The rules of the game are simple.

On one side: my parents 

immigrants, entrepreneurs, self-sacrificers.

On the other: me

their golden child, best bet, greatest hope.

 

Wrap your hands around the rope.

Pull.

Pull until your palms burn.

Pull until someone gives.

 

I never thought a game of tug of war

could be lethal.

 

Now that college is at every conversation,

Every tug tightens

another knot in my throat,

until I am left choking,

left breathless and unable to grasp the air

everyone else seems to breathe so easily.

 

No one talks about 

the weight of being first gen.

 

The first in your family to leave.

The first to go to college.

The first to feel guilty for resting,

as if every break loosens the rope

their hands spent decades pulling.

 

There is so much to lose and so little to gain

 

In a few months my parents will be 

standing proudly at my graduation ceremony 

telling everyone that it was worth it.

 

And in that day 

when the rope finally falls,

I wonder

if I’ll know how to unclench my hands.

Whether I’ll remember what it feels like

to breathe without pulling.