My paternal grandfather was born in the early 1900s, we know the exact date due to the fact that documentation of birth wasn't considered significant, in a small village called Chorhazari in West Pakistan, present day Bangladesh. He grew up to be a very wealthy man of great status who owned vast amount of lands. He had three sons and three daughters, the youngest son being my father. He never met my mom, but he left gifts behind when he passed away, including a pair of toddler's silver anklets for my older sister. My sister brought them to the United States when we immigrated here in 2004. I was about 2 years old, so this is the only home I know. I too wore the anklets when I was a toddler, but later I lost one and my mom put the other aside. I rediscovered it in 2016, some of the anklet's little silver white stones had fallen off and the anklet itself was rusty. I had my mom re-customize it to fit my ankle. This anklet connects me back to my origins - to a grandfather I never met, who helped raise my father to the amazing man he is. My parents came here for better opportunities but we never strayed away from our cultural identity. Coming to a new country and starting our lives over was bound to be difficult and assimilation was necessary to be in American society. This has always been a great struggle for my family. As I grew older, I learned to appreciate my origins and not be ashamed of who I was. We are Bengali-Americans and that's how I identify myself.