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Every night at 11:12 my eyes light up. My sister once told me that 11:12 was the perfect time to make a wish because the fairies cannot possibly listen to all the wishes made the minute before. So I count the 60 seconds between 11:11 and 11:12, make my nightly wish, and fill my dreams with the prospect of tomorrow.
Four years ago, night after night, I whispered the same wish, "Please, don't send me to America!" My parents, suffering from financial hardships, had made a tough decision; I was to leave Korea and be adopted by my relatives in the United States. I resisted the move and employed all my talents to change their minds. I wrote a long, sentimental poem, drew a family portrait, and wailed beseechingly-to no avail. I wasted all my obstinacy clinging to the past until I finally had to look forward. I left my old home - if not with the brightest hopes - at least with a glimmering wish for new adventures.
My dreams quickly turned to nightmares. Living and learning on foreign soil frustrated me: I had taken such pride in my communicativeness back home, only to find myself mute among new teachers and classmates. The lectures baffled me as I tried to snatch at recognizable words. The textbooks, crammed with tiny print, overwhelmed me. Surrounded by fluent classmates, I felt left behind and isolated. In order to blend in and catch up in my studies, I had to double my efforts.
There was, after all, no time to dawdle. My adoptive parents faced financial burdens, and they needed every hand and hour of the day to keep their business running. Being part of the family meant sharing in both emotional and financial responsibilities: As a gratitude for their generosity, I felt like it was my duty to help them in every way possible. As an employee at the family restaurant, I learned to work quickly and unreservedly, not to begrudge my family the time they asked of me. No matter how long the day had been, I would always have my 60 seconds of bliss before 11:12 to wind down and reflect.
My wishes, too, had taken a turn. They evolved from stubborn, personal desires to the stepping stones of maturation. At first, I had felt bitter about the obstacles I had to face; I had just wanted to get away. But as I learned to jump over those obstacles, I began to see hope. I was never alone in my difficulties, and I began to make wishes not just for myself, - but for those who mattered to me as well. Generosity and acceptance greeted me just as much as hardship or reluctance. No longer was wishing merely a refuge from the troubles of the day. The challenges I faced taught me that wishing was something that could connect me to my world and the people in it.
Every night at 11:12 my eyes light up. My sister once told me that 11:12 was the perfect time to make a wish because the fairies cannot possibly listen to all the wishes made the minute before. So I count the 60 seconds between 11:11 and 11:12, make my nightly wish, and fill my dreams with the prospect of tomorrow.
Four years ago, night after night, I whispered the same wish, "Please, don't send me to America!" My parents, suffering from financial hardships, had made a tough decision; I was to leave Korea and be adopted by my relatives in the United States. I resisted the move and employed all my talents to change their minds. I wrote a long, sentimental poem, drew a family portrait, and wailed beseechingly-to no avail. I wasted all my obstinacy clinging to the past until I finally had to look forward. I left my old home - if not with the brightest hopes - at least with a glimmering wish for new adventures.
My dreams quickly turned to nightmares. Living and learning on foreign soil frustrated me: I had taken such pride in my communicativeness back home, only to find myself mute among new teachers and classmates. The lectures baffled me as I tried to snatch at recognizable words. The textbooks, crammed with tiny print, overwhelmed me. Surrounded by fluent classmates, I felt left behind and isolated. In order to blend in and catch up in my studies, I had to double my efforts.
There was, after all, no time to dawdle. My adoptive parents faced financial burdens, and they needed every hand and hour of the day to keep their business running. Being part of the family meant sharing in both emotional and financial responsibilities: As a gratitude for their generosity, I felt like it was my duty to help them in every way possible. As an employee at the family restaurant, I learned to work quickly and unreservedly, not to begrudge my family the time they asked of me. No matter how long the day had been, I would always have my 60 seconds of bliss before 11:12 to wind down and reflect.
My wishes, too, had taken a turn. They evolved from stubborn, personal desires to the stepping stones of maturation. At first, I had felt bitter about the obstacles I had to face; I had just wanted to get away. But as I learned to jump over those obstacles, I began to see hope. I was never alone in my difficulties, and I began to make wishes not just for myself, - but for those who mattered to me as well. Generosity and acceptance greeted me just as much as hardship or reluctance. No longer was wishing merely a refuge from the troubles of the day. The challenges I faced taught me that wishing was something that could connect me to my world and the people in it.
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