Walking on Ice

It was a frosty winter morning. It appeared as though the entire world had a gray filter over it, not because it was a sad day, more because the patchy clouds were covering the sun. The snow that covered the blades of grass made it appear as though everything was frozen in time. 

It was our first winter in Canada and my dad and I had to brave the weather and make our way to school. We bundled up and headed out the door. During cold mornings like these, my dad would let me put my hand in his jacket pocket to keep me warm. About five minutes into our walk, we encountered an invisible enemy. I was staring down when it happened…my dad slipped. We looked down to see what he had slipped on and, to our shock, there was nothing there. We didn’t think much of it and kept walking. A glare from the sun made a patch of something glassy a few steps ahead visible. I told my dad to stop and tried to put my foot down on the patch. Just as I had suspected…ice. As we would learn years later, this invisible enemy was called “black ice,” and it was only visible from a distance and at specific angles. For the rest of our walk, we were on high alert. My dad made me take my hand out of his pocket and held it in case I slipped. He took my lunch bag and held it in his other hand to have my hand free to catch myself if I fell. Whenever we encountered a potential patch, he would stop me and take the first step to examine the situation. He slipped twice more, but he never took me down with him. I imagine we looked a lot like paranoid penguins, wobbling across the sidewalk hand in hand. We finally made it to school, and as I ran to join my class line-up, I looked back to see my dad examining his path back home. 

That walk perfectly summarizes our first year in Canada. My family and I moved to Canada from Iran when I was nine years old. My parents had relatively respected and high-paying jobs in Iran, yet they decided to move to a country where they had to learn everything as basic as walking in the harsh, Canadian winters to learning a new language.

During our first few years in Canada, my parents would wake up at sunrise and make lunch for my brother and me. My dad would walk me to school and then head to a community center for English lessons. We didn’t own a car then, so he would walk me to school through the freezing cold or the scorching summer heat. My mom worked as a clinical pathologist, a job which she was highly overqualified for. 

These experiences were incredibly sobering for all of us. My dad, who grew up in a town in the middle of nowhere, had his education pushed back five years, served in the military, almost lost his hearing in the 1978 revolution, and who had dragged himself out of the depths of poverty to become a civil engineer was now unemployed and struggling to learn a new language. It took him four years to find a stable job. My mom, who grew up in a tiny house with six other siblings and managed to become a successful doctor authoring multiple medical journals, was now working as a clinical pathologist on a two-year contract. She spent the next few years bouncing between jobs and wouldn’t see her siblings for another five years. 

I don’t have many bad memories from that time of my life which shows that despite their personal struggles, my parents were successful in giving me a happy childhood. However, I never fully appreciated my parents’ sacrifices until I was much older. They’re the reason I can participate in protests for causes I believe in and freely debate about my political opinions. They’re the reason I can dress the way I want, have my hair flowing when I’m walking outside, choose which God I believe in (if any), and worry about arbitrary things like university applications, none of which would be possible had they made the choice to stay comfortable and raise me in Iran.  

Every time my dad stepped on ice during our walk, he could never be sure that he wouldn’t slip. My parents took a leap – or rather a step – of faith with their every move, hoping their legs wouldn’t give out and they wouldn’t end up on the floor. But just as my dad knew I had to get to school that day, my parents took one step after the next and trusted that we would eventually get there. They’re the reason I take my hands out of my pockets when I walk on ice – because they taught me how to catch myself before I hit the ground. My dad no longer needs to hold my hand because he knows that even if I fall, he’s taught me how to get back up. 

If you’re familiar with “Freytag’s Pyramid,” which goes through a story’s general structure, you’ll know that most stories have a climax. A moment that has everyone on edge and wondering, “what’s going to happen next?” In reflecting on my childhood, I’ve realized my family’s story doesn’t have a singular climax. There wasn’t one specific moment in our immigration story that had us on the brink of failure because we felt the risk of failure was present every day with every choice we made. Everyday felt like walking on ice. But we made it through because my parents knew that sometimes, staying in your comfort zone is not what’s best. Sometimes, you have to trust yourself and risk stepping on the ice to make it out the other end.