When I visited my Polish relatives in Pennsylvania, eating pierogies and dancing the polka, I might have felt a little Polish. When I was in Barbados and eating flying fish and drinking guava juice, I might have felt a little Bajan. But I’m not sure. I usually felt like a tourist when I traveled to see family. I always wanted to connect more to my relatives and learn our immigrant stories—but Thanksgiving is only once a year, and we only visited the Caribbean twice. Sometimes I search for the essence of my family through language, searching for a specific Polish word that might help me unlock the past. All of the years that my great-aunt Marynia called me “Schnickle,” I thought it was Polish, but now I don’t know. My mom just learned it means “little snail,” in Yiddish, but I haven’t confirmed this yet. Online, I read that “snicklefritz” is a Pennsylvania Dutch word, coming from the German, which means “rascal.” It has been a long time since my great aunt died. It has been a long time since I’ve tasted an authentic pierogi. Was my aunt calling me a snail or a rascal, or both? When my daughter was born, I wanted her to have a name that would be recognized in different languages. Stella comes from my great great grandmother’s name Estella, who is Polish, but Estela (one L) is also a common name in Spanish-speaking countries since my husband Stefan comes from San Diego, and has many Mexican relatives. When we visit San Diego now, we eat fish tacos for weeks. I’m not sure if it’s authentic Mexican food or just surfer food, but we love it. Stefan’s name comes from the Hungarian side of his family; his mother and her three sisters were orphaned in Germany during World War II, and they were sent to live in a mission in San Diego, where they were raised by nuns. I’m grateful for the new mixture of cultures my husband’s family has given me. I feel less like a tourist in his family than my own. In San Diego, I am embraced. Does this make me part Mexican and Hungarian too? I wish! Since Trump was elected and immigrants have been under attack, I’ve felt new motivation to connect Stella to her Polish, Barbadian, Hungarian and Mexican roots. If she can celebrate these strands within herself, she will embrace other people’s immigrant stories. We all belong in this country, every one of us,and we belong to each other. By: Jess Hinds-Spring 2017 Issue
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I signed a petition to try to prevent the deportation of a mother named Jadwiga who came here 17 years ago. I'm signing because this isn't right. She has been here for almost 17 years and she hasn’t had any criminal record or done any harm, if anything she has helped our community to become more accepting of everyone and allowed her children to have a beautiful life in the United States. I will bet that she has applied for a citizenship but BECAUSE THE GOVERNMENT LITERALLY TAKES FOREVER, THEY FORCE HER TO LEAVE!!!!! That's not fair for anyone. She has already made a home in the United States and also has a family that loves her dearly. Deporting her from her family and home is like sending her to prison yet Jadwiga has done nothing wrong. What ever happened to innocent till proven guilty?? It isn't fair rejecting people who are completely innocent, or even trying to join our safe space. Jadwiga could be trying to avoid an uncomfortable situation by leaving her home, or she could have just fallen in love in this beautiful country (what’s left of it). Forcing her to leave her home is the same as a teacher bullying a child because they are new to the school or still aren't used to the other students in the class, the new student wants to participate with the other children but maybe they have a rough history or they need more time adjusting to other people. The government is always about keeping people safe, no bullying, and stuff like that. But when they deport such innocent people they are being hypocrites by bullying and hurting those they are deporting as well as their families. There are plenty of students and parents even in my school who worry everyday about being separated or deported from their loved ones. We only have one life and we should be able to live it the way we are most happy and since Jadwiga can only be helping the community it seems like a complete waste of time, money, stress, and heartache to be carrying out with this deportation. Anonymous- Spring 2017 Issue
As an immigrant, I have had experiences that have shaped who I am today academically, socially, and culturally. I was not sure how I would adjust to fit into the American culture. The cultural difference was evident; American students were given more freedom and leverage over their education than students in my country. I was not the only one confused by this cultural clash. Thankfully, my friends were from all over the world: the Caribbean, Latin America, Asia, and Europe. What was interesting to me, was that we were all undergoing similar transitions, yet we were all from different parts of this world. Painting, drawing, singing, dancing and bicycling are a few activities that I like to participate in with my friends. Our differences in culture and interest have allowed me to have these experiences by taking part in various activities together. This has allowed me to learn about, and compare cultures from two different regions of the world. Even though there were times when my family lived in one tiny room, I never let it stop me from doing what I loved doing. I actually enjoyed my time living two years inside a garage as it showed me a whole different world. I learned how to use the limited available resources and still enjoy life. Sometimes my parents would wonder why did we even decide to come to this country. In the end, it was all worth the sacrifices. I never thought I would meet so many people from different parts of the world. Everyone I meet every day has their stories. Not everyone came from the same place, and yet we are all share something common. These experiences have encouraged me to express who I am as a person today - to be someone who appreciates diversity, curiosity, and new adventures. Anonymous- Spring 2017 Issue
I have trouble translating from English to English. My family originates from Jamaica and we speak Patois (English Creole) at home; so sometimes I mix up which phrases in “English” I should use. I will often find myself mixing the different dialects to try to cater to the standards around me. To most people, it seems like a small blunder in speech, when in actuality it is my culture pouring from my lips before I can modify it. The words come so effortlessly to me because they are easier to say, think, feel, and understand. They connect me to my family, their past, and the rich history of my little island, Jamaica. When I speak it, my intentions are clear and my emotions are more explicit. Sometimes when I get excited and I am talking to my friends, I will accidentally say something they do not understand like call an ice pop a “kisco” or say, “look from when...” instead of “how long ago did…”. When this happens, I quickly explain what I meant and correct myself. The problem is not that I do not know these phrases: the problem lies in translation. At times, I have to translate, whether it is because I am at school or just in public, where many people may not understand. It swallows my intentions, my language, and my culture into a chasm of carefully rearranged words. I exchange laughter at what could potentially be a funny joke for a clumsy fumbling of my words; I remove the passion from my stories and add a straining grasp on its focus. I resolve to mask my culture behind “proper” speech introduced to me secondarily. So sometimes, when I am brave enough, I speak English, my English. The English taught to me by my ancestors. The English that I go home to and sing songs in; freeing myself from the weight of the constant, cautious, restraints on my speech. My friends will often laugh and blurt out, "What did you just say?" in a loose attempt to understand the exchange. However, their misunderstanding is my understanding. My English that bonds me to a whole island of individuals emerges from its cocoon of “proper” wording into its full, unapologetically beautiful form. It is in these moments that I reclaim myself from translation. Christina Green'17- Spring 2017 Issue
The chilling wall of glass that forbade me from my hero remains embedded within me to this day. I yearned to watch that wall collapse into a million jagged edges, just as my heart had. The hero of my dreams was suddenly as helpless as I was, and I could do nothing but stare through the cold-hearted emptiness of the glass barricade between us. It was September 17th, 2007, I was 8 years old. My father had been detained for deportation at a detention center for illegal immigrants, miles away from his family. The rest of us, meanwhile, were detained right at home, discouraged from continuing life as we had known it since my father had come to this country, pockets overflowing with aspirations and hopes of a better life; nothing more. The void he left permeated every aspect of our lives; my baby brother’s incessant weeping echoed the powerlessness my mother endured. With no family to provide emotional support, and no income to provide financial support, my mother was given very little to care for her two babies. She seldom rested at night, praying to God and simply asking what my father had done to deserve the pain he had suddenly been burdened with. She showed a brave face but I could see it in her eyes; my mother, deprived of the love of her life, was broken. Her inability to cope with being alone led me to one solid conclusion: I wanted to be independent, in charge of my future. Watching my mother collapse without the support of my father taught me to look at adversity through a different lens. I never stopped praying for my family and never gave up. I had so much anger inside of me, yet so much hope. I wrote letters to lawyers and talked to my teachers in school to see if they could do anything to help me. I was so young but grew up with important responsibilities that shaped our entire family dynamic. I had to take control for most of the things that my dad wasn’t able to do like help my mom feel better and fill the void he left. My family had me, and I would grow up to support the family in every way I could. Finally, after a year in detention, my father was released from behind that frostbitten wall of glass. But that glass wall would always be in the back of my mind. My father came to America to live the American Dream; sadly, he lives his numbered days with a constant threat looming over his head, reminding him that he doesn’t belong. He is still here, not for himself, but for his family. I spend every day working hard to make my parents proud and show them that their decision to come to America was worth the suffering. I live with the fear that my father can be taken away from me in any second and no matter what happens, I have to be there and be strong for the rest of my family. My father taught me to always respect myself and my family and that made it easy to extend the same care and gratitude towards others. For instance, I would love to pursue my career as a Registered Nurse where I can fulfill that desire to care and help those in need. I can use my experiences to build close relationships with patients who are in need of emotional help. My dream is to be able to help people whether it’s emotionally or physically and my father led me to have this dream. I will live every day, keeping in mind that I am one of the biggest blessings in my father’s life; most of all, I will continue to be the hard-working, compassionate, and supportive being my father had sacrificed so much to see me become. A .J. - Spring 2017 Issue
Let me tell you about my living room. It wasn’t just four walls with a ceiling and some furniture. I swear to you that it was something more. This room breathes in memories and traps them insides its walls as if to hide it from the forgetful world. So instead of telling you a story, let me tell you about my living room seeing that it holds more stories than my careless mind could ever hold. I was on my way to bed when my parents called me, It was almost 10 o’clock and I was heading upstairs. What did I do? What did I forget to do this time? I walked over and sat in the little red chair my parents got for me when I was five. It came with a matching yellow chair and a blue square table. I remember the day they got it for me. Underneath the table is written, “To our dearest, Love Amma and Acha”. It was on that table that I would create Play Doh figurines of little people, hearts, snails, turkeys, whatever my little mind and hands could make. My mother would dry my little figurines and display in the showcase. I remember the days I would sit on that table and do my kindergarten homework (whatever it was that they gave kindergartners to do those days.) That blue square table. But that table is gone now. Its soft royal blue table top ripped off and replaced with a slab of wood that my dad polished in an effort to make it look “nicer”. That blue square table, I wonder how many extra hours my parents had worked to get it for me. My little red chair was right next to the round wooden coffee table that my dad’s friend gave us when our old one broke and we couldn’t afford a new one. I wonder how many nights I spent sitting at this table doing my homework with my parents. I wonder how many bills my parents unwillingly opened and paid here. How many times did my father prop up his tired legs on this table. Resting his aching calves after a day of cutting grass because that was the only work he could find. I wonder how bad those days actually were. I would say that I remember the tired look he had in his eye when he came home, or the little beads of sweat outlining the top of his head where he wore his cap. I would say I remember the hot summer sun under which my dad had worked, but I was too young and blind to notice those things. I didn’t notice his sore arms or aching back as I begged to be carried and hugged. I didn’t notice his exhausted face as I babbled on not letting him rest trying to tell him about the book I just read. No, I didn’t remember those things, yet somehow my bizarre human brain managed to remember that table and from that table comes these memories. My living room was home to the soft purple corduroy chair whose arms I fit perfectly into and spent countless afternoons in. The chair in which adventure after adventure took place with the help of my imaginations and some books. I sat next to this purple chair where my dad would sit to tie his shoes, the worn-out sneakers he wore for his odd end jobs or the cheap black leather shoes he wore to his office. That stupid office that he worked at that refused to pay him because they knew they could get away with it. He was not the type to complain, a job was better than no job I guess. Besides, who would he complain to anyway. That purple chair is here now. Its cushions worn out and sunken, almost like my hopes of things ever getting better. I no longer fit perfectly into its arms and no adventures take place there for me today. That poor purple chair who has done everything a chair can possibly do. Its cushion has been thoroughly used and no longer provides the comfort and support it used to. It sits in a corner of my living room today like a broken old man who has been crushed by the weight of the burdens in this world. I sat next to a green sofa, the sofa on which my parents often told me to study hard so I could have a good life. It was the couch on which my mother would sit as she talked to her family on the phone. The family back home that she had left behind in hopes for a brighter future in America. How many times did we take a photos on that chair. How many times did I sit with my brothers on that chair, reading stories and playing games? Was it really that long ago that I sat on that sofa for hours refusing to let anyone else hold my newborn baby brother? It feels as if it was just yesterday my brothers and I were taking all the cushions off the couch to build a giant fort. We would stack up all the cushions and sit on the wobbling pile until one of us fell off and was sprawled across the floor laughing. That green sofa. It had some pretty good memories, but they were crushed. Literally. We brought the couch to New York thinking that we could use it in our new house but it refused to fit through the two oddly placed doors in our small second floor apartment. We twisted and turned and even took the door off its hinges, trying to bring it inside. But it was stubborn. It refused to step foot into this new house, our new life. So the green sofa was left on the front lawn for the Thursday garbage pickup. And when Thursday came about, three large men picked up my couch and hurled it into their garbage truck, whose mouth teared and crunched away at the poor thing until all that was left of my sofa was bits of green fabric and pieces of wood. Memories, gone, eaten by the savage garbage truck. My living room had this bookshelf. It was about 6 feet tall and had 3 shelves and a cupboard. The second shelf of this held the medical encyclopedia series that my dad and I found at a garage sale. I was little, its enormous words made no sense to me, but its gruesome pictures was enough to get my attention. At one point, I used to randomly chose a book and stare long and hard at its pages, trying to make sense of the monstrous text hoping one day in the future its words would make sense to me. I told myself that one day I would become a doctor and would be able to fix every problem found in one of these books. But I was so little thinking I had my future planned out, but life happens. I will never know if am able to make sense of those books. Just as they were given to me at someone’s moving away sale, I had to give them away too. Have you ever had the pleasure of sitting by a bay window? Pressing your face into its glass as you peered into the world outside? Feeling as if the arc of the glass panels and wooden frames was enough to keep you from falling onto the sticky summer grass. On the hot 4th of July nights we would sit near the window and watch our neighbors launch firework rockets, lighting up the night sky. The red, white and blue sparks splattered across the sky dancing with the stars before they fall back to earth in their lifeless smoldered state. I used to sit by the window on those illuminated July nights, staying up until the last firework returned to earth. I used to sit by the bay window as I waited for the kids in the neighborhood to come ring the doorbell asking for me to come out and play, the minute I saw them walking up the street I would run outside and join them. I miss those days when we would sit in I used to sit by that window so often that my dad promised to build me a window seat for it on my 13th birthday. But we abandoned it and moved right after I turned 12. I was on my way to bed when my parents called me. “We need to talk to you. We are moving to New York. Our visa is expired and there isn’t any work down here. We are undocumented, illegal but that shouldn’t stop us”. I am from the moment when my father told me that he stayed for his children’s future. I’m from the moment that I was told that all their struggles would be worth it if I could go to college and become a Somebody. I want you to know that I'm from this living room, this moment; the moment I found out I was committing a crime by trying to pursue a dream. I want you to know about my living room. I want you to know that this is where I’m from. I’m from the room whose walls have heard the most joyous of laughs and the most deepest of cries. I’m from the room whose carpet is stained with the tears from my mother’s eyes and the sweat from my father’s brow. I’m from the room where my father hid his worries from me. So when I told you about this living room, I was telling you about me. When I walked to my living room that night, I wish I took the time to really be there, to take back the memories I was soon to leave behind. I know I’m supposed to tell you a story about me, but instead, let me tell you about my living room. Anonymous - Spring 2017 Issue
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