Am I a Hero?

It was only a couple of days ago when my grandma told me another excerpt from the story of her life. This time, she was on a boat. Only allowed to bring the clothes on her back, and one change. My grandpa was unlucky, she explained to me; he wasn’t allowed to bring anything. He did, however, have to swallow my grandma's necklace in order to bring it with them. It was his seventh or eighth time trying to escape, so he was used to doing these types of things. “The Chinese did it for the thrill,” my grandma said, shaking her head. This would be the first and last time she would ever go with him, she resolved. If she didn’t make it to America, she wasn’t going to try again. It was too much for her. But since she was already there, she couldn’t give up yet.

She was pregnant with my oldest aunt at the time. Of course, she couldn’t tell the captain. A captain letting runaways hide under his deck, especially one who’s pregnant? Way too much of a risk. If she gave birth, the baby would give away their location. Another possibility was a miscarrage, stinking up the steerage more than it already was. She was poor anyways, so wearing two shirts to hide whatever there was of a showing stomach, though there wasn’t really one in the first place, did the job. Since she was a woman, she could sit, but she was far from comfortable. The man standing above her dripped sweat onto her- dripping on her head, on her face, down to the rest of her body. Eight days straight of silence, hunger, and fear; almost 100 people squeezed into the size of a car.

They reached Indonesia, and my grandma gave birth. Some time later, one of their camps got raided, and my grandma was forced to leave behind her birth control. That was when she became pregnant with my mother. The same process again. Hiding, silence, hunger, praying for escape. But this time, with the extra challenge of trying to keep a baby quiet. My grandparents finally made it to America Christmas Eve of 1984. The following March, my mother was born. My grandma is a hero.

Being the daughter of an immigrant, my mother had very high expectations set both by my grandparents, and by herself. She planned to be a doctor, but changed to pharmaceuticals when she realized that becoming a doctor would take too long. Everything changed when she found out she was pregnant. She was only 16 at the time. And yet, she decided to keep me. Both of my grandparents quit their jobs to be able to take care of me while she was in school. My biological father left our family when I was three years old, and my mom never tried to stop him. If he wanted to leave she wasn’t going to make him stay.

She finished high school, went to grad school, and then even more grad school. She graduated and started almost immediately in the pharmaceutical industry. She also racked up over $100,000 worth of debt. She now has her own house, our house, with my amazing step-father, and my little sister. We get to go on vacation often; I’ve been to France, Spain, and Portugal with them. All amazing experiences I will never forget. My mom will still be paying off her student loans until she’s fifty years old. And yet, she’s helping me pay for my college as much as she can. My mother is a hero.

Both of these incredible people in my life made sacrifices, thinking solely about their future family. Then there’s me. I am 17 years old, currently attending North Quincy High School as a senior. I plan on going into forensic psychology in college. I am also a survivor of domestic abuse. At the hands of a person whom I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with. I thought he was my hero. After being hospitalized in December of 2017, he seemed like my savior. I felt safe with him. I put my full faith into him, blind to what was actually going on around me. It wasn’t until he physically assaulted me in January of 2019 that I realized something was wrong. I eventually had to get a restraining order against him. I went to court multiple times, words coming out of my mouth that felt gibberish to me even though I had been prepared beforehand. I had to convince the judge I was still scared of him. How could I be a hero?

I’ve been called words such as brave and strong in times where I’ve felt my weakest and most pathetic. I have never made sacrifices for the greater good. I’ve never saved anyone from a burning building, nor risked my life for future generations to come. How could I convince myself I was a hero?

Over the years of my life, the definition of the word “hero” has taken so many shapes and sizes. I’ve learned that hero doesn’t have to be someone who risks their life to save others over and over again. My attorney was a hero when I thought the whole world was against me. My dog has been a hero, making me feel less alone. My grandma and my mom are both heroes, sacrificing their lives for their families, but also for themselves. Heroism is whatever you want it to be.

So thus, I conclude. I am a hero. I have been put through countless trials in my life. And yet, I’m still alive. I have goals for my future, and for my future family. I am never going to give up. I’ve learned that my life is worth so much more than that. I will keep pushing myself, and keep striving for more. I will make sacrifices for others, but also for myself. I don’t know if I will ever be able to describe myself as a hero to others. I don’t know if I want to be able to. But there is one thing I do know, and it will ring true for the rest of my life. I am my own hero.