We were waiting. She was writing and this sight was striking.

I didn’t grow up with my Mom reading books to me or helping me with my homework. By the time I was in first grade I had already surpassed her in reading and writing in English. In second grade, I was the translator for my teacher conferences. In middle school, I would help her sound out words like “cat” and “the.” In high school, she attended and sat through hours of English at choir concerts and award ceremonies. My rich literacy experiences were not reading before bedtime or afterschool homework help, but it was full of oral stories. These were the moments of her telling me stories of how life use to be. Stories of how life was in Laos or Thailand and of her early years in the States as a refugee immigrant. I especially love hearing stories of my Mom raising us and her longings for home.

My mom, Yeu, sacrificed a lot to give us (eight children) all that she could. She chose to live life in a world that did not understand her. She chose to experience a world where her children spoke and understood another language. She chose this way of life because of her love for her children. When I experience moments of her writing, reading “Main Lobby,” asking for directions or a menu in English I get so proud of her. These moments remind me of the sacrificial beauty entangled in my mother’s love for us.

A nod to my mom, Yeu.