"I Love America", The Quill, April 2000
This publication in the literary magazine of Saint Ignatius College Preparatory was inspired by conversations with my mother regarding her immigrant experience. My mother did not have the opportunity to attend college in China because college was a privilege controlled by a corrupt Communist government. I am fortunate to live in an America where my freedoms to learn, study, and grow are not as constrained as they were for my mother back in China.
I love my mother and father.
Most people cherish their intimate relationships with their parents because they perceive their parents as protectors and caretakers who provide them with unconditional love and support. Others respect them for the sacrifices that they endure in order to supply the fundamental, physical necessities of a family: a warm home, ample clothing, and sufficient food on the dinner table. Some simply respect their parents because they are, by definition, the people who delivered them into the world and bestowed life upon them. I love and respect my parents for all of these reasons and because, without them, I could not even begin to imagine the true meaning of America...
One morning, as my mother was driving me to school in her black Volvo, a conversation that originally dealt with my future evolved into an explanation of her past.
"Do you ever think about which career you want to pursue when you grow up?" my mother asked me curiously with her Chinese dialect.
"Just a little. I'm still not sure," I replied in a quiet voice. In my mind, I hoped that she would change the subject because she had inquired about my future a few times before during my other trips to school, and each time I had responded with the exact same answer.
My mother rotated the steering wheel counterclockwise as she made a left turn from Pine Street onto Masonic. She tossed a glance at me and remarked, "You know, regardless of whom you eventually choose to become, you ought to value the fact that you have a choice in the first place." She paused, and I furtively found myself wondering what she meant. Now, I actually hoped that she would continue and satiate my curiosity. Surely enough, a few seconds later, she continued. "When I was young and living in China, you had to become whatever the Communist government ordered you to become. If the Communists said that they needed another garbage collector for their economy, then you were a prospective garbage collector. If they said you had to become a farmer, then you were a prospective farmer."
My mother let her words sink into my head as she turned onto Stanyan Street. "Back then, the government controlled all the power. Even though it was theoretically created for the people's interests; in reality, it wasn't. Government officials routinely came and claimed our family possessions in the name of communism, in order to give to those people who were deemed 'less fortunate' than us. They stole our furniture, our beds, our clothing, and anything valuable that they found. In truth, they were usually corrupt and kept the valuables for themselves. That's why Grandmother tried to hide any extra savings and the one or two pieces of jewelry that we owned."
As the words flowed out of her mouth, I mentally conjured up images of tall, staunch government officials dressed in army green uniforms with three red stripes and a bright yellow star on their shoulder pads to signify that they were Chinese communists. With rifles supported by their left hands and shoulder, they barged into my mother's small home. I discerned the short, yet robust figure of my grandfather, impeding the movement of the officials, challenging the injustices being committed, but at the same time not daring to insult the officials for fear that he would be beaten by the butts of their rifles. The officials, without hesitation, merely jostled my grandfather aside with their strong arms and proceeded to plunder the place. They overturned furniture and ripped the drawers out of the desks in search of what they wanted. They even stole the necklace that my grandmother had carefully hidden between the mattresses of a bed. My mother and her two brothers, afraid, huddled into a corner of the room while my grandmother endeavored desperately to pacify them.
I felt fortunate to be American. I would not have to face the same unwarranted searches and seizures by the Chinese government that my mother had experienced. Then, a cog in the back of my head began to turn, and curiosity once again overtook me. Looking over at my mother, I asked, "Mother, what did the Chinese government order you to become?"
"It said that I had to become a farmer," she replied. She sighed and then continued, "but farming in China was tedious labor. Being a farmer meant working from dawn until dusk. And it wasn't like in America, where almost all the work was mechanized; instead, most farmers were poor and had to use their hands to perform the field work. Do you remember last summer when we vacationed to China?" My mind escaped the body in my seat and entered into the reminiscences of that summer...
My family and I journeyed aboard a train that would transport us from Guangzhou to the city of Guilin, where we would be able to see the spectacular rock formations for which the city was famous. During the fourteen-hour ride, I bore witness to the poor quality of life in China, especially along the countryside. Farmers--men and women, young and old--toiled monotonously in the vast fields that poured next to the train tracks. From a distance, I discerned their dirty faces, covered with patent traces of weariness and tire. Under the scorching heat of the blazing, summer sun, most of the men chose not to wear shirts. Few of them even wore shoes or sandals, probably to avoid damaging the footwear with the dark soil beneath their feet. These dusty fields were necessary for the survival of China's population; ironically, they also simultaneously engendered tremendous suffering and labor in return. The lack of machinery, such as tractors, surprised me. I wondered at the time where all the machines were...
I felt fortunate to be American. I would not have to perform the same tiresome labor that my mother was forced to perform. I would be able to choose what I wanted to do and whom I wanted to become. I did not--
"--But I refused to become a farmer." My mother's voice interrupted my chain of thought. "In return, the government did not let me go to college. I believed that its action was unfair so I immigrated to America. I immigrated to America so that you could have a better life, receive a solid education, and so that you could follow your dreams and become whomever you want to become without some unjust and corrupt government watching you over your shoulder to tell you otherwise." She looked at me, her eyes full of hope. In the corner of her eye, I saw the watery roots of a tear. "Edmond, you must remember never to succumb to the will of an unjust authority. You are your own person."
Just as the last word flowed out of her mouth, my mother stopped the car. I realized that we had already arrived at school. Opening the door, I planted my feet onto American ground with a newfound sense of its meaning. Whether my mother had purposely intended this conversation or whether it just turned out that way, a sense of pride converged with my previous feeling of fortune of being American. I looked at the immense, majestic school standing before me. I noticed the bright, green leaves of the tall trees that grew near the place where I stood. Teenagers of various cultures flocked out of their cars toward the school. I felt honored to have this place to call my home.
I loved America, the mother of freedom and the father of opportunity. Unfettered from the shackles of communism, I was free.