One big disadvantage of being an immigrant in an unfamiliar place is feeling like a foreigner. The concept of otherness brings me strange memories and stories from my family’s past. I wonder most days what it means to be American and whether or not I should feel ashamed of that part of my identity. I consider myself a mix of so many backgrounds and identities that it’s quite blurry by now. I have the European and Jewish essence from my ancestors that brings me my favorite traditions and cultural love. I’m so tightly tethered to my family in Israel, where I feel the Mediterranean joy and Middle-Eastern spice that I miss when I’m away. I have a love for Mexican culture brought into my life by one of the many people who raised me and I feel at home speaking Spanish. I’m so other in my essence, but I think that that’s what it means to be American. So do I truly belong here? Maybe a massive advantage of being an immigrant or descended from immigrants is that you have the privilege of belonging to many places and groups.
The feeling fluctuates. Everywhere I go I seem to find conflict that changes the way I think and process my identity. It hurts me to stay in Israel for months and see the corruption and pain that the government continues to cause, but the people and the spirit there bring me euphoria every time I visit. I’m foreign in Israel because I live here. I’m foreign here because my family’s from Israel. I can only imagine the struggle of uprooting oneself and taking a journey to a new place where everything is different. I understand what it feels like living far away from the people you love. I guess that my immigrant voice comes from a mix of ideas, not unlike my mix of identities. I get my voice from those who came before me and continue to better my life today. I feel a medley of sympathy, empathy and compassion. Maybe it’s possible that the mixture that I am makes me American. In that case, we all can be. – Anonymous '23
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Living in America knowing what my parents have endured throughout their lives has undeniably shaped me into the person I am today. I grew up knowing how much of a determined, strong, and independent woman my mother is, characteristics rooted in her culture and life in her home country. It’s something that has persistently motivated me to be the self-assured and self-reliant person I am, just like her. My father has experienced unbelievable encounters in his incredible life, which have proved to me what true care and dedication can ultimately become, one of the many reasons I am diligent and committed in everything I do. My parents’ lives in their native countries and in America have not just taught me lessons I couldn’t have possibly learned elsewhere, but they have inspired and molded me into the person I am today, and for that, I am forever grateful.
- By Mona Shadded ‘22 You know you’re a first-generation Latinx (a child of immigrant Latin American parents)
when…
The sound of crickets chirping played against the sound of a large knife cutting through a new, ripe mango on the cutting board. I sit on the cold, tile floor, surrounded by a bustling family describing the setting of a nostalgic memory that rests in the heart. With little cousins running around pretending to be superheroes and their mothers sitting near the window fanning themselves to relieve themselves from the blistering heat, the house is filled with commotion, and more specifically, comforting commotion.
My oldest aunt always cut mangoes in the evening as her husband always brought home a fresh batch every day. My mom would help her, eating the remaining pieces of mango missed on the skin that was cut off. My dad cleaned the forks and handed out the cut fruit in the living room, where people lazily started to taste the delectable fruit, sweetness filling their taste buds and their minds. I brought out the colorful hat pakhas (hand fans) to keep one of my little cousins cool as the power went out a little more than half an hour ago. The room was lit with three little candles so that we could at least see where we were going. The only problem was the excruciating heat, filling the air with an uncomfortably warm feeling. The only way to feel cool again was using the pakhas and eating the fresh mangoes. Having been born in Abu Dhabi, this experience was rare for me as it meant being away from my extended family, even when immigrating to the U.S. While the mangoes in the U.S were also delicious, nothing could beat the taste of the ones in Bangladesh, not to mention the presence of some beloved family members. At the same time, I have come to realize that a fruit will not taste sweet when given with ill intentions. Mangoes can produce a sweet, buttery taste for the tongue or cause a stringy hairful in the mouth. It all depends on who you get them from, which leaves my experience with mangoes unpredictable at times. What could I do to ensure that all the mangoes I encountered provided the same satisfaction I craved? The trip when I was eleven was the first time I was old enough to remember almost every detail of my experience in Bangladesh after visiting around three times beforehand. A country abundant with poverty and hardship, yet bustling with the sale of Bangladesh’s most gifted sweet by nature. I stayed at my mom’s side of the estate for the first half of my trip, which was a modest apartment in the middle of a bustling city center. Because I visited during the peak of mango season, my relatives were able to provide the most desired form of my favorite fruit. Everyone raced to the street vendors to get a taste of this year’s new batch of goodness, and despite my relatives’ financial situation, my favorite uncle, who we all called office baba, always went out of his way to buy the most spectacular mangoes they could find. He enjoyed watching the smile grow on my face as he came back from the market; a sack full of golden fruit in his hands as I raced to hug him. My Aunt Rumi always complimented the many drawings made of mangoes, telling me in broken Banglish “Tumi anek talented!” (You're very talented!). As a girl from an Asian family, it was expected for children to be successful from the very beginning, omitting any distractions to ensure a financially secure future. I was always pressured to push aside my love for art, especially by my dad’s side of the family, who always yearned for me to become a doctor. Even worse, living in the U.S meant more pressure because to them, living here gave me a ‘better chance’ to become one anyway. While I did not see myself focusing on art in the future, it was still something very meaningful to me; the amount of smiles I had created when giving my art to people could never be blocked by monotonous ambitions. My mom’s side of the family gave me hope and confidence in my art. Aunt Rumi often told me to bring her my art to hang in the living room, quickly becoming one of my most proudest memories. My mom’s house always created a pleasant atmosphere, bringing out the best of my abilities. My curly hair, which I was always embarrassed of, finally could flow freely without a single thought of self-doubt. The taste of the mangoes here were impeccable, and nothing could create the same rich flavor elsewhere. Then came the time to experience the worst mangoes of the season when I had to visit my dad’s side of the family. I had to say farewell to the mangoes that bonded me with my mom’s side despite the slight language barrier and say hello to my least favorite kind of mango, the horrible stringy kind. They were the type to leave a bad taste in your mouth and get stuck in your teeth, finding the strings in your mouth days after you’ve originally eaten it. Once we arrived at their quaint house situated in the rural village, they would expect us to bring the ripest mangoes for them. When they did return the favor, they brought the out of season, stringy mangoes that I abhorred. Time and time again when I ate the mangoes they provided, the strings would latch onto my families’ teeth as if my dad’s relatives relied on us to survive, becoming a memorable burden. They treated my family as if we were their personal money tree, and often scolded me for wasting time on hobbies that wouldn’t supply my aunts and uncles with money in the future. I was often told to never stray away from my destined path: becoming a doctor. The hours I spent creating artwork to give them went to waste because it was disposed of. I clearly remember seeing crumpled up pieces of artwork among a pile of trash from time to time. To make things worse, I never felt beautiful around them. I felt as if my hair became uglier and that my previously darker skin added to the list of unpleasant features that I possessed. From then on, my desire for straight hair and whiter skin became harmful and to this day, I have not recovered from the bonds of insecurity. Those stringy mangoes they gave to me every afternoon by the pukur (pond) defined the strained, splitting relationship my family had with my dad’s relatives. On my way back to America, I thought of how unfair it was that we were obligated to visit them because of our blood ties even though our relationship was like a mango string pulling away from its seed. Though I was just a superficial kid who only cared about getting the better tasting fruit, as I now look back at the times my dad’s sister constantly asked him for money with an ill-mannered promise of repayment, a realization washed over me: how to get the perfect mango every time. It wasn’t about finding the best supplier or testing your luck at the bazaar. Instead it’s about surrounding yourself with people who are willing to spend time with you with no expectation of repayment. As for me, mangoes have created an environment of either love or distress. While I do not always depend on the taste of a mango when deciphering a person’s intentions and character, the sweet taste of many of them has brought me closer to both the person and my identity. Even now, when I bite into a fresh, sweet, newly-cut mango, I feel as if I am in my eleven-year-old’s body, smelling the breeze of Bangladesh air as I sit on the cold tile floor, listening to the sounds of loud kids and taxis honking from the streets below. By Tasnia Ignat |
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