I am an Immigrant.

I can’t remember what I was wearing, but the red, polka-dotted dress on the stuffed bunny I clenched in my arms remains clear as day. A gift from my grandmother, the bunny was meant to remind me that a hug from her was never too far away. At eight, your world is so small, and yet the world itself feels incomprehensibly large. I felt that vastness as the plane took off and, nine hours later, as the escalators descended onto the baggage claim carousels in the Miami International Airport. 

If I close my eyes, I still feel the bigness of it all: My hand tucked in my mom’s, her other hand holding my brother’s. Ahead of us, my dad is attentively looking down at his notes, scribbled on a leather-bound notebook. Outside, the highways twist and turn above us, roaring with activity. The sidewalks vibrate as characters and cultures collide. It’s clear we are no longer home.

The Argentina of the early 1990s was politically tumultuous, and my father (who in the 1950s immigrated to Buenos Aires from Italy by boat with his recently widowed mother) didn’t see a promising future ahead for our low-middle-class family. It’s only now as a parent myself, that I understand the immenseness and gravity of the decision he was forced to explore and ultimately make. My mom was 46 and my father just shy of 50 when they set their gazes on the United States, leaving behind everything they knew, loved and trusted in exchange for a promise of something better, albeit intangible. Carrying a dream, a one-way ticket, a dictionary and a few scrappy savings in their pockets, they embarked on their biggest journey and chartered the course for the life I know today.

The early years were riddled with challenges, as my parents navigated work permits, visas, extensions, taxes and green cards. It wasn’t until they both passed away that I learned just how treacherous the legalization process had been; I found meticulously kept records of pretty much every single penny they spent on attorneys, many of whom cashed a check and went about their way. There’s such beauty in the innocence of a child, my brother and I oblivious to the weight our parents carried with them every day. It turns out American Dreaming comes at a very high cost.

My parents felt privileged to be here. They wanted us to thrive and did everything they could, even when they really, really couldn’t, to motivate and push us forward. “Live a different life than ours,” they’d say. “Be smarter, be lighter, be happier.” Improvement was their only directive. They didn’t care what we did, as long as we always tried to be and do better. I didn’t quite realize at that age that they were tending to the seedlings that would one day flourish into their American-based family tree. Sadly, they weren’t around long enough to see the fullness of the garden they sowed.

Eventually, I learned to speak English (nearly) accent-free. It was under this “disguise” that I witnessed the judgment endured by my non-English-speaking parents. As the first-born, always the steadfast “leader,” I helped them navigate English-related errands as best as I could. I regularly translated bills and letters for my mom. On days when I wasn’t in school, I’d accompany my dad, a floor installer, on construction sites, helping him articulate estimates and updates to his clients. 

Despite tight budgets, food stamps and Medicaid to get us through the most difficult years, my family never lacked in strength. Together, we would always be okay. Together, we would build this thing. Taking a gamble on a dream that was never guaranteed, my parents taught me that hard work, honesty and hope could always buoy me along.

Eventually, I became the first in my immediate family to graduate from high school, attend college and earn a graduate degree. In 2016, I claimed U.S. citizenship, taking an oath to protect and preserve the Constitution of the United States of America and with it, our inalienable rights. After acing the citizenship exam, I stood in front of a district judge, recited the Oath of Allegiance and, in the company of dozens of others fulfilling the same, loudly and proudly said, “Yes, America, I choose you.”

My parents passed away just shy of seeing me (and, last year, my brother!) check off their ultimate vision, but it was their first, courageously considered step that paved the winding roads that led us both here.  My parents’ story – my story – isn’t unique. Every day, someone arrives here with pockets full of hope and immeasurable grit to make something of themselves and lay the groundwork for those who come after them. The journey itself looks different for all of us, but the dream itself is all-encompassing. It’s one rooted in the earliest visions of America. 

Over the past several years, increasingly harsh rhetoric has eroded that vision, polluting the once seemingly inherent understanding that for better or worse, we are all in this together, united, bound to these states of America by residency, citizenry or heritage – and hopefully, too, by love.

I’m not sure when immigrant became a bad word. I am an immigrant. I identify as one proudly, honorably and unapologetically. And in the spirit of my parents’ relentless quest for improvement, this immigrant is clinging to my belief that this country is one where democracy matters and thrives, a place where the American Dream can be all of ours for the living.