I was six years old when everything changed.

“Mami y yo decidimos que todos nos vamos a mudar a los Estados Unidos.”

It’s funny how all it takes to hold your life upside down by the ankles and shake it up real bad is one sentence. And trust me, shakin’ ain’t nothing to play with. Oh no, life does it James Potter vs. Severus Snape style. And you know what the weirdest part is? Sometimes the shaking isn’t all that bad.

I was born into quite a melting pot of a family (hence, it is a given that we enjoy cheese fondue every Tuesday night). My mother is from the luscious Caribbean island of the Dominican Republic. My father came to be in the farmlands of Germany. Two worlds. Two cultures. One destination. America.

Until the unripe age of six, I lived my life in the Dominican Republic, complete with a flurry of beaches and “holas” and big – I cannot emphasize this enough – big families. Suddenly, my eight-year-old brother and I were thrust into an English-speaking school, speaking not a drop of English. Suddenly, all these loud cousins and sassy grandmas were a plane ride away. It was just us – four against the world. Suddenly, life was this thrilling and exciting and ever-scary thing. Suddenly, the question “What will happen next?” couldn’t be answered.

I used to play a game with myself when I was young. I would think, Okay, when you’re at ballet this afternoon, think the word “lettuce.” So I would be there doing tendues, thinking about lettuce and that moment when I thought to think of lettuce. It was my own mini version of time-traveling: knowing what was going to happen before it did.

I yearned for this knowledge. My six-year-old self hungered for this control. The future was a mystery now, but the present was a promise. I had the three people I loved most right beside me, going into the future simultaneously. I didn’t need some silly lettuce.

One day I asked my mom why we had left the Dominican Republic. She answered simply, “Because I love you.” Then that confused me more. If that were true, why would she wish for me to struggle in school? Why would she yearn for my failure to communicate with my peers? Why did she want me to work so hard and learn so much and never, ever complain?

One learns from example. I observed my dad as he traveled trying to make money for his family. I saw the tears that he didn’t want us to see but couldn’t hold back as they rolled slowly, sneakily down his stubbly chin. I saw his reluctance as he kissed my mother good-bye every Monday morning, knowing he would miss precious moments with his family until he could return on Friday.

One day I asked my dad why he put himself through this if he hated it so much. He smiled his watery smile and replied, “Because I love you.”

I watched my strong, independent mother make a place for herself in this new country, never taking no for an answer. I admired her as she juggled her children and her ambitions and her husband in this strange place. I observed as she started her own preschool, impressing investors in her accented English. All I could do was stare, amazed, as she was recognized as the “Director of the Year” and her school the “Center of the Year.”

Nonetheless, I couldn’t forget the bad times. I remember the first time our Green Card application was denied. My parents had spent the last year working toward paying the necessary fee, and suddenly, their efforts were for naught. That day I saw my mom crying, her head in her hands. I asked my dad why Mommy was upset. He simply said, “Because she loves you.”

Our family motto is “Never give up.” Our family crest is a duck, but that’s beside the point. When our permanent residency was denied, my parents shook their heads and applied again. And you know what? They got it.

Meanwhile I worked my six-year-old butt off in an attempt to understand this foreign tongue. The four of us were in the same boat, mispronouncing words and laughing at our mistakes. And oh, there were lots of mistakes.

My personal favorite is my brother’s sixth-grade trumpet instructor. The poor man was christened Mr. Beute, but for such a multicultural family, we were at a loss as to how it should be pronounced. Beauty? Boot? Buddy? Oh, the Beute Enigma. Nonetheless, my father called him one evening to explain my brother’s absence due to a fever, and greeted him, saying, “Hello, Mr. Booty?” He still hasn’t lived that one down.

“Because we love you.” Only now do I really understand. My mom was happy in the Dominican Republic, surrounded by her caring family. My father was content not being forced to travel so much, and living with those he loved. So why did they put themselves through all this? And then I finally understood. They did it for me.

The future was a mystery, but isn’t it always? By relocating, they gave our futures an opportunity, a chance, a glimmer of hope to unravel into a wondrous tapestry that would have been unfathomable had we stayed with our little island minds in our little island schools dreaming little island dreams.

My mom told me once, “When you put a shark in a little tank, the shark stays little. When you place it in a big tank, it can become big.” My parents gave us a chance in the big tank. And it’s scary in the big tank. There are amoebas and piranhas and a whole batch of flesh-eating lemurs. (I have an indescribable fear of lemurs. Long story.) Nonetheless, in this big tank, we have the chance to become big sharks. There’s no guarantee we will. There are no promises made for the future that can be kept. But there are endless possibilities.

Love was once defined as putting someone else’s needs before your own. My valiant parents, my courageous heroes, forgot themselves in their hopes of finding a life for us. I pledge to honor their work, their labor, their tears and sweat and disappointments in the only way I can – looking into the blurry vision of the future and making a pavement for myself of the words and love they have taught me with.

I love you, Mom and Dad.