To whom is reading this at the moment, I know nothing of who you are, Please note that I know none of the struggles you have endured, And yet we're placed in this scenario, A piece of writing has connected two individuals and much more... Therefore I ask of you… as an author to it’s reader May you take in every word that is placed on this paper? Will you promise to place yourself under the tears of another? Not for eternity- just for this piece if you must- As we travel in depth through a world that is hidden beyond the public: Sweet child, do not worry, you’re fine where you are, Lay in the fields, I’ll band up the scars, Our voices were silent, Our voices were mute, We struggled to leave, We did this for you. We’ll take all the damage, Protect you at all cost, My dear sweet daughter, Please gain what I’ve Lost A voice who gives too often The receiver who’d taken too much Shield your eyes from the judgments, Or you might base your life on such, A social construct of which we thrive A laughable case indeed For my dear sweet child please take my words Don't hesitate to take the lead. To feel like an outcast is one thing, To live through it all is another, Our families are bonded through many forms, Remember we have each other, Across the seas hold the same blood as us, It's a crazy thought, I know, Yet we live in a different country from them, We're here so they all can grow, Take all the poison we've been given, We'll construct a remedy, From one life to another, We’re bound to break free, We’re captured in a box, Swallowed by separation, So much potential has arisen, Don't ever fall into hesitation Keep one thing in mind, A final message I have my dear- A symbol you shall hold with pride, Those stitches that you’ve earned there Show that you’ve gained what I've lost…. Hailei Faith M. '22 (BHSEC Queens)
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Many people every year want to move to the United States to live. They leave their motherland in search of a place where they can lead a better life. The conditions in the countries they come from are dire perhaps. Some are persecuted for their sexual orientation, religion, or gender. Some flee due to famine or war. We have to understand the circumstances that push immigrants away from their countries and lend a helping hand to make their lives better. Most of all they come in search of the “American dream”; a place where they are heard and are allowed to exercise their rights in a manner they might not have been able to in their past. They might find a good job or create a business to provide for themselves and their families. They may become an outstanding member of the community going on to earn their citizenship in a country they admire. The possibilities to do great things are endless. Or they can be persecuted in a country that has no value for them like how most immigrants are treated. Even those with papers and the legal right to be in the United States are looked down upon because those who consider themselves “true” Americans label immigrants as outsiders. However, let us get this right, everyone is an immigrant in the United States; those of European lineage whose forefathers colonized this land are immigrants, they come from Europe. This country is built on the work and sacrifices of immigrants especially on the hard work of those who are classified as minorities today; there is nothing that will change that fact. America is a land of opportunity; how can land that thrives with immigrants turn its back on the same people. America is a melting pot of cultures; we pride ourselves being diverse and embracing our differences. But to truly be American is to be an immigrant. Anonymous '23 (BHSEC Queens)Cuando llego el dia Y el viento soplaba en su cara Es una vida nueva que no podría ser amada. ¿Por qué deberían estar separados? Los gritos de sus hermanos Los gritos de sus padres Las amenazas de los oficiales que asustaban a todos ¿Cómo pueden hacer esto? Años de su vida sintiéndose solo Constantemente detrás de una puerta cerrada Nunca puedes saber toda tu historia Cuando llego el dia Y el viento ya no estaba allí. ¿Podemos ser un mundo con piezas rotas? Anonymous '22 (BHSEC Queens)My mother always tells me her struggles How she wishes her life was better How she wishes MY life was better “You should appreciate how lucky you are” “Some people aren't as lucky” Being thousands of miles away from her family For me For my sister For my brother How can I repay her? How do I express my gratitude? The nightmares she has of getting lost All the stories that include her home country When does it stop The silent tears that run down her face when her sisters call The piles of tissues that fill the trash can The fake smiles that she shows us All that she has sacrificed How do I repay her? Anonymous '22 (BHSEC Queens)Usually, I would say I am American. I would say this, thinking of where I was born, in New York. Thinking of where my father was born, Philadelphia, and raised, Connecticut. I have lived here my whole life, only going out of the country a small handful of times for vacation. I have gone to school here my entire life, and the only language I can speak in at all fluently is English. I took my first steps here, spoke my first word here, went to my first day of school here. I have always lived here, in New York. Yet, truly, I am not from here. No relatives of mine were here before the Mayflower and none came on it. They had not come by the Revolutionary War, nor the Civil War. My first relatives to come to the United States came from what is now called Belarus, around 1900. These were my mother’s mother’s ancestors. The rest of my family wouldn’t come until during and after World War Two. My father’s father, born in Berlin to two Russian Jewish parents. One getting killed by Nazis, a Socialist and a Jew. One finding her children whom she had sent to the US alone. My father’s mother, born in Paris to two German Jewish parents. Both making it to the US safely, one having to walk across the Alps, getting temporarily deported to Cuba, all with my grandmother who was only seven at the time. While they made it to the US, much of my grandmother’s family did not. Many of her relatives ended up in concentration camps, suffering and eventually dying or being killed. The awful thing is, my family was lucky. In Europe, around two-thirds of the Jewish population was killed, not to mention the millions of other minorities targeted. Most of my family made it to the US safely, reunited with children, going to school, learning the language. I get told these stories over dinner, at holidays, and in conversations, bits and pieces, mixed emotions. My grandparents came here as refugees, fleeing from the horrors we still talk about fearfully almost a century later. I don’t know where I’m from. I was born in America, I have both an American and a British passport. My grandparents on both sides are from Russia, some from France, England, Germany. I come from many places. Usually, I would say I am American, much easier than to repeat this all, but the question is far harder to answer at first glance, bringing up so many stories, so many memories, so much pain, so much joy. Anonymous '22 (BHSEC Queens) |
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