LYL Blog challenge Day 1: My story
My story wouldn’t really be my story if I didn’t also mention my parents’ stories.
In a way, all children of immigrants have a similar story. Our parents gave up something to start their lives in a new place, often without knowledge of the language there and with no job prospects. They may have worked long hours, or several jobs, so that we could attend a good school or go to college.
Both of my parents worked with their hands in their jobs.
My mom learned how to sort diamonds by size, color and clarity. She told a ballsy lie, that she already knew how to do this, in order to get her first job in the jewelry industry, and then got a friend of a relative to teach her.
My dad started out as a busboy, busing tables in restaurants. He worked his way up, learning by watching his colleagues. This year he retired as one of the most valuable members of the kitchen staff at a 5 star hotel in New York City.
I’m proud to say that I’m their daughter. I’m proud to be able to make them proud.
My story is their story, and their’s is also mine.