the United states?”

Naturally, I raised my hand because it was the truth. I was born October 3rd, 1998 in a hospital in Chicago around noon, after being due for two weeks. With both parents being born in South America, I am the first in my family and extended family to begin their life in the land of Stars and Stripes.

  “How many of you have ancestors who passed through Ellis Island?”

What would you do?

What would you do when fear heats your cheeks, fear tightens its grip on your neck, and fear makes breathing short? When I was 8, I chose to lie and hide the truth because of my embarrassment of being the first person in my family to be born in the U.S.

As a child in the American school system, one learns about immigration during the 1920’s as a stressful time period. This is, of course, the Great American Melting Pot. 12 million immigrants between the years of 1892 and 1934. Constant inspections and fear of rejection and deportation. Ellis Island and its equivalent on the west coast, Angel Island, were the places where dreams of coming to the United States were made possible. Such events can be thought as nostalgic. Common statements that come up when the topic of immigration is mentioned, are “My grandparents brought only the clothes on their backs” or “My ancestors waited for 2 days before they were allowed to pass through Ellis Island”. All of these statements have their merit. But when it was my turn to speak about my ancestors, about my family history, I was speechless.

It was Monday, November 10th, 2008. It was a little more than a month after my 8th birthday. My grandparents traveled over 2,600 miles just to celebrate my 8th birthday. The day started like any other Monday. I wake up, shower, put on some decent clothes, eat breakfast, and leave for school on my new bike that I recieved for my birthday.   Ms. Pankau used this question as an opener for her lecture on immigration, following the statement with, “Most likely your grandparents or great-grandparents or even great-great-grandparents were born in another country, and sought out a better life for them and their children and grandchildren.” I do not openly react to this statement because it was mostly true with respect to me. My grandparents wanted what was best for their children so they did whatever they could to ensure their legacy will live on in America. As Ms. Pankau continues, my mind starts to wonder about why my family did not leave and go to America sooner. Ms. Pankau was wrapping up her lecture on the process of immigration through Ellis Island when I finally came to my senses. “Now, Tonight’s homework is fairly simple. Go home and ask your parents about Ellis Island and how your first ancestors came to America. Take notes and be prepared to discuss about this tomorrow.” What I thought was going to be a simple homework assignment turned out to become one of the biggest turning point in my life.

I settled for my mom to answer the question when I got home from school, but she was still taking care of the two children she babysat while studying English for her Oakton class, so I thought that I would just ask one of them when they were more relaxed, and they didn’t have to process several things at one time. They kept working until 7:30 when the babies left and we were sat down to eat at the dinner table. I chose not to bring up the question during dinner and wait until after, because my parents were in a heated debate over budgeting constraints and bills. You know, regular adult stuff. So I was quiet as to not disrupt the important issues, waiting ever so patiently for my turn to ask a question. It wasn’t until we finished our dinner and cleaned the table that i was able to interject about my homework assignment. My mother believed it was best that she would be best to explain the history. She took me to my room and sat me down on the edge of the bed. As I pulled out my notebook to take notes, she told me that it won’t be necessary. I felt a sense of wonderment and anxiety wash over me as I begin to listen to my mom’s story. She began the story with my father and her, graduating college, and living together in a small studio apartment on the outskirts of the capital of Venezuela.

“Your father was a bit of a dreamer when we first got married, and wanted to start a new life in United States. I thought he was insane! I didn’t believe that it was possible for us to begin a life in Chicago. I was, of course, nervous of the repercussions that it would have between both families. Your father came to the United state for the first time in 1994 and stayed with some friends until he could rent a apartment. He was very successful at finding a job that paid well for only being in America for a couple months. It took me almost a year apart from him to finally give in to his dream. That was during 1995 and I have never regretted following him here.”

I look at mom with a puzzled look on my face, partly due to some details being lost in translation, but mostly due to the fact that it was my mother and father who came to America and it wasn’t my grandparents or great grandparents and they didn’t come through Ellis Island. My mind was racing, trying to figure out why many facts that were told to me by a teacher, someone who I trusted, were being contradicted by facts given to me by my mother, someone who I loved. My mother then decided to tell me that I was the first person in my lineage to be born in America. That statement struck me like a knockout punch delivered by Ali. I am the First generation American in my family. Now I will be the founding member of a legacy that I had no say in. As this started to set in, my mom started naming a few things that will go down in family history.

I was the first to be born in America.
I was the first to go to elementary school in America.
I could be the first to graduate High school in America.
I could be the first to graduate College in America.
I could be the first to fall in love in America.
I could be the first to get married in America.

But as she says these amazing accomplishments, I’m thinking of their polar opposites.

I could be the first to drop out of High school.
I could be the first to drop out of college.
I could be the first to die alone.

These expectations of me and my actions from now on will forever shape my choices and decisions. The future depends on me to succeed and prosper. The past expects me to succeed and prosper. The present is failing to do either. Both the future and the past terrify me to an unexplainable degree; the future not as much as the past only because the past has expectations for me that are beyond my capabilities. What would you do with all this information the next day at school, knowing that no one else in your class could possibly understand your situation? No one who you could talk to? What would you do if you could stop future humiliation and teasing by telling a small lie? To save yourself from being called weird or different? What would you do?