My parents immigrated from Eritrea in the early 90s, years before I was born. One of my greatest motivators in life is that I know they uprooted their lives to ensure I had the stability and opportunities they never had and when I question my place at an institution like Williams, I think back to them. All they’ve gone through--every peril, every long work day, every sacrifice--has been so I can have less burden upon myself and focus on becoming a woman who has more to offer the world than she takes. I’m by no means perfect, but it is the values my immigrant parents have instilled in me that will be the most beneficial to my college experience and I couldn't be more grateful and proud to be their daughter.

So, here is a poem I've written from the hearts of the children of immigrants, to their parents.

An Open Letter From the Children of Immigrants to Their Parents

I think the sun sets for you.

I think the moon and the stars come to say hello,

thank you for a hard days work,

and tuck you into bed.

I think that if I asked you for the sun, or the moon, or the stars,

you’d get it for me- ready in your spaceship made of

scrap metal that runs on hope. You’d scar your hands-

grab fire, jagged rocks, race after shooting stars,

just to put a smile on my face.

Put the weight of the universe on your backs

just so I’d walk a little easier.

I hope you know I’d do the same for you.

I hope you know I’m grateful,

though I don’t show it like I should.

I often take this life for granted,

blinded by the familiarity of luxury,

so much so I mistake it for less than I deserve

when really all my privilege is undeserved.

Since grade school,

I shoved my face in book after book, made grade after grade,

partially due to the fact that social interaction scared me

but mostly to return the favor to you.

My classmates ask me how I do it?

And I usually make a truthful joke

about my sleep schedule or lack thereof

when actually I owe it to you

and your sacrifice.

I learned my strength through your stern tone,

your stubborn eyes, the loving smile.

You taught me the age old skill of

how to make something out of nothing

and although there are times when I feel I am nothing,

times when I feel nothing,

I know at the very least I belong

to something as great as you

And that’s always been

enough to push me through the storm-

lightning, regardless if I’ve been struck,

never mind the burn, silence the thunder,

give me the courage to make sure I’m heard.

My voice is in harmony with

warriors proclaiming their stories, battle cries, and songs.

In my veins, flows the blood of freedom fighters.

These hips belong to generations of women before me

who left beauty in their wake

and boasted with pride that colonialism tried to take.

I love you

And I am sorry for all the times I've been embarrassed of us,

Of our culture, our food, our language, your accents.

I tried so hard to be "American"

That I let myself be ashamed of

The most central part of me

But never again, I promise you that.