Oct 10, 2018
When Your Mother Country Becomes a Foreign Land
I grew up in the in-between: white, Hispanic, a pigment of mixtures that blended unevenly.
I grew up in the in-between: white, Hispanic, a pigment of mixtures that blended unevenly.
In Hindi, you don’t say ‘sorry;’ you ask for forgiveness. So, growing up, I made the mistake of apologizing for who I am.
“Nobody will stop a young blond girl, that’s the truth,” you said. This was when I grew angry with you, when I wanted to scrap our week-old friendship.
I felt my mom’s grip tighten around my hand as dozens surged across the Rio Grande, the water waist-high. Adults held children in their arms or carried them in rebozos across their backs. We watched as the Border Patrol agents caught and detained some people while dozens more ran past.
German chemists. They empowered us, they ruined us, they controlled so very much.
What makes immigrant parents like mine worthy of love, respect, and admiration in our country?
How two diasporas shaped who I am.
“When you’ve spent your life apart from a loved one, what prepares you for not knowing how to mourn?”
Raji Lian, my great-grandfather, came over from Syria in 1899.
Each time I am lured by the mirage of progress, someone knocks at the door and I am reminded of being thirteen and having nightmares about ICE at our door.
What does it mean to experience a history of trauma and blood in ephemeralities, in residue?
Luis received the first coins he had ever held. “Keep these safe,” the man said. “You’ll need them.”
After immigrating from Finland, I adopted Florida and all its freaks, swindlers, addicts, and charismatic criminals.
One thing united us, one thing no one else could understand—our lack of legal status in the United States.
Patois was our secret, allowing us to be in the English world and then escape to Jamaica through language.
Often we only talk about what the immigrant gains, or what they “take.” We don’t consider what they have left behind.
I wasn’t born here. But I have lived here for fourteen years, and London has made me what I am.
The first time my grandfather crossed the India-Pakistan border was in 1947; the next time he crossed was in 2007, with me.
Leaving Iran as a political refugee without asylum, my mother, in essence, burned down our house.
Do my loved ones buried in Iran, my generational roots in the land, allow the country to continue to feel like home?
