Editor’s Epilogue: Dealing with my parents’ cultural and life experiences
My parents immigrated to the United States in the ‘90s after living their entire childhood in a civil war. To say that they’ve seen some shit would be an understatement.
My dad told me that he either saw or heard about his aunt’s house being blown up, essentially killing his aunt and, I presume, her family — my memory is still foggy on the details. My father is very candid about his childhood. He told me all the details of his unfaithful, abusive father and ill mother — all the good, bad, fun and depressing nitty-gritty details.
Both my parents grew up in immense poverty and took the 1500+ mile trek from El Salvador in their late teens, early twenties to the U.S. seeking the “American Dream” as most immigrants did. My parents had their bouts with the U.S. government, whether it be with immigration issues or other things that popped up.
While they try not to live in constant fear because it just wouldn’t be a healthy way of living, it’s always in the back of their minds. It makes sense. From a really young age, you’re told to stay inside and not leave the house because you might die from stray bullets or get taken away to become a child soldier. You have to work in the fields at a young age to make pennies and harvest food for your family simply to survive. Even in the U.S., there have been conflicts between my parents’ families which have caused my extended family to sort of distance themselves from us.
Yet, with all of this, both my parents, for the most part, try to live with as much joy as possible to raise two kids in the U.S. by themselves. I’d say life is relatively good, but I always knew something was off as a kid. I never met the majority of my family or any of my grandparents before they died. There’s been some random phone calls from aunts and uncles, but even though we’re blood-related, they feel more like strangers.
I was never able to go to El Salvador because of the lengthy process it took my parents to ask the U.S. government for permission to leave the country and be able to come back. Also, my dad had an immigration issue at some point when I was in elementary school — which just complicated things even more. Since the age of 11, I went on multiple trips to New York to meet immigration lawyers which bored me out of my mind — having to tag along because I was seen as the “golden ticket” to residency.
With everything going on in their lives, they did their best to make sure me and my sister’s lives were different and safe. While I disagreed with a lot of their choices in parenting as a kid, I totally understand when reflecting on their own upbringings. My childhood friends, who are still some of my closest friends to this day, would invite me to sleepovers countless times, and they always knew it was pointless because my parents would always say no. But they knew I appreciated being included. My dad thought it was a stupid American tradition that was “dangerous” because you never know what could happen.
As a kid who, thankfully, was able to grow up in a safe neighborhood his entire life, this made no sense to me whatsoever. But to the person who grew up in a literal warzone for the first 20 years of their life, it was second nature. I never hung out with any of my school friends until my senior year because of that reason.
It was pretty lonely during this point of my life. I had a lot of restrictions during my teen years, and I kind of wished I didn’t have the family I had. I love my family and would never want to swap them out for anything, but at the time, it felt like I was being deprived of joy and fun on purpose, which is all I wanted as a kid.
But I never chose to be rebellious as a kid out of fear. There was too much shit in my head to consider it, and there was always that looming panic that I would disappoint my parents. That doesn’t mean I was a good student though. I rarely did my homework, never studied, no extracurriculars, failed a class and nearly failed a couple others, and sometimes skipped class just to talk to friends. I was an average student. I just chose to stay away from trouble because of my parents, but we all make our mistakes and, occasionally, I would be around not the best of people at times.
Looking back now, I’m grateful for the opportunities I have. I’m not even talking about attending USC or possibly graduating debt-free (Thanks, Biden). Simply being a U.S. citizen and being raised here is an amazing privilege in itself that I almost didn’t have: My dad had to convince my mom not to go back to El Salvador to have me there. I’ve always been in this weird limbo where I hate shit but appreciate it at the same time. Maybe I’m just confused.
Anyways, I turned 21 this July, which is the magical number in the eyes of the U.S. government where I can finally petition to have my parents gain residency. And even that has proven to be a bumpy road. But at least I was able to go 21 years with my parents, even with the deportation fears during the Trump presidency era, and give my parents the coveted papeles that seemed like a dream to obtain. So I’d say while life can suck balls, there are enjoyable moments sprinkled throughout — which doesn’t make it as miserable.
“Editors’ Epilogue” is a rotating column featuring a new Daily Trojan editor in each installment and their personal experiences of living in what seems to be an irrepressible dumpster fire of a world.