Personal Narrative: Genocide In Cambodia

Everyday, I wake up, brush my teeth and eat breakfast. I make my way through school and complain about homework. On the weekends, I go to work and hang out with friends. I am safe and healthy and have a world of opportunity at the tips of my fingers. All this grandiose would not be possible without the selfless and continual sacrifice of my parents. Fleeing from a war-torn Cambodia and spending their days haunted by the ghosts they left behind, my parents continue to work hard and support me in my pursuit for an education. The genocide in Cambodia laced its beautiful rainforests with landmines, its clean air with fire and my family with missing pieces. Yet, it was still called home. It was a home they left, even though their chances of survival were almost nothing. In making that decision, they thought not only about themselves, but about the future generation. They wanted their children not to grow up in a country plagued with war, disease and fear. My parents wanted to give their children their best chance.

The United States is far from the American Dream. They shared overcrowded apartments and did the jobs no one else wanted. They faced language barriers, racism and unemployment, but they never failed to bring food to the table and a roof over my head. Growing up, I remember accompanying my mom to work. She would hand me off to my dad, who drove us home. I remember being annoyed of these constant car rides. Only now, I realize that my mom was starting her 12 hour shift the same time my dad got off his. Countless details like this always managed to escape me. In the details, I see they never failed to put me