a post for a quiet weekend
I love immigrants. I do. I love these people that would leave all they know and travel to a foreign place, subjecting themselves to danger and racism and a furious unknown. All this for the possibility of a better life? Of a better future for unborn children?
The flip side of any immigrant story is its coda. Every child of an Asian immigrant that I know seems to deal with this issue. What to make of a life made better on the backs of those who love us? Do we flitter around seeking happiness? Roll up our sleeves and continue to forge life as it was for us?
I’m growing suspicious of life made too easy. Everyone should have to struggle. Everyone should be denied their desires at least once, denied a toy for Christmas, rejected at school, or spat upon as unpopular. Struggle must be the soil for character and drive.
I think I need a purpose of life that is external to myself.
…I don’t know where this post was supposed to go; but I had to get it out of my system. Everytime I sit down to write my personal statements, I squeeze out turgid little gems like this. It’s an awful affliction. The admissions process favors storytellers, people who can crystalize their life’s inflection points and personality into rollicking anecdotes. Not me; I just prattle on about introspective nonsense and expound generality upon generality.
