Forced labor. Constant surveillance. Starvation camps. My 25-year-old dad decided to leave. He was disgusted by the idea of spending the rest of his life in the country in which he grew up, where neighbors betrayed each other to the secret police in hopes of gaining government favor and two million people died of hunger from the socialist economy’s perpetual inability to produce food. My dad dreamt of coming to America; even the Iron Curtain could not prevent the spread of the peculiar news that the people in the United States were free. So, he disguised himself as a glass merchant (one of the few groups allowed to leave Romania, although only under strict surveillance) and jumped off a train in the Hungarian countryside with only the clothes he was wearing and about 100 dollars sewn into his shirt shoulder. The communists came for his parents a few days later. They jailed my grandpa; to this day, he does not speak of what they did to him. They never caught my dad. If they had, I would not exist.

My dad is now a successful American physician. Although in my comfortable American life I am far removed from the daily hardships in communist Romania, hearing his story as a child ensured that I have always appreciated the variety of opportunities I am afforded simply because I live in the United States. His story has become integral to my identity and shaped the lens through which I view the world. I value my ability to receive an American education because it cost my family much more than money; it cost a gamble with death. I know that to compensate for the high price of my education, I must produce an immense return on the investment. Furthermore, learning the story of my dad’s escape to the West taught me to prize the liberty ensured to Americans. I am privileged to live in a country whose government was instituted to protect liberty, rather than destroy it, and I am grateful for the unique cocktail of Enlightenment philosophies embodied in the free society for which my dad risked his life.

Although I appreciate the privileges unique to this nation, being a child of immigrants guarantees I also value cultural diversity, especially because my personal identity is an odd blend of Romanian affability and American practicality. Having learned Romanian at home and English in kindergarten, I had always wanted to add to my repertoire a language that was a product of my own accomplishment and allowed me to communicate with people of a previously unapproachable culture. In middle school, I taught myself Spanish with textbooks, drilling myself on grammar rules for two hours a day until I was confident in my ability to converse fluently. That skill has allowed me to participate in a community to which I would otherwise have no exposure. I now teach Hispanic immigrants English and help them adjust to American society. As they piece together words into sentences and grow accustomed to guttural English R’s, I see a reflection of my dad’s similar attempts 25 years ago. As English begins to roll smoothly off the students’ tongues, they are empowered to create new blends of their own principles, fusions of American values and their own traditions, like the one my dad passed on to me.

My dad’s illegal escape from communist Romania was perilous, but it has granted me access to new perspectives that have stretched my mind, redefined my culture, and motivated me to help others navigate their own immigration obstacles. The high price my dad paid for the lifestyle I was handed at birth is a testament to my privilege. I have been fortunate to reap the benefits of my dad’s sacrifice for freedom.