家庭、阶层与归属的代价

他们打扫办公室，而我们翻译表格。
我们刚来加拿大时，父母一句英文都不会。他们来自中国城市，有房产、开店做生意，做管理，出了问题，第一时间背起家庭责任，知道找哪个熟人、打哪个电话。但到了这里，他们变得透明。他们沉默地工作——清晨在银行、写字楼打扫，深夜在冷冻海鲜厂包装水产，厨房里洗着碗。这些工作会压弯你的腰，摧毁掉你的心理防线和尊严，但能让孩子活下来。
他们是“看得见的劳动者”，而我是那个“看不见的人”。
十四岁起，我就开始翻译政府信件、医疗预约、银行账单。我坐在他们身边参加牙医咨询和移民面谈，讲出我自己都不太懂的词语——因为没有别人可以做这些事。学校里，我在挣扎中读莎士比亚；家里，我要解释怎么申诉保险索赔。
很多人说，双语是种天赋。也许是吧。但对我们这些移民孩子来说，它也是一种我们从没选择过的负担。我们成了父母的秘书、案管、情绪支持者。我们是肩负成年责任的孩子。而这一切，没有人看见。
当老师问我为何作业迟交时，我没有说出是因为前一晚在帮妈妈申请住房补助；当同学取笑我的口音时，我也没说我在给加拿大税务局打电话，试图纠正我爸税单上的错误。
我们不只是学生。我们是桥梁。连接着语言，连接着体制，连接着两个世界。
有时我也会心生怨意。我也想像别的孩子一样无忧无虑，只操心考试和友情。是不是我没有出国，仍然做童年记忆中的公主，勇敢的说出我的想法，对所有世界肮脏嗤之以鼻，但我怎么能呢？作为家里唯一成熟从小学习英文的我，我必须肩负起所有的责任，就算心理无数次恐惧，多么害怕出错，但是我只能向前。每当电话响起而那一端说的不是中文时，无数次的彷徨，我看向父母，沉默地接起电话，心中的那个女孩在角落无数次哭泣，但作为家里唯一懂得“逾期水电费”是什么意思的人只有我，又怎能心无旁骛？
情绪的崩溃不是一瞬间的，是无数次的积累，但始于我看见父母人生中第一次经济困难，在餐厅厨房第一次把碗拿起来的时候，我的情绪瞬间崩溃了，我眼中守护神，坐在王座中心的父母，在做什么？我们作为他们的延续者象征着他们过去的幸福美满，要做些什么。如此极致的对比，让我无数次心理崩溃，我的心慢慢失去了温度，再也不敢跟我同学再提一句我的父母，也不敢向我父母索取一分。每当我看到同学兴高采烈的笑颜，和提起他们的父母光鲜的背景，我总是默默地坐在教室的角落，避免和他们有任何的眼神接触，默默的低下头。他们眼神中的光彩刺伤了我，总能让我想起神采奕奕幼年的我。
那个中国幼年只要好好学习天天向上的小女孩，在14岁就已经死亡，被一堆关系着家庭荣辱和生活琐事羁绊着。
因而我很小就懂得一些本不该这个年纪知道的事：怎么谈账单延期；怎么预约专科医生；怎么解读连母语者都难以理解的官僚术语。
但我们从未抱怨。我们只是做了这些事。
如今，我三十多岁了。我回望我们这一代——那些“隐形的移民之子”，我想对你们说：
你们的付出，有意义。
即使它没有出现在工资单上，
即使老师们从未看见，
即使你的简历上写不出来，
你们翻译的不只是语言，
你们翻译的是生存。
是你们让家庭维系下去。

They Cleaned Offices. We Translated Forms.
My parents couldn’t speak English when we arrived in Canada. They came from cities where they owned property, ran shops, and knew exactly which official to call if something went wrong. But here, they were invisible. They worked in silence—early mornings cleaning banks and office buildings, late nights packing seafood in frozen warehouses. The kind of jobs that break your back, tear down your mental defences and strip away your dignity but keep your children alive，.
They were the visible labor. I was the invisible one.
By the time I was fourteen, I was translating government letters. Medical appointments. Bank statements. I sat beside them during dental consultations and immigration interviews, speaking words I barely understood, because there was no one else. At school, I struggled through Shakespeare. At home, I explained how to appeal an insurance claim.
People think being bilingual is a gift. And maybe it is. But for immigrant kids, it’s also a burden we didn’t choose. We became our parents’ secretaries, case managers, emotional support workers. We were kids carrying adult responsibilities. And no one noticed.
When teachers asked why my homework was late, I didn’t explain I’d spent the night helping my mom apply for housing assistance. When classmates joked about my accent, I didn’t tell them I’d been on hold with Revenue Canada trying to fix a mistake on my dad’s tax return.
We weren’t just students. We were bridges. Between languages. Between systems. Between worlds.

I grew up knowing things a teenager shouldn’t have to know. How to negotiate payment plans. How to book medical specialists. How to decipher bureaucratic jargon that didn’t even make sense to native speakers.
But we didn’t complain. We just did it.
Now in my thirties, I see us—those invisible children of immigrants—and I want to say this: your work mattered. Even if it wasn’t on a paycheck. Even if your teachers never saw it. Even if your resume doesn’t reflect it. You translated more than words. You translated survival.
You kept your family afloat. And that counts.