Growing older is one of those things that hits you out of nowhere. You wake up on a Monday morning realizing that holy shit, I'm old. For me, this epiphany is normally followed by a brief period of contemplating everything in my life that has gotten me to where I am now (with the occasional "what-if" scenarios popping up). And if there's anything that the past twenty-two years have taught me, it's to never take anything for granted.
My family's version of Thanksgiving dinner has always been a portable stove on our kitchen table, surrounded plates of sliced meats and vegetables and fish cake. It was one of those rare occasions during which my mother would allow me and my brothers to have soda, whatever kind we wanted, and so we'd accompany her to the store and pick out two large bottles - Coke, because it was Dad's favorite, and something else. She would settle with a glass of wine and the five of us would spend the evening dipping the raw foods in boiling water, the television on in the background. We never went around and shared what we were thankful for, like other families did. Instead, it went without saying that there were obvious things to appreciate: shelter, warm food, the access to good education, a peaceful home life. For the longest time I was under the impression that this stability came naturally. Of course, I knew we had some struggles, but they never affected our quality of living.
It wasn't until high school that I started to notice the worry lines etched into my mother's face or the sudden onset of gray hairs my father sported. Sometimes I would come home from school and the atmosphere would be tense, as if one wrong word would spark an explosion. Still, we continued on: Mom cooked three meals a day, my two younger brothers and I had weekly piano lessons, Dad traveled back and forth from Pueblo to manage his business. "You need to try your best," my mother would tell us. "Your dad is working very hard." Whenever we asked, however, he'd answer with, "Don't worry about the money. Leave that to me and your mom. Focus on school." Even now he repeats this mantra. Money, for the longest time, was their worry. Making ends meet was a war that would have ripped any other person apart. But they never showed it. For the sake of their three children, they couldn't.
I consider myself blessed to be raised by parents who care about me and my brothers so deeply. It is a strange thing for me to type, as I've never been one to display my emotions, but as Thanksgiving inches closer, I feel all the more compelled to finally put my thoughts down.
To my mom, who'd wake up at four every morning to cook a wholesome breakfast and pack us a freshly-made lunch because she wanted us to be well-nourished, who would refuse to go to sleep until she knew that I was done with homework, whose hands are so cracked from years of washing dishes that she couldn't get fingerprinted when she applied for a US citizenship, who drove me to countless piano lessons and sat through all of them with more focus than I ever could have mustered - thank you.
To my dad, who has never gotten a break in his life from his impoverished upbringing in rural China to his journey as a non-native English speaker here, who went twenty years without going home and seeing his family because he had to work, who stayed up days on end to cover shifts for people and find ways to make sure his wife and children could live comfortably, who is still working just as hard as he always has been even though most people his age have retired by now - thank you. You and Mom have sacrificed so much.
And - last but not least - to my two brothers, both extremely gifted and hilarious and kind, who have always been there for me (even during my worst days) and would give me a dose of reality when I'd need it the most - thank you.
Nothing can describe how unbelievably grateful and humbled I am, words least of all, to have these people I can proudly call my family.
