阅读理解
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 go to Harvard. An approving eye glinted（闪烁）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?”
Here I was, his daughter, squandering the biggest opportunity of her life. He went on to deliver the age-old lecture that all immigrant kids know. We are to become doctors (or lawyers, if our parents are being generous) – to make money and send money back home. The unspoken demand, made across generations, which my Uber driver laid out plainly, is simple: Fulfill your role in the narrative（故事）of upward mobility so your children can do the same.
I used to feel anxious and backed into a corner by the questioning, but now as a junior in college, I'm grateful for their support more than anything. This holiday season, I've promised myself I won't get annoyed at their inquiries. I won't defensively respond with “but I plan to go to law school!” when I get unrequested advice. I'll just smile and nod, and enjoy the warmth of the occasion.
