Lessons from a PBS kid

Fact: The Thresher Shark uses its long tail to stun its prey.  

Fact: There have been ongoing debates on the existence of a ninth planet called Planet X.

Fact: These were the actual things I used to tell other kids in the schoolyard at recess before they would walk away and tell me I was weird. 

Recently, we read the NPR article "In 'Columbus,' John Cho Reckons With His Own First-Generation Culture Clash." The article details Cho's upbringing and the struggles he encountered dealing with the culture clash of being the child of immigrant parents. What stood out to me the most was how the article highlighted the limbo immigrant children are in when exposed to different cultures, struggling to find an identity.  

Growing up in an immigrant household, all we had was satellite TV. I grew up with the kids' shows on PBS, such as Cyberchase, Maya and Miguel, and if I stayed up late enough, Nova. That's right, everyone. I was watching science documentaries for fun. 

I remember going to school the next day, excited to tell the other kids what I had learned, only for them to talk about shows like Kim Possible or The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. It was hard to fit in or find friends who shared my unique interests, especially because at the time, we couldn't afford cable. I felt angry that we couldn't afford to be "normal" and felt lonely because no one really knew about the shows I talked about. 

Like Sonia Sotomayor's mom telling her, "you know best, Sonia," my parents expected me to figure out "American life" on my own. As I previously discussed in another blog post, I had undiagnosed ADHD, and so I really didn't know what was best. Often, I did what I thought was best on impulse. As this article in Think Global Health by Hannah Todd and Eliza Martin explains, "the hardships of immigrant parents in one generation . . . influence the struggles and successes of the next generation."

I learned the quickest, easiest way to "make friends" was to act a fool for some laughs. Disrupting class for some cheap laughs meant to me, "if someone laughs at me, it meant they didn't hate me." Like Gob Bluth in Arrested Development, they weren't laughing at me; they were laughing with me. 

Unfortunately, that didn't sit well with my teachers. After many parent conferences, my mom sent me to work with my grandpa mowing lawns. 

I can still smell the gas fumes and hear the squeaking suspension of the 1990 Ford Econoline van as we drove out at 5AM to mow lawns in Baldwin Hills. My mom believed it would teach me some discipline and I guess by her own logic, teach me to appreciate the luxuries I had. If I wasn't at home causing trouble, it was because I was working. 

Every Saturday, I was given a rake and bin while my grandpa began operating the machines. As we drove through LA, I saw the different cities in LA County. Meeting some interesting people through his routes, I learned that not all of us live the same "American life." Seeing apartment units use children's blankets for window curtains versus seeing houses with garages filled with cars put into perspective what life as a child of immigrants meant to me. 

I learned that immigrant parents will work the hardest jobs during the worst times to give their kids a nicer life. Even if it wasn't the best, it was better than they had. One of my favorite songs of all time "La Jaula de Oro" by Los Tigres del Norte, portrays the fact that parents of immigrant children also face a culture clash. The song comes from the perspective of a father who longs for his life in Mexico and feels he's trapped in a cage made of gold in the U.S. The song describes how the singer's son doesn't even speak his language and denies he's Mexican. This song is a must-listen for the children of immigrant parents. 

I felt compelled to write about this struggle because it was mowing lawns with my grandpa that taught me to realize the sacrifices my parents made for me to be here. Of course, this struggle was not without its faults, and I would later develop that feeling of guilt many of us first gens experience when attaining higher education. The notion that we needed to be the best because we had our family struggles on our shoulders was like an invisible weight being placed slowly over time. But at the time, the hands placing those weights on my shoulders did it slowly, and I wouldn't know this until years later. 

Though I would go on a mental health journey to reflect on this toll, I realized the best thing about working with my Grandpa was that he would listen to my endless talking. Sure, he only spoke Spanish, but I did my best to translate what I'd learned on PBS. I learned a great work ethic from him and would follow his outlook on life: "When life gives you problems, just get straight to working through the dirt, and it will come out alright." 

As of writing this, I feel I've found the definition of the "American life" I struggled to define as the child of immigrants:

Empathy and compassion. 

These are valuable lessons I feel all of us need to learn before we become attorneys. No matter where we end up or how much money we make, always remember to treat each other with kindness. Lend an ear to a stranger, learn to listen, and be there in the moment. 

Looking back, I'm glad that I didn't fit right into the "American life" everyone else fit into. I loved every moment of being able to watch PBS shows and documentaries or check out books from my local library for free. 

I wanted to dedicate this blog post to my grandpa, who taught me a strong work ethic, and my TV grandpa, Mister Rogers, who got me through some of the hardest times of my life and never judged me for my mistakes. Both of them taught me to love myself and appreciate where I came from.  And finally, I wanted to also dedicate this post to LeVar Burton and Reading Rainbow who helped me find other worlds I could escape to in books when I couldn't quite fit into this one sometimes. 

Do you even know how smart I am in another language?

"Do you even know how smart I am in Spanish?" 

Gloria is my favorite character in Modern Family, not just because she's funny but because she embodies what many of us, whose first language is not English, feel. I grew up speaking Cantonese and Mandarin with my immigrant parents and never felt embarrassed until I was told at school that my "English was weird."

Just like how Campoverdi, in her memoir, would duck down to "tie her shoelaces" when passing by her school to prevent others from seeing her in her abuelito's old car, I would have my popo (grandma in Chinese) drop me off at the school's back entrance to prevent others from talking to her. I was ashamed that my grandma couldn't speak English to communicate with my teachers and that my parents were always busy working seven days a week. On the other hand, other people's parents were in attendance, helping out at every school function.

Seeing how my family members who couldn't speak fluent English were less respected and struggled to get opportunities, I bought into the idea that achieving the "American Dream" required complete assimilation into American culture, that meant English fluency. From then on, I spoke English whenever possible, even though it isolated me from the rest of my family.

The better my English got, the worse my Cantonese and Mandarin got. The way words are pronounced and the tonal changes in Chinese are drastically different than in English. This drastic difference is true of the written languages too. So, by becoming more fluent in English, I became more and more detached from the Chinese language, my culture, my family, and my identity. For many first and onlys, this is a common struggle because it appears to us that the fastest way to progress in our society is to "play the game right". The end-goal is to be amongst the people who are successful socially and career-wise, so you imitate their way of being to make it easier to get there.

It wasn't until I got to college, an environment much more diverse than the community in which I was raised, that I realized the error in my thinking. Meeting people from different states, countries, and socioeconomic backgrounds helped me learn the value of what makes me different than others. Being multilingual is a blessing in many ways. 

Living in the dorms with two roommates and a packed floor during my first year of college, I had little privacy. However, I could speak privately to my family in Chinese without having to leave the room. In job interviews, I can leverage my ability to connect with certain communities in our primary language. At restaurants, I can connect to servers and show them my appreciation for their food. 

Through these experiences, I got in touch with my identity as a Chinese-American again. However, something that still stumps me to this day is how certain languages and accents are more respected and valued. Despite a couple of my high school friends struggling with speaking broken English, they didn't face these same struggles. 

A recent conversation with a law school friend made me more curious about this accent and language preference phenomenon. We talked about how certain languages and accents have more positive connotations, like sounding more educated. For example, we have noticed that when someone speaks with a British accent, they are often perceived to be smarter or more attractive. When our friends spoke French, Italian, or other romance languages, their bilingualism was considered very admirable. 

Yet, I've been told in college to steer clear of certain professors with Indian accents, not because it's hard to understand the concepts they're teaching but because it's hard to understand what they're saying in general. This seems to be a common trend, not just in the United States. The stark differences in our experiences with those who speak in highly regarded accents or languages in American society are fascinating. I often hear about and see privilege in the context of being white, conventionally attractive, and wealthy, but I think this accent and language preference phenomenon is also notable.

I'm sure there are many underlying explanations, but what stands out most to me is that people like accents, languages, and people who are more similar to them, but just different enough. Certain accents and languages are associated with disadvantaged and low-prestige minority groups and are less "standard", and therefore viewed less positively. This makes them vulnerable to negative bias. For many first and onlys, this poses an additional challenge, along with all the other ones, to navigate.

Yet, we must not be discouraged because we need to remember that, despite our unique and different identities being a source of struggles, they're also what make us strong and resilient. They are what motivates our hard work. So even if others don't know how "smart we are in Spanish," it doesn't matter because we, ourselves, know our capabilities. 

Navigating religious affiliation at a secular law school

To help illustrate the concepts behind vicarious liability, my Business Associations professor had written on his PowerPoint two verses from the Bible: one each from Exodus and Deuteronomy. As students filtered into the room, some gazed at the verses with a puzzled curiosity. Class soon began, and the professor explained that, while he was an atheist, the Bible contained some interesting and at times conflicting views on the imposition of vicarious liability. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the class seemed almost relieved to learn their professor was not a Christian--and, grateful he was not evangelizing to them. While I can understand the latter sentiment, I couldn't help but feel disappointed by the former.

A week or so before today's class, I attended an annual Judge's Night Gala in Oakland. Two judges gave speeches upon receiving their awards for excellence within their occupation. One of those speakers was Alameda County Superior Court Judge Julia Spain. A single mother at a young age, Judge Spain recounted the struggles she faced as she worked her way through undergrad, took on law school, and helped to revolutionize a pervasively sexist legal culture. She eventually made it to the bench, through unexpected avenues. She credits Jesus Christ, and a single Bible passage in particular, as the inspiration for her unlikely success. As a first-generation college and law school student, I found the tale of her tenacity very inspiring. And as a child raised in a Baptist household, I couldn't help but linger on her words. 

After the awards were distributed and the main event concluded, I made my way to Judge Spain and introduced myself. We talked and she asked me an unavoidable question: 

"Are you a Christian?"

"Yes." I replied.

"Which church do you attend in Davis?"

I'd all but sworn off organized religion during undergrad in favor of theoretically finding my beliefs on my own, untainted by the beliefs and biases of a congregation. But I couldn't say that.

"I don't have a church I go to in Davis."

Despite a possible flash of disappointment across her face, she gave me her contact information and well wishes. However, a seed of guilt had taken root within me. Could I still consider myself a Christian while "hiding my light under a bushel?"

Although I take great pride in the friendly and open-minded environment cultivated by students at UC Davis, I don't feel that open religiosity would be very well received on our secular, liberal-leaning campus. I am not alone in holding the sentiment that religiosity is not encouraged within the context of legal academia. With stresses mounting every day and our paths so obscured by unforeseen and unavoidable circumstances, I hope that I and my classmates someday learn to balance our legal careers with faith in something greater than ourselves, and even greater than the law.

Figuring it out: the first-generation law student's journey

The Return Offer

Like every law student, I started my 2L summer job hoping and praying for a return offer. But, as they say, be careful what you wish for.

For the first three weeks of my summer job, I came home and cried in bed. I was exhausted from working nine-hour shifts, sitting alone in a cubicle, and having my complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD) triggered from being back home. Despite knowing deep down I didn’t want to return home after graduation, I worked hard and smiled through the pain to earn my return offer.

As a first-generation and low-income law student, a return offer represents so much more than just a job after graduation. It is the reassurance of a steady income to help support my family and myself. It is proof that I am capable, that I belong, and that I am building a future I have worked so hard to create. 

So, I worked overtime, paid for my own lunches even when partners invited me to join them, and kept my complaints to myself. I socialized, I bonded, and I gave it my all. When my summer job ended, I left feeling a mix of satisfaction and uncertainty, knowing I wouldn’t find out the status of my return offer for weeks, maybe even months.

The Advisor

While I waited, I knew I needed advice. I carefully chose an advisor from Career Services whose bio showed experience in the type of work I wanted to pursue. I thought I had chosen the best one for me, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

When I explained my summer experience and how I couldn’t go back for personal and professional reasons, their solution was: “You could always go back but not live at home.”

I was speechless. I had just explained how, as the eldest daughter in an Asian family, I’m expected to live at home and support my family. Moving out isn’t just a choice, it’s a balancing act. I thought finding a job elsewhere would help me move forward without hurting my family.

Despite their lack of empathy and cultural understanding, the advisor said one useful thing: “Come back once you’ve heard about your return offer, and we’ll use it to find something better.” I trusted them.

Weeks later, I got my return offer. I felt relief, disappointment, and fear. On one hand, I had security. On the other hand, I knew I couldn’t go back home without a fight.

I returned to Career Services, hopeful I could finally leverage my return offer like they’d suggested. Instead, I was met with a blank stare. They didn’t remember our conversation, their advice, or the hope I’d placed in them.

When I asked what I could do, they shrugged. “It’s too late,” they said. “Most jobs during 3L come from networking and connections.” Those were things that I, as a first-generation student, didn’t have much of.

Still clinging to hope, I asked how to break into estate planning. That’s when they delivered the final blow. They said it’s a tough practice area to enter because most attorneys are sole practitioners or work in small firms that rarely hire new attorneys. Instead of helping me strategize, they looked at me like I was crazy and asking for too much.

But isn’t that their job? To help students like me?

I left their office disappointed and scared. I had wasted valuable time waiting to reach out to firms because I followed their advice. The practice area I wanted to pursue felt like an exclusive club I wasn’t invited to. And worst of all, it felt like my path forward was closing in on me…I might have no choice but to return home.  

Like those first three weeks of my summer job, I came home and cried.

The Harsh Reality

Law school is not designed with first generation students in mind. In fact, the Law School Survey of Student Engagement (LSSSE) reports that only 29% of law students identify as first-generation, with students of color being disproportionately represented among first-generation law students compared to our white peers. Yet, the legal education system rarely acknowledges our unique challenges or provides the support we need to thrive.

This isn’t just about law school, it is about the systemic barriers that make certain professions feel like exclusive jobs. Jobs like lawyer and doctor are among professions most likely to be “passed down” through family connections, leaving first-generation students at an inherent disadvantage. 

So, how do we navigate a world that isn’t built for us? We figure it out, just like we always do.

As first-generation students, we are no strangers to resilience. We’ve taught ourselves how to navigate unfamiliar systems, overcome obstacles, and find solutions. It’s in our DNA to adapt, learn, and push forward.

We figure it out because we have no other choice. We figure it out because we are driven not just by our own dreams but by the hopes of our families and communities. We figure it out because we believe in our ability to pave the way for ourselves and for those who come after us. 

I am still figuring it out but I did reach out to a first-generation alum from our law school. I had met her by chance at an event, and she had always been willing to help. She gave me the encouragement I needed to negotiate for a higher salary and navigate this experience with my best interests at heart. She reminded me that even when the system lets us down, there are people in our corner who understand what it’s like to fight against the odds.

This experience reinforced what I’ve always known: first-generation students find ways to lift ourselves and each other up. We may not have inherited networks or built-in connections, but we create them. We build the bridges we need, and when we cross them, we reach back to help others do the same.

It’s not just about surviving; it is about creating a path forward together.

The Message

I hope this experience will also serve as a reminder to law schools that their first-generation students are being neglected. 

Before you parade around the number of first-generation students in your incoming class, take a moment to ask: are you truly supporting them? Are you providing the resources they need to thrive in an environment that wasn’t built with them in mind?

First-generation alumni should not have to step in to do the job of Career Services. Their willingness to help is a testament to their resilience and empathy, but it also reflects a gap in institutional support. Law schools must do better. They must acknowledge the systemic barriers their first-generation students face, from navigating cultural expectations to lacking inherited networks, and create actionable strategies to help them succeed.

Because when institutions fall short, first-generation students are left to figure it out on their own, just like we always have. And while we’ll keep rising to the challenge, we deserve better. We deserve a system that not only celebrates us but actively invests in our success.

Reflecting on “Class Matters”

Ever wonder how the service workers in affluent communities afford to live where they work? The simple answer is that most service workers, or public servants do not live in the region that they serve the community. In The New York Time’s piece, “Class Matters”, they claim that in Alpharetta, fewer than one third of city employees lived in the city. My parents, who were county employees in Contra Costa County, commuted two hours to work every day. Rich communities still need teachers, firefighters, law enforcement workers, landscapers, plumbers, and grocery store clerks, and yet, the people who man these jobs and dedicate 40 hours of there week in the community, are priced out, left to leave the affluent cities and commute back home, only to get up and do it again the next day. What would a community look like if it was served by people who were welcome to be there, and not just when they are performing labor?

The article also talks about class differences in interpersonal relationships. The couple discussed in the article differ in class background. The wife’s family was better off than the husband’s and they differ on what kind of car they want to drive, how much money they spend on self-care, and if their kids will have jobs. Although both my parents did not go to college, my mother was well off growing up and father was not. 

My mom’s parents are educated. When my mom was growing up, her mother was the lead nurse in labor and delivery, later becoming a high member on the administrative side of health care, and her father was a pharmacist. My father, on the other hand, grew up poor. His mother was an immigrant, she stayed at home and took care of the house and the four kids, his father was a mechanic in the military. Although my parents shared the same job title, I saw how their different upbringings affected the way they lived life. In general, my mom is a spender, and my dad is a saver. My mom loves to go out to eat and my dad never cares to. Even the foods they like differ. The first time my dad met my mom’s parents, they went to a nice restaurant and ordered artichoke as an appetizer. My dad ate the leaf whole, not knowing how one is supposed to eat an artichoke. We joke about it now and he says that artichoke is “rich white people food”. My mom thinks hamburger helper is gross, but my dad loves it and said it was a staple in their house growing up. My mom has always appreciated nice things, nice furniture, nice clothing, and a pretty home. She always jokes that she has “champagne taste on a beer budget”.

When we lost our house in 2009 due to the housing crash and recession, we moved into this old dusty rental in the countryside of Vacaville. The house was small and dated and the carpets smelt weird. I don’t remember how my dad felt about living in the rental, but I remember my mom hated not owning her own home, she hated being at the whims of a landlord. We grew to accept and even love our new place, though. When my mom invited her parents over for the first time at Christmas, they left after thirty minutes and said that they didn’t like being at our house, it was trash. My mom went to her room and sobbed.

I guess class matters.

West vs. Midwest

This past weekend a middle-aged woman from the Bay Area asked where I was from. I told her, “I'm from Michigan.” Her response: “Oh I’m sorry.” Curiously, another gay man from Michigan was present at this gathering. His sentiments echoed hers – he was glad to be out. People view non-coastal states as provincial, backward, and ultimately boring.

I live with a constant tension. Why did I leave Michigan when I claim to love it so much and constantly defend it? What Californians think of Michigan isn’t entirely untrue. There is a larger and more visible socially conservative population. This is a fact. The State of Michigan is very effectively gerrymandered in favor of the GOP. The topography is relatively flat. There is a lot of agriculture. There is only one somewhat major city.

Until actually moving to another part of the county, I also thought that Michigan was devoid of culture. California is a beautiful state and I love it here. I love the diversity, the ostensibly progressive politics, the beautiful topography, and perhaps most of all the Pacific. Would I move back to Michigan? Despite how much I will “go to bat” for the state, I don’t see myself moving back at this time but the possibility is becoming increasingly more likely.

I have gotten too used to having easy access to cities known worldwide. I have gotten too used to the Sierras being only a couple of hours away. I have gotten too used to the thought of living in San Francisco near the sea. Maybe there is a reason that there are no songs about Detroit akin to Tony Bennett’s “I Left My Heart In San Francisco.”

All things being said, absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Truths and historical facts about Michigan that I have always known, but never really acknowledged, have become center-stage in my mind and the topic of my speech when people ask about my home.

Here is what you won’t hear about Michigan from California elites: Techno music was first popularized in America in my hometown; the Detroit area is home to a many thriving communities of color; Hamtramck (originally a Polish enclave) is the United State’s first and only Muslim majority city; Motown was invented here; Michigan borders the largest lake in the country; one of the largest labor unions in the country was founded there; Michigan became the first English-Speaking government in the world to abolish the death penalty.

All to say, I have given up on perpetuating negativity about an economically important and diverse region of the country for the sake of class-passing.

It's just a name

In Chinese culture, your name is given to you by your parents, and it usually expresses their hopes for your future. Each word has a different meaning. When combined, the meaning can change. Your surname, which is spoken first when stating your name, is very important, as it is a name passed down from many generations of your elders. My surname, Wong, is represented by the character 黄, which means yellow.

I was not given a Chinese name by my parents. Initially, I never questioned why this was the case, or even the significance of such an action. I brought it up to my parents a few times when I was younger, but they always told me that they simply did not see why it would be relevant, given that I was growing up in America. They always told me that it’s just a name, and that it was not such a big deal. Over time, I stopped asking because their answers never changed.

I would come to realize that this was just one of the many cultural chasms that existed between different generations of my family. In his interview with NPR, John Cho speaks about how the desire to absorb American culture led to differences with his immigrant parents growing up, but differences between me and my parents primarily stemmed from their desire that I not be overly immersed in my cultural background.

Like my fellow writer, Simran, my parents came to the United States give me a better life. I came eventually to realize that my parents also came to America in order not to be associated with China. While I did speak Chinese growing up, and my parents still use the language often, my mother in particular often purposefully avoided buying food products that were made in China. She also spoke in English to waiters at Chinese restaurants, though she often then reverted to using Chinese. I came to realize that she was not particularly proud of her upbringing and where she was raised. Surprisingly, I learned that these feelings are not uncommon among Chinese Americans, as reflected in this study, which shows that most Asian-Americans have favorable views of their hometowns, Chinese-Americans being the exception.

As I did not really need to use Chinese beyond interacting with family members, I didn’t think too much of these things. They did not impact my daily life until I came to law school. In my 1L year, my Chinese friends marveled at the fact that I did not have a Chinese name, as it was so crucial to their identity. Learning about Asia from them and ultimately being around them and using Mandarin more really made me reflect on my lack of a connection to my own ethnicity.

What made me reflect even more profoundly, however, was my grandfather’s funeral this past summer.



From the photo I took of the funeral wreath, half-covered by my finger, you can see that all my cousins have a Chinese name except for me. I remember sitting in the funeral home with my family members and honestly feeling ashamed that my name was written out in English. I was particularly ashamed given that some of my family members could not even speak English, let alone read or write it. While I did not fault my parents for their actions, I realized that I would need to take active steps to change this part of my life after that day.

What I now realize is that I would like to make my culture a bigger part of my life, and that the onus is on me, and me alone to make that happen. While I have not finalized my plans for next fall, I hope to study abroad at Tsinghua University in Beijing. If I get the opportunity to do so, I will continue to improve upon my understanding of my ethnic background, regardless of what my parents originally may have wanted for me.

"Muslim Hannah Montana"

My father asks me if I'm doing okay during our weekly phone call. I respond in English to his questions asked in Urdu. The phone call consists of many pauses and moments of silence. We both struggle to find commonalities and keep the conversation going.  Although few words are spoken, these calls do display how much we care for each other. The silence reflects how we both know that our different upbringings resulted in our lack of understanding for one another but that at the end of the day we are family. 

A picture of my father and me back in the day.

I often think about how easy it is for me to get along with almost every walk of life from different ages, ethnicities, races, and personality types. Yet, I find myself struggling to have a simple conversation with my parents. My entire family immigrated from Pakistan when I was one years old. Although we left the physical land, my parents never left behind the culture. The rigid standards expected from my siblings and I to uphold both Pakistani and Islamic values often clashes with our desire and sometime necessity to assimilate with American culture. It is hard to share the instances of my life with my parents because I fear upsetting them or getting criticized. 

If both my siblings and I as well as my parents took a little more time understanding each other, maybe these conversations would be easier. Comedic actor, John Cho, reflected on the lack of cultural understanding between himself and his parents after he received a lashing for referencing a sassy, yet harmless quote from a Judy Blume book to his South Korean parents. I have experienced similar culture clashing incidents with my parents. One of the more prominent culture clashes was trying to be a trendy high-schooler while also trying to remain modest from an Islamic standard. However, this found to be very difficult especially when my parents would find things like long athletic tights to be too revealing. Most of the trendy outfits at the time included cropped tops, ripped jeans, shorts, and other types of clothing my parents would never approve of. However, I really enjoyed these fashion trends and wanted to feel comfortable in my clothing. I would leave my house in an outfit my parents would approve of and change in my car into the outfit I actually wanted to wear. This behavior coined the term, "Muslim Hannah Montana" onto me from my friends. 

It never felt good to me that I essentially had to hide a part of myself to my parents but it was only to protect them. I believe that my family has come to a mutual agreement to keep some parts of our lives to ourselves while sharing other parts with each other. The types of things I'll share with my parents are anything involving, school, work, Islam, and some instances of my social interactions with others. I am okay with this limited kind of conversation, and they are as well. 

Some of my friends who didn't grow up with immigrant parents or aren't immigrants themselves, think that the relationship I have with my parents is a bit odd. However, in situations where people you love come from such different cultural backgrounds, you sometimes may need to adapt your habits and behavior around those individuals as a form of respect. This adjustment in behavior is geared towards respecting my parent's culture and to sustain peace in the household. I also resonate with certain aspects of the culture as well. As Sarah Smarsh described in her book, Heartland, she did not leave one world to enter another but rather held them both simultaneously. I believe I have had the same experience juggling the drastically different cultures from my immigrant household and growing up in America and I strive to maintain this balance.