The earliest memory I have of being a young immigrant was at the playground of my brother’s elementary school. Picking him up with my mom was one of the nicest things to do on a sunny spring afternoon. Especially getting to play with the other kids at the park near the school. I didn’t have many friends at the time being that we were new from India and my mom couldn’t speak English, making it harder for her to communicate with other moms. At this point, I had already spent 2 and a half years in India and we hadn't become accustomed to the culture in America. To put into simpler term, clothes weren’t a big deal in India. My mom dressed me in hand me downs from my brother all the time. One afternoon a few kids on the playground thought that it would be alright to mention the fact that I was wearing boyish clothes and my short hair. At that moment, as a three-year-old child, I thought that I would never be the same as my peers. My mom told me after this I wouldn’t go with her to pick my brother up unless my hair was open and I had a dress or skirt on. This fear carried on with me up until middle school. I would lie about the fact that I was an immigrant and I would often pretend that I didn’t know how to speak my native language. I would’ve done anything that made me feel fit in. I’ve come to realize that being an immigrant is a part of my identity and it isn’t anything that I should be ashamed about. Being an immigrant, especially being someone who is offered education and has the ability to speak about the unjust things done to undocumented and even documented immigrants is important to me. I don’t think my story is special, I think it’s something all immigrants can relate to and I hope that anyone who reads this can feel less alone.
Anonymous '22 (BHSEC Queens)
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