Second Generation

January 21, 2018

Dear Mother and Father,

I know that lately

It’s all been door slams and disappointments,

But I will never forget the skin and soul you left behind in Kiev.

Stories pour from your lips like aged wine without hesitation-

The bittersweet loss of Home,

The dingy New York apartment that smelled of cabbage and hope,

The alienation of illiteracy.

You remember Kiev without sins, only sadness.

They speak of the great and terrible burden of an immigrant:

The sacrifice,

The pain,

The fear.

And they are right,

For you have lost more than I will ever know.

But that is the curse of an immigrant's child-

My humdrum heart will never know your suffering.

Whenever I feel my shattered spirit seeping into my cells,

I know

You’ve had it worse.

When stress scars my face with blemishes and crumples my chest,

When all I can see are ACTs and the doughy flesh spilling over my waistband,

I know

That none of it will ever match your sorrows.

There is always guilt in the hearts of immigrants' children

When they struggle, complain, or disintegrate.

What right do I have to feel so hopeless when you’ve torn apart your life for my future?

How dare I waste your pain with my mediocrity?

I have no excuse to be miserable when you have given away everything for my happiness,

And yet,

Sometimes,

A breath is beyond me.

Do not mistake me for being ungrateful.

I thank you for raising me in a country where my Sabbath prayers are not a crime,

Where I have a chance to become what you could not.

But at times,

I wish that being born American had not come at such a price,

And that you had never paid it.

Sincerely,

Your undeserving daughter

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