My immigrant parents attended my Yale graduation. Seeing them on the Ivy League campus for the first time was surprisingly moving.
They didn't fit in with the other families, and they often apologized for their presence.
It was moving seeing them on the Ivy League campus, signifying all they gave up for me.
The night before I left for my senior year at Yale, my mom and I joked that we would find each other again in the next lifetime, but as classmates. We imagined ourselves sitting in the back row of some old lecture hall, whispering about which New Haven spot to try next for dinner.
"And Dad?" I asked.
"He would probably be in the very first row," Mom laughed. "You know he loves to talk."
That fantasy came to life in May when my immigrant parents finally came to visit me at Yale for the first time. Neither of them graduated from high school in rural China, but they came to campus to celebrate my commencement.
For years, complicated logistics and sacrifices kept them away. My father rarely left New York due to my grandparents' declining health, while my mother has grown increasingly reluctant to travel alone.
They missed every one of Yale's annual family events. Our story is far from unique. Immigrant parents exist in a gray zone between demanding work schedules and language barriers. Plus, mounting scrutiny on non-citizens makes even domestic travel fraught with risk.
I was determined that graduation would make up for the missed opportunities to bond with my parents. I just didn't expect to be so moved by their presence on campus.
I coordinated the details: guiding them through train transfers, creating an ambitious itinerary of museums, libraries, restaurants, and landmarks. I even coached my mom on what to say if anyone asked for ID at any point.
I also wanted them to participate in the Yale Class Day traditions: decorating personalized graduation hats, seeing the annual comedy skit, and listening to student representatives from various faiths read scriptures at the Baccalaureate Ceremony.
It was my mission to make them feel comfortable at the school, but part of my motivation was selfish. Nothing meant more to me than walking across that stage, turning to the audience, and seeing their faces cheer me on. I wanted my parents to know their son was standing tall in a place that once seemed impossible.
While I was excited to see them cheer, I didn't expect them to look so lost on the Ivy League campus.
Other families moved confidently through the elite spaces, spoke fluent English, knew the difference between Gothic and Baroque architecture, and, in some cases, proudly returned as Yale alumni.
I noticed that my mom and dad over-apologized throughout their stay. "Sorry," they said, while smiling and brushing past security. They said it again when they accidentally got in the way of a photo shoot, or when catching a break during our hike up East Rock, a mountain ridge north of campus that ends up with a breathtaking view of New Haven.
"Sorry," they said as we took a rest at the base of a large hemlock. A small creek burbled in front of us, and Dad picked up a few rocks and skipped them across the water. They got close, but the rocks never reached the opposite bank.
It wasn't the humility that moved me; it was the exhausting vigilance I saw in my parents. It pained me the way they tried not to inconvenience others — a broader reflection of what it means to be immigrants in our country. They were two people who grew up too fast, who put aside their differences and discomforts to join me at a place I have now become accustomed to.
If college graduation is all about thrusting ourselves into uncharted waters, then this was just as much their graduation as mine.
Having my parents finally on Yale's campus reminded me to cherish the moments we have together and not harp on the moments they missed over the last four years. I know they'll also miss out on important milestones as I head into med school at Stanford.
Even though it can get lonely without them around to cheer me on through all my achievements, I'm proud to honor their hard work in this country.
Toward the end of their three-day stay for commencement, I took my parents to Marsh Hall, where I had my first biology course as a first-year student. Seating 483 students, it's also the largest classroom at Yale. My parents went to the front of the classroom. They marveled at the Japanese chalk near the blackboard, flipped through empty blue book exams, and wondered how the projector worked.
I took off my glasses, and through the blur, my parents looked like college students having fun: Mom in her emerald green dress and Dad in the dress shirt I'd bought him. They seemed too busy looking around to notice me. From the margins, watching the two people I loved most forget me, even if it was just for a moment, I was happy.
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