Reflection About Immigration

In the summer of 2005 my family and I immigrated to the United States. I was 6 years old at that time, and I was absolutely elated. Our home in India was a peaceful little hamlet- a farmhouse located in the middle of luscious green land. As a child, that peacefulness didn’t have much of an effect; I was either at school or bored at home. Hence, the prospect of living in a country halfway across the world seemed golden. When my 6 year old self arrived in America, his expectations we not only met, but exceeded. Retail stores, fast food restaurants, cartoons and parks kept me occupied. There was so much to do that my problem became finding time for all the luxuries America had to offer. For my parents, coming to America was one of the biggest sacrifices they made. The serenity of India was perfect for them. Despite not being immersed in luxury ,they had familiar faces, a stable source of income, and the quietness of rural India. As they were entering old age, immigration wasn’t at all a golden opportunity. But they weren’t making this decision for themselves.They had a hyper 6 year old son

I am not writing about immigration using alternate viewpoints to show how naive childhood Melvin was (trust me I was a silly kid). Rather this is, I truly believe, the best way I could illustrate the fabric of my childhood. On one hand, there was me- a young Indian kid, enjoying the adventure of a new country. Then there were my parents, slowly grinding away at the cost of living in a brand me country. The younger me didn’t notice the sacrifices they were making for me. Like I said, I’m much wiser now. I now know that my parents made me oblivious to their sufferings for all the right reasons. Instead of allowing me to be consumed by the dread they were consumed by, they let me think everything was okay so my childhood wouldn 't be robbed. They allowed me to be a child and a teen, and I’m forever