These are images of a small coffee cup that my mother gave to me when I first moved to New York for college. For as early as I can remember every family meal ends with coffee. It didn't matter if my parents and I were in our home in Issaquah, WA, or visiting my grandparents in São Paulo, everything always ended with coffee. This particular coffee cup is part of a coffee-making set. It has a cloth filter that is suspended on above the cup and as hot water is poured over the grains, the coffee drips right into this tiny cup. It's how my grandfather made his coffee. It's how my grandmother made her coffee. 
Being an immigrant child raised in the United States by Brazilian parents has proven many times to be confusing. The food I brought to school often "smelt weird." The accent my parents have was always "unclear."  Today I often talk to my parents about the lines the navigated while raising me.  Should we speak Portuguese at home? Should we celebrate the American Fathers Day or Brazilian Fathers Day? Do we celebrate Christmas the night before with dinner or do an all out American breakfast? Today, as I am attempting to figure out how to juggle the two identities of immigrant and citizen, this cup reminds me of traditions in my family that transcend those two labels.

– Ana Lopes

Relationship:  Im/migrant who arrived as a child Im/migrant who arrived as a child