Before my father immigrated, he had started his career in Nigeria’s banking sector. He was young, handsome, ambitious and smart. Seeking broader horizons, he made the decision to immigrate to the US. He arrived in Minnesota on October 4, 1972. Unable to brave the cold of a brutal Midwest winter, he moved to Harlem. A year later, he started working as a nighttime security officer to pay for his tuition at Rutgers-Newark, going straight from work to classes most days of the week. He eventually earned his Bachelor’s degree in Geology and later his Master’s in Business Administration. Yet, the American dream remained elusive and the degrees did not result in the career he wanted. Despite his credentials, doors remained closed and he could not crack the code. The weight of providing for a growing family pressed heavily upon him. So, he took the most lucrative job readily available to him: a NYC livery cab driver. He parked his own aspirations so that his family could survive. If we ever wanted to bring a genuine smile to my father’s face for his birthday or Christmas, gifting him an alarm clock would do it. The irony wasn’t lost on me. His happiness rested in something simple — a tool that made sure he never missed a shift, which meant he would not miss a chance to provide for us.
There are two episodes from my childhood that continue to echo through my memory—moments when my own wants, as a child, collided with the quiet weight of my parents’ labor. At the time, all I could see were the things I hoped for, the experiences I longed to share. But as the years passed, those memories became something else entirely: windows into the sacrifices my parents made, the dreams they deferred, and the ways their love always showed up for me and my siblings.
As the tiny auditorium buzzed with excitement during my Kindergarten graduation, I scanned the audience. My heart sunk as I realized my mother really did not make it. She was taking a nursing exam that day that she could not miss. Her absence felt like a shadow over my shining moment. Ultimately, my mom never finished her nursing degree. As the years passed, I grasped the depth of her struggle. Raising four children, one with special needs, left her dreams in limbo. In her late 50s, she dusted off those dreams, completing her training as a home health aide. Her journey taught me that labor isn’t always about immediate rewards. I think about this a lot.
Then there was also the night of my 8th grade prom. My dad had offered to chauffeur my date and me in one of his company’s sleek black Cadillacs. Yet, he often explained his need to take all driving jobs, including last minute requests, to stay a top-pick driver as well as raise enough funds to cover our monthly bills. Thus, I made contingency plans, arranging a ride with a friend’s mother in their family car. As we finished taking pre-prom photos in front of my house and it looked like we would be going to prom in their car, headlights pierced the twilight, and there he was—my hero. I never learned what trips he declined, what bill payment was jeopardized, or what income he sacrificed that evening. All I knew was that he made it and we arrived in style, and this meant everything to me.
My parents’ labor was never just about work—it was love in motion. Every pre-dawn wakeup, every missed milestone, every sacrifice was a quiet declaration: I love you. Their jobs may not have matched their degrees or dreams, but their labor laid the foundation for their children to earn doctorates, terminal degrees in our respective fields of sociology, law, and psychology. They didn’t just provide—they protected possibility. For me. For my sister. For my brothers. Their love showed up in shifts and side hustles. Their legacy isn’t just what they earned, it’s what they gave – and gave up – so we could imagine more. Because in our home, labor was never separate from love. They were one and the same.
