by
Via Lim
Admitted: UPenn
As I stepped inside the three-bedroom townhouse after a usual day at school, I noticed an eerie atmosphere that hadn’t lingered before. Shrugging it off as an oversight, I climbed upstairs and went into my bedroom, only to find an absolute mess. Piles of clothes were dragged out of the wardrobe, draws were ajar, and my valued possessions were strewn across the carpeted floor. Dismayed, I frantically ran downstairs to see my mother examining a ripped screen door and my sister holding an empty laptop case, both evidently disoriented. My heart dropped as realization washed over me; we had been broken in.
Up until that point, I had been a plant in a greenhouse, unsuspecting of all the efforts it took to keep me comfortable and cared for. I was regularly watered and fed, the temperature and humidity were controlled, sprinkler systems were installed and repaired; all this and more, overseen by vigilant gardeners and I was oblivious to all of it. I was a regular kid, first-born of a middle-class family-of-four, without cares or concerns beyond school and friends. When just my mother, sister and I moved from Korea, we didn’t know what to expect and we definitely didn’t expect to be burglarized within three months of settling into our Australian home.
I held my mother’s hand and tried to comfort my distraught sister while attempting to answer, in my then yet broken English, the officers’ questions. I didn’t cry even though I wanted to; I was scared, but disguised my fear as best I could. My mom, an infallible figure in my mind up until that afternoon, stood next to me stunned and speechless. Certainties even I was unaware of because I had taken them for granted were upended in those few moments. Something inside me, my protective instincts likely, determined I had to preserve a semblance of previous calm and order. I was eleven at the time.
After the burglary, issues that I would never have been bothered with were now my responsibility to resolve. I had to become resilient and responsible, in order to protect us - a frail family of three. As a minority in a huge nation, we were obliged to feel lost and insignificant. Thrown on a dry desert, I struggled to take root in the arid sands. I had to find my own way to survive, plant my roots deeper and spread my stems wider.
Naturally, I learned to adopt a steadfast fortitude. Before I was even in middle school, I replaced the role of my father, becoming an interpreter, secretary, and general troubleshooter. I clumsily filled out the application form to rent a safer house, arranged my family’s health insurance, set up service installation appointments, assembled IKEA furniture, paid the bills and managed the bank accounts. Mowing the lawn and cleaning the pool were a bonus at the end of my chore-ridden week. Sometimes I wish I had a more naïve childhood, playing in the grass and counting the stars instead of bill summaries. I wasn’t the stubborn kid at the candy shop, nor the flimsy child under the protection of their parents.
My story of moving to Australia and stepping into various roles may not be unique from the narratives of other immigrant children. My accelerated development into a resilient and dependable person may not be extraordinary either. I am grateful for this particular span of personal history however, because I stuck by a resolve I made one afternoon to protect my family and provide some certainty in a tentative situation.
The obstacles in my life became the soil to set my core in, the water to blossom my flowers. I was a feeble sapling in a greenhouse before I was faced with the heat, but I am growing up to be a firm, abiding tree.
So let there be drought, flood and storm; they make me who I am.