A few weeks ago, I called an Uber to take me to
the Boston airport for a flight home for the holidays. As I slid into the back
seat of the car, the warm intonations(语调) of the driver's accent
washed over me in a familiar way.
I learned that he was a recent West African
immigrant with a few young children, working hard to provide for his family. I
could relate: I am the daughter of two Ethiopian immigrants who made their
share of sacrifices to ensure my success. I told him I was on a college break
and headed home to visit my parents. That's how he found out I went to Harvard.
An approving eye glinted at me in the rearview window, and quickly, we crossed
the boundaries of rider and driver. I became his daughter, all grown up—the
product of his sacrifice.
And then came the fateful question: "What
do you study?" I answered "history and literature" and the pride
in his voice faded, as I knew it might. I didn't even get to add "and
African-American studies" before he cut in, his voice thick with
disappointment, "All that work to get into Harvard, and you study history?"
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