I remember when my dad told us we’d be moving to El Salvador. I don’t remember the specific date, but know it was sometime in 4th grade. My brother and I were watching TV in the living room when my parents came to join us. The summer before, we had continued our tradition of month long summer vacations in El Salvador.
My dad brought up the trip and then asked us, “So what did you think about our trip?” “We loved it!” my brother and I told him. We then started talking about the beaches, the cows, nature, and our family. After we were done talking about all the amazing things we experienced, my dad asked us, “What do you two think about moving down there?”
“That would be awesome!” my brother exclaimed.
I had a different opinion. “I like visiting, but I don’t want to move down there,” I told him. “What about my friends? What about school? I don’t want to move,” I shared. I don’t remember exactly what my dad said in response, but I remember not taking him seriously. “There’s no way he’d move us to El Salvador!” I reassured myself.
Little did I know that’s exactly what he was planning. I didn’t realize how serious he was about the move. That is, until I saw the 16 wheeler in our driveway. Apparently, my dad had been planning this for years.
For my father, this was the culmination of his life’s work. He arrived in the United States in 1980 to escape the violence that took over the country during the civil war there. He saw the United States as a refuge – a place where he didn’t have to constantly look over his shoulder for possible danger. He made the most out of his life in the United States while he waited for the situation in El Salvador to improve. Throughout his journey from dishwasher to Executive Chef, and while starting a family, my dad perpetually dreamt about the day he could go back to his home country.
For me, the 16 wheeler represented the end of my life as I knew it. The move was no longer a possibility but an eventuality. He packed that truck up with everything we’d need – furniture, appliances, tools, clothing, and so much more. I didn’t know what to do, so I did what any 4th grader might – I dug my feet in the ground. I told my parents I wouldn’t be leaving, and that I’d stay with my uncle. I enlisted the help of my school teachers to talk to my parents about why I should stay here. I did everything I could to make sure my parents knew how I felt.
In the end, my parents decided to keep us here because they knew I’d get a better education here. While excited at the time, I’ve always felt a little guilty about getting in the way of their dreams. Regardless the fact that my parents and I both know it was the best decision, I can’t help but wonder if I blew that moment for them.
It wasn’t until recently that I was able to compare our two interpretations of this event and connect this comparison to the conflicting perspectives abound in an immigrant household. Here are a few I’ve reflected on.
| My Perspective | My Parents’ Perspective |
| I didn’t want to leave my friends and all I knew | They wanted to go back to their friends and all they knew |
| I feared my dreams of becoming a U.S. National Team soccer player or veterinarian were over | They were excited that they could finally accomplish their dreams of going back home |
There’s no perspective that’s greater than the other. It’s important to acknowledge and respect where the other party is coming from. My parents’ desire to move back stemmed from the love they held for the home country. Luckily, that passion was passed down to me. I hold a lot of pride about where I come from and wouldn’t have it any other way.
The picture above is of the 16 wheeler, albeit very modified, nearly two decades later.
