With my Barbie doll in one hand, my mom captures a photograph of me as we admire the fireworks on New Year's Day. My mom documented my childhood from the day I learned how to walk. I rolled my eyes whenever she took out her bright, orange digital camera as I heard the words, "Kat, look at the camera!" Whether it was as close as California or as far as Florida, we often traveled. Both of my parents were born in the Philippines. They immigrated to America as young adults in their early 20s and moved to Jacksonville, Florida. From time to time, my mom would randomly bring up her story of how she immigrated from the Philippines to America. Putting on my headphones, I pretended not to hear her since it would be the same every time. She would explain, "I came to America with one suitcase and barely spoke English." I hold deep respect and appreciation for my parents as they came to the United States for me to have a better life, yet it felt aggravating whenever my mom would repeat that story and make me feel guilty. There were circumstances I only understood once I grew older. That bright orange camera eventually disappeared from my life and collected dust on a shelf. In the blink of an eye, I wasn't that little girl covering her face because she didn't want her mom to take a photo of her. Although I grew up and became distant from that part of my life, it doesn't dismiss the fact that it's still a part of my identity. 

Relationship:  Child of im/migrant Child of im/migrant