My parents immigrated to the United States from Pakistan in the 1990s. Growing up, we didn't have much. My father supported a family of seven on the bare minimum wage. We lived in the dangerous slums of New York in a roach-infested two-bedroom apartment. While he was there, my cousin was shot. I vividly remember the horrible pain sketched in every wrinkle of his face. It made me want to do something with my life so we could move to a better place. My father had the same thought. My father worked hard and established himself to become a professional tailor. He taught me the meaning of receiving education and hard work. We eventually moved to Brooklyn where the air was fresh, the water was clean, and the house was free of roaches. Growing up, I worked hard at home helping my mother and brothers. Whenever they needed emotional support, I would offer my help to lift their spirits. Their recovery was a source of satisfaction to me. It never failed to warm my heart. During his sophomore year, a close family friend, Yazeed, was thrown out of a car on the highway and hit while trying to get up. Not even anyone...