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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i mamá dijo ayer, “Cuando me hablas inglés, siento que tu no eres mi hija. Debes hablar más en bengalí.” Cuando tenía cuatro años, hablaba bengalí todos los días, con fluidez, pero después de asistir a la escuela, hablaba más en inglés. Yo comencé a olvidar el idioma de mi gente, el idioma que mis parientes pelearon por tener. Es un poco triste que la única palabra que puedo escribir en mi propio idioma es mi nombre, pero puedo escribir un párrafo en una lengua que no es mía. Sí, yo estudio español en la escuela pero bengalí es donde mi corazón está. Mis padres inmigraron a EEUU por una buena vida para mi hermano y yo. Viví en Nueva York toda mi vida, pero no soy completamente americana. Mis padres son de Bangladés, pero no soy completamente bengalí. Estoy en el intermedio, y siempre voy a estar en el intermedio. No deseo borrar mi cultura.
Loose Translation: Yesterday, my mom told me, "When you talk to me in English, I feel like you aren’t my daughter. You should speak Bengali more often.” When I was 4 years old, I used to speak Bengali consistently and fluently, but after I started school I started to speak English more. I started to forget the language of my people, the language my relatives fought for. It's sad that the only word I can write in my own language is my name, but I can write paragraphs in a language that isn't mine. Yes, I study English for school, but Bengali is where my heart is. I've lived in NYC my whole life but I'm not completely American. My parents are from Bangladesh but I'm not completely bengali. I am in the middle and I will always be in the middle. I don’t want to erase my culture. Anonymous '22 (BHSEC Queens) |
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