When I began the journey to immigrate to the United States with my parents in 1996, I had no idea what lay ahead of me. It all began at the airport in Italy, where I negotiated with the counter agent over the 12 suitcases we had for three people (my parents packed their whole lives in those 12 suitcases). Then it happened again at JFK, where we found out our travel agent hadn’t booked our flights from JFK to Cleveland, our final destination. So there I was, a 17-year-old with my parents, both in their mid-50s, and 12 suitcases, walking through the largest and busiest airport trying to figure out how to get to Cleveland without speaking any English.
I still remember taking my shoes off at our final destination after 48 hours of traveling. I sat down and took off my cute but uncomfortable shoes. Even my outfit didn’t know what the journey was going to be like. My socks were covered in blood from blisters. I knew right then and there that my life as I knew it was over, and the next journey wasn’t going to be easy.
And here is what I’ve learned. There is one immigrant child who becomes the leader of the family, taking on adult responsibilities we never chose: captains of a ship with no compass and no map.
I can only imagine how difficult it was for my parents to leave home, family, friends, and everything they knew and loved. I left behind my life, my best friends, my career and success with piano, and the plans I had worked so hard to achieve. That 48-hour journey was only a small part of the story.
We came to a country where we knew no one. I learned a new language while learning an entirely new way of life. I worked alongside my parents to survive while going to school, striving to fulfill the promise of a better future, the future they came here to give us. I found us jobs, got my license, and worked two or three jobs while trying to live my life as a teenager and navigate life for both them and myself.
I vividly remember coming home from school, practicing piano, and then getting in the car to clean office buildings in downtown Cleveland from 11pm to 2am. I would drive us there, and as I vacuumed, I would look at the offices and the cubicles and think to myself: when I make it to one of these offices, I will never forget where I came from.
I drove my parents to medical appointments and translated for them. After 30 years of going to every doctor’s appointment, I can recite their medications in my sleep: the doses, the surgeries, the allergies, the tests, all of it. I know it as if they were my children. Through all of these challenges, I became their person, the one they turned to for answers about what came next. I was 17 years old, and that role never stopped.
I moved to college on my own with a friend. I bought the things I needed by myself and figured it out. I made difficult decisions, grown-up decisions, whether I was ready or not, because they looked to me for guidance. I had to figure out life for them, then for my sisters, their spouses, my cousins who came later on, and other people in the community who needed help. I remember knocking on the doors of local businesses throughout the area where we were living, asking if they were hiring. One business said yes to me. I was a freshman in college at the time. The manager was so lovely. She hired my sisters and my cousin, then my mom, and by the time the business closed, about 75% of its employees were Albanian. I opened the door for them, but they were the ones who worked hard to keep their jobs.
Immigrant children are built differently because we take on roles we never chose while still trying to figure out who we are. There is a certain mixture of responsibility and obligation behind every decision we make. Our parents’ well-being and security sit quietly on our shoulders as we navigate the big decisions about our own futures.
Ask around any immigrant community, and most families will tell you they have that one person, that one child who takes the lead.
We all eventually become caregivers for our parents, but for immigrant children, it starts early and the load is heavier. This is an aspect of immigrant life that is not talked about enough: the sacrifices everyone makes when they take the journey to immigrate.
As the caregiver, I would never trade my role. It has made me who I am today. It was my way of saying thank you to my parents for their sacrifices so I could have a better future. When I look at my children and all of their opportunities, I am reminded that my parents’ sacrifices gave me a better future, and that future is now theirs.
We may appear to be solo artists standing on the stage, but we are not. Our parents are the silent duo beside us, and every decision we make is for the trio.
Author: Jonida Morelli
Jonida Preka Morelli was born and raised in Albania and immigrated to the United States as a teenager in 1996. She has been a piano teacher for 28 years and is the founder of Tricks in the Kitchen, a kitchen education platform rooted in wholesome cooking, real food, and a Mediterranean way of living. She is also the creator of The Standards Kitchen Method™, a framework that teaches home cooks how to run their kitchens with confidence, clarity, and intention. A MasterChef Season 13 contestant, she lives in Shaker Heights, Ohio, with her husband and three teenagers.
