Asian Parents

I always wanted to become a plastic bag when struck by this question, “What is it like to have Asian parents?”
Like “Are Asian parents that bad?”
Dear my Asian brothers and sisters out there, can someone please explain this phenomenon? First of all, I would never want to become a useless, inanimate object when my dreams and goals are incomplete. I always wanted to become a plastic bag, so I could follow the wind and fly away, far away from my parents’ house, from all the rules and discipline, from the walls that confined my naïve soul. But, it is a mistaken belief, and I wish I could realize it sooner.
Growing up in an Asian household, my parents always prioritize their children, which include my older sister and myself, before themselves.

Why would they do that? Before leaving for America, they have already established their life there with stable jobs, a decent house, and everything else that any ordinary person would desire. If I were my parents, I wouldn’t have the guts to do that. Even until now, I still vividly remember the night we were about to leave the airport in Vietnam. It was about 10:30 when we arrived at the airport, and the night was no different than the usual in Vietnam: people were still bustling in their motorcycles on the busy city’s streets, and the humidity was lessened compared to the

Life was amazing! But, overtime, the extent of my parents’ sacrifice becomes clearer and clearer to me. Life in America, for my parents, was repainting a new picture on a blank canvas. My dad, an industrial engineer in Vietnam who earned a decent wage, had to work as a technician at a local airport. My mom, a midwife who also earned a decent wage in Vietnam, had to pick up the textbook and relearn everything at the age of 49. Indeed, life was challenging for both of them, but they never complained to us. Because I was blind to my parents’ silent sacrifices, I never understood my parents’ intention of bringing me to