Sara’s description of my family’s immigration story accurately sums up how my family came to the U.S. Those who’ve read it know that I am not an immigrant and don’t have a true immigration story. However, I do have experiences from being the child of immigrants. Therefore, rather than regurgitating what Sara worked so hard to put together, I think it might be best to discuss my own personal experiences from having grown up in a Jamaican-American household.
When I was younger, there were essentially two worlds: the world inside my house, and the rest of the world. They seemed like two completely separate entities and, consciously or subconsciously, depending on where I was and who I was with, I could be one of two different people. At home, I was more Jamaican. I ate Jamaican food, understood how Jamaican’s spoke (it’s not as simple as just putting “mon” at the end of every sentence), sang Jamaican nursery rhymes, and knew Jamaican jokes and superstitions. At school, and when I wasn’t with my family, I was American. I ate American food, and learned American jokes, nursery rhymes, and superstitions. It was rare that the two worlds ever crossed because when my parents left the house, they became more “American” as well. Today, things are about the same, but I think that I’m more willing to show my Jamaican side to others than when I was younger.
Even though I felt as if I lived in two worlds, that didn’t mean that the world of my house was like the real Jamaica, and my parents often reminded me of that. They told me that my life was boring- that had I grown up in Jamaica, instead of spending all day watching T.V. and playing on the computer, I’d be climbing mango and guinep trees, running around with friends, and playing more active games. I never understood why they told me this, as it only made me feel like my life was less than it could have been, but eventually I decided that I was glad to not have lived that life. Yes, I didn’t spend as much time outside, and didn’t climb as many trees, but I’d also never been chased up a mango tree for not doing my chores, kicked by a cow for I forgetting to tie its legs before I milked it, or beaten by my teacher in front of all my classmates in school. The same could not be said for my parents. I figured that my life was, while different, equally as good.
My visits to Jamaica confirmed that I was content with the life I had. While some of my family members in Jamaica are just as well off, if not more, than we are, many live or have lived impoverished lifestyles. Not all have or had indoor plumbing, financial stability, or even proper education. In Jamaica, one must pay yearly school fees to enter their child your child in school. This is not just for college, but also for all other levels of education. Not all Jamaicans are able to continually afford this. As a result, I tended to feel bad for some of my family members and appreciate my American life more.
In conclusion, while my immigration story isn’t as interesting or inspiring as that of my parents, it still reflects some of what one has to deal with when they live in a culture much different from that with which they were raised.
