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I am a pencil and life is the paper on which I will write my own story.
It has been six years since I took my first step into this strange country, the place my parents referred to as our "nine-years-waiting heaven on earth." My parents threw away their life time accomplishments and abandoned everything they loved, to come to this so-called land of dreams for their children to have a better future. I was thrilled and excited to start a new life in the United States, one of the world's wealthiest countries. Without much preparation for the language barrier, I learned English from scratch, starting with beginning level in ESOL, the English program for second language students. To my astonishment, I completed the five-levels-program in just two years. It was supposed to be beneficial, but the transition from being an outsider, back to the English mainstream, was harder than I expected. I struggled. I was frightened to talk; I didn't know what to say to my new American teenage friends. We had nothing in common. Besides the language barrier, the cultural differences, the homesickness, and the discrimination, there was always the money. The list of differences between me and my peers was as long as a trip around the world.
As it turns out, my family life wasn't as heavenly as it appeared. My parents worked 7 days a week just to put food on the table. Poverty was always looming over our head, but I was determined to overcome these obstacles to make my parents proud. I slowly came to realize that I had many supportive teachers and friends around me all the time, and with their help, I finally wandered outside of my comfort circle. I joined the Marching Band and Math Honor Society; I found my standing ground in Red Cross club and Women in Math club. I felt my sense of acceptance and importance.
As if life as an immigrant hadn't been hard enough, my eldest brother passed away during my senior year in high school. I questioned God; I was upset because his future was cut short, because our family did not deserve this. I blamed myself for not spending enough time with him and because every moment I spent with him was emotionless. I felt guilty because I didn't lend him money when he asked for it. I was not depressed, but the guilt was almost unbearable at times. Just when I finally cracked my shell open, the shock forced me to close it up again. This was the start of my freshmen year in college. Hopeless, I looked to my dad for answers, and he only said that the guilty one was my brother, because only when he moved on, he can truly see how many people loved and cared for him. It was then that I reminded myself of how lucky I am, of all the hardship my parents went through, of all the sacrifices they made for our future, not just his. I turned my guilt into a commitment that I will carry on my brother's incomplete life and future with me. It gave me motivation to pick myself up, and started to carve my way out of the shell again.
I have always carried with me not only my dream, my future, but also the hopes and wishes of my parents, the expectations of my family, the role model image to my cousins, and my brother's dream. My parents said I own my dream and that my future belongs to me. But they were wrong, because without their sacrifices, I wouldn't have a future at all. I own my future, but it makes up from their blood, sweat and tears. I am not oblige to prove to anyone anything, but only to myself that I am worthy of my parents' sacrifices. I wish my brother was here to share these weights with me; I wish he was there when I graduated from high school; I wish he was here to pat me on the head and say good job. If he was here, I would give him anything he asked for and never ask for anything in return.
This is a pencil who is writing the pages of her life. This pencil does not have a special appearance or talent, but she has a strong will, courage, responsibility, not yet confident but perseveres within herself. Her time is not here yet, but she will strike with all her might when it is; because that pencil is me.
I am forever in debt to my parents. They made me as if with linden wood, ordinary but strong. They lined me with consistency and they made sure I held well. Life can break me in half, but it will never break my purpose. I will smile at every broken lead it throws at me because I know I don't own all the problems in the world. Failures only give me a scratch on my paint-cover, but they are the lessons that'll never fade. Nothing can stop me from writing my story because life sharpened me well. I am The Pencil and I'm here to stay. I'm here for the long run.
I am a pencil and life is the paper on which I will write my own story.
It has been six years since I took my first step into this strange country, the place my parents referred to as our "nine-years-waiting heaven on earth." My parents threw away their life time accomplishments and abandoned everything they loved, to come to this so-called land of dreams for their children to have a better future. I was thrilled and excited to start a new life in the United States, one of the world's wealthiest countries. Without much preparation for the language barrier, I learned English from scratch, starting with beginning level in ESOL, the English program for second language students. To my astonishment, I completed the five-levels-program in just two years. It was supposed to be beneficial, but the transition from being an outsider, back to the English mainstream, was harder than I expected. I struggled. I was frightened to talk; I didn't know what to say to my new American teenage friends. We had nothing in common. Besides the language barrier, the cultural differences, the homesickness, and the discrimination, there was always the money. The list of differences between me and my peers was as long as a trip around the world.
As it turns out, my family life wasn't as heavenly as it appeared. My parents worked 7 days a week just to put food on the table. Poverty was always looming over our head, but I was determined to overcome these obstacles to make my parents proud. I slowly came to realize that I had many supportive teachers and friends around me all the time, and with their help, I finally wandered outside of my comfort circle. I joined the Marching Band and Math Honor Society; I found my standing ground in Red Cross club and Women in Math club. I felt my sense of acceptance and importance.
As if life as an immigrant hadn't been hard enough, my eldest brother passed away during my senior year in high school. I questioned God; I was upset because his future was cut short, because our family did not deserve this. I blamed myself for not spending enough time with him and because every moment I spent with him was emotionless. I felt guilty because I didn't lend him money when he asked for it. I was not depressed, but the guilt was almost unbearable at times. Just when I finally cracked my shell open, the shock forced me to close it up again. This was the start of my freshmen year in college. Hopeless, I looked to my dad for answers, and he only said that the guilty one was my brother, because only when he moved on, he can truly see how many people loved and cared for him. It was then that I reminded myself of how lucky I am, of all the hardship my parents went through, of all the sacrifices they made for our future, not just his. I turned my guilt into a commitment that I will carry on my brother's incomplete life and future with me. It gave me motivation to pick myself up, and started to carve my way out of the shell again.
I have always carried with me not only my dream, my future, but also the hopes and wishes of my parents, the expectations of my family, the role model image to my cousins, and my brother's dream. My parents said I own my dream and that my future belongs to me. But they were wrong, because without their sacrifices, I wouldn't have a future at all. I own my future, but it makes up from their blood, sweat and tears. I am not oblige to prove to anyone anything, but only to myself that I am worthy of my parents' sacrifices. I wish my brother was here to share these weights with me; I wish he was there when I graduated from high school; I wish he was here to pat me on the head and say good job. If he was here, I would give him anything he asked for and never ask for anything in return.
This is a pencil who is writing the pages of her life. This pencil does not have a special appearance or talent, but she has a strong will, courage, responsibility, not yet confident but perseveres within herself. Her time is not here yet, but she will strike with all her might when it is; because that pencil is me.
I am forever in debt to my parents. They made me as if with linden wood, ordinary but strong. They lined me with consistency and they made sure I held well. Life can break me in half, but it will never break my purpose. I will smile at every broken lead it throws at me because I know I don't own all the problems in the world. Failures only give me a scratch on my paint-cover, but they are the lessons that'll never fade. Nothing can stop me from writing my story because life sharpened me well. I am The Pencil and I'm here to stay. I'm here for the long run.
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