Catch a glimpse of the gardens hidden within the buildings’ parameters and you know you’re there. Walk into a restaurant where ceviche is the first item on the menu and you know you’re there. Don’t feel like having Ecuadorean food? Just go outside to the restaurant next door for some Chinese take out, or better yet, stop by Mama’s Empanadas and order a few pieces of carne molida. If the weather is nice, you can enjoy them on a bench at Travers Park, while watching the local kids play baseball in the same field where Jackie Robinson once practiced.

This is what it means to live in Jackson Heights.

Lined with verdant trees and hedge-adorned co-ops on every block, Jackson Heights is a neighborhood that brims with its own charming personality. The neighborhood was initially planned by the Queensboro Corporation, for middle- to upper middle-income families in the early 1900s—right after the 7 train arose between Manhattan and Flushing—and was intended to be a community where those working in Manhattan could raise their children away from the crowded bustle of the city. Because of this, Jackson Heights is known for its slight suburban feel, as there are numerous blocks of private homes in addition to famous “garden apartments” such as the Greystones, Hampton Court, and The Towers. To this day, it remains a very family-oriented community, with a total of eleven schools, 7,482 trees, over fifteen playgrounds, and ten indoor play areas. Also, because 62% of the residences were built before 1950, it’s no surprise that the neighborhood was named a New York City Historic District in 1993.

However, much has changed in Jackson Heights since its early beginnings. The majority of the first immigrants to come to Jackson Heights were Italian, and a strong Italian American presence had been held until the 1960s, when many Colombians and other Latin American immigrants began to arrive. This wave of Hispanic immigrants continues to have a standing in Jackson Heights today, along with the more recently arrived Asian immigrants. As a result, the current population of foreign-born residents is at 40,370 out of 66,235 and rising. This number accounts for the fact that 54% of residents speak Spanish at home, whereas only 17% of residents speak English at home. In a survey, it was found that countries like Ecuador, Colombia, Mexico, Bangladesh, the Dominican Republic, China, and India are the most common places of birth for foreign-born residents. This being so, cultural and ethnic diversity is a prominent feature of Jackson Heights, and one of the main reasons why immigrants choose to live in the neighborhood.

When asked about how and why she settled in Jackson Heights, Sunita Chawla, an immigrant from India and proud mother of two, replied, “We wanted to stay with our own people.” She also mentioned the low cost and convenience of the neighborhood, as public transportation and business (cheap restaurants, delis, electronic stores, etc.) is just a short walk away from most homes. After a long interview on a beautiful day at the park, I got to know more about Sunita and her transition from growing up in a poor, rural village in India to living in a New York City apartment building shared with Bangladeshis and Dominicans.

Sunita’s story is a classic representation of the Jackson Heights foreign-born population. From a northwest Indian town known as Nagpur, her family could barely afford to put food on the table, and any money that was earned went into getting an education. In this way, she grew to appreciate all opportunities that helped lead to a better life, as well as value the importance of education. After graduating college with a degree in fashion and earning a job in clothing manufacture for American designers, Sunita got a job offer that required her to travel to America. In 1972, she moved with her husband to her employer’s house in New Jersey, making the travel to New York’s Garment District five days a week, where she did quality control for clothing.

The perception of gender roles changed drastically for her upon arrival, because most women in India are housewives and the men are usually the ones who work. Despite this, Sunita was now the primary source of income for not only her family but her extended family too, since she would send money to her relatives in India. Another change was the difference in social attitudes; according to her, “In India, there’s a lot of problems with gossiping—also because I came from a small town. But here, everyone minds their own business.” She took comfort in knowing that the abundance of opportunities meant less societal interferences. In other words, no one judged. However, this New York state of mind came with its own obstacles. Sunita found that, although people tended to mind their own business, this could often be taken too far for her comfort zone. The freedom of expression sometimes made her uncomfortable, especially seeing sexualized advertisements or young women in revealing clothes, which weren’t acceptable for the public eye in India.

After supporting the rest of her family’s move to America by sponsoring them, filing their visa applications and other paperwork, and eventually finding a house for all of them to live in, she, her four siblings, and their mom, stayed under a four-family house in Newark. In 1994, they decided to branch out to New York for commute reasons. Because everyone worked in the city—and also because everyone was starting to raise their families—it only made sense to move closer to their jobs. First coming to Woodside, Queens, the large family of extended relatives decided that, after two years, they wanted to be part of a bigger Indian community where their children could grow up in. And Jackson Heights in the mid-90s was a perfect place to find this. Finding a decently priced building with three available apartments on the corner of 76^th and 35^th Avenue, Sunita’s family thought the neighborhood to be safe, clean, and quiet—exactly what they were looking for. Sunita lived on the sixth floor, along with her two kids, husband, mother, and sister. Meanwhile, her brother lived just two floors down with his own family, and her other sister lived on the third floor with her family.

Originally, the building had been predominantly Indian with a small white population. But a great amount of Bangladeshi immigrants have since occupied it. To her family, the change has created a sense of loss and nostalgia for the past, as Sunita remarks, “I miss the feeling of belonging in a community of my own.” Even the neighborhood surrounding the apartment building itself is no longer Indian, and instead, mostly Colombian and Dominican. When asked about her family’s attitudes toward the other immigrants that currently live in the building and nearby residences, she said that they like that Hispanics are family-oriented and keep to themselves, however, cultural (mostly religious) tensions do exist between the Indians and Bangladeshis.

Like many other foreign-born residents who have spent most of their life in America, Sunita no longer considers permanently living in her country of origin. According to her, the culture is very conservative there, and arranged marriages are rather common. “In India, silence is considered beauty,” she observes pensively. At the same time, India is a stark contrast from the comfort and stability of America, since the government there is relatively corrupt, the quality of the air and food is not as great, and the economy is much worse. In her opinion, no other place in America has the same extent of convenience as Jackson Heights, and that the proximity to both Manhattan and Long Island makes it worth the stay.

For Sunita, Jackson Heights is the soil on which she grew the American Dream. It was there, not New Jersey, and not India, that she felt as though her happiness was truly achieved. “If you come here and you work hard, anything is possible. I believe that is the American Dream and I have accomplished that because I am satisfied. I have all the necessities of life. I’m happy. I only want the same for my kids,” she said to me as a final reflection. She has sent both of her kids to Catholic school because private schools are considered disciplined and structured. Another reason is her own experience attending British private schools in India, which were Christian and helped her to learn English better. In hopes of letting her children diversify their experiences in a similar manner, Sunita thinks that Jackson Heights will contribute much to her family, as well as future generations. With so many cultures in just one area, the neighborhood has impacted them in a positive, cultivating manner. And it’s unlikely that such an impact will cease to have its presence in the residents of Jackson Heights for years to come.

I remember waking up some days not knowing where I was, to the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the distant sound of Tom and Jerry on the television. These were the summers of my early childhood, the lazy mornings spent in Kathy’s apartment. Standing at 5’ 6” in heels, tights, a grey pencil skirt, a white knitted cardigan over a cashmere sweater, pearl earrings, and an auburn updo, Kathy looked like one of those old Hollywood actresses who simply refused to let age touch her. She’d see me walk into the kitchen, give me a kiss on the forehead, and make me a bowl of Cheerios while I joined my brother to watch cartoons. In her living room, I was transported to a whole ‘nother world, traveling back in time to the 1940s: the dark wallpaper, that antique smell, the plush, soft brown carpet. There were these lamps with these weird diamond-like decorations hanging from them. I loved taking them off and observing how shiny each one was, almost like if I stared hard enough, I could see into the future. I wish.

As I stroll down the block of my old apartment building, I think of her, the life she lived, and the selflessness she exuded. When my father had been diagnosed with brain cancer, my mother had to work longer shifts to provide for our family, visiting him at the hospital whenever she could. Because of this, she had to find someone who would watch over her two young kids during those absences. Seeing her dilemma, my mother’s long time friend and next-door neighbor, Kathy, offered to look after us, practically becoming our second mother. After breakfast, we’d wait for her to get ready and then follow her out into the street with a grocery cart, latching on to her wrinkled hands. On the nicest days, she’d take us to the Toys R Us on 82^nd Street, saying, “Now ya can each get somethin’ fuh five dollas!” with a warm smile on her face. Sometimes I’d see a toy that cost eight or ten dollars—something that I’d really like—and ask her if I could get it. And even though she was retired from her job, she’d buy us what we wanted every time.

Overhead, the 7 train roars by, and Colombian pastries from the bakery to the left saturate my nose. I pass by electronics and shoe stores; in front of one of them, a lady selling churros rings a bell every couple minutes. Making a right at Roosevelt and 82^nd, I see the pharmacy’s big bold sign that once read “Genovese”, though Kathy still called it Genovese even after it was renamed Eckerd and later Rite Aid. The Toys R Us is gone, replaced by a T-Mobile store, and a City Jeans has opened up where Hallmark used to be. Going further down the street, I reach 37^th Ave., and make a left towards the corner deli, passing by one of the few restaurants that’s been around since before I was born, Jahn’s. Briefly peering into the diner, I remember the countless summer afternoons spent sharing a sundae with my brother while Kathy caught up with the waitress. Though most of the staff has changed, the restaurant seems to look the same from what I can tell. Now, as I go into the deli and order a lamb gyro, I recall Kathy’s voice asking Sal for a pound of salami over the counter, back when the store was known as Italian Farms, or Sal’s, as she called it.

Like most of Jackson Heights’ earliest immigrants, Kathy had completely lost her original British accent, mainly as a result of being married to an Italian man and immersing herself in his family’s culture. She’d have coffee for breakfast, tea and biscuits for lunch, and spaghetti for dinner. On her dresser were numerous black and white photographs of her husband in his Navy uniform. In her bedroom closet was a faded American flag, about five feet long and four feet wide when unfolded. I’d often wrap the flag around myself when playing pretend with my brother, or use it to make forts. I was always amazed by the sheer size of it, as well as the rarity of such an object. Colombian flags, Ecuadorian flags, and Mexican flags were everywhere in the neighborhood, even then. But American flags, you had to look for.

At the time, Kathy knew many of Jackson Heights’ other longtime residents and storeowners by name, and through her, they came to know us. I barely see any of these people anymore, their friendly expressions replaced by indifferent and unfamiliar ones, the large family businesses taken over by smaller ones of the recently immigrated. In a short period of only twelve years, everything has changed, and as I take a bite out of my Middle Eastern meal, I find myself struggling to find a connection with my surroundings. The part of her that lives on in me misses the old Jackson Heights, where corded phones were bought from RadioShack, rather than iPhones from T-Mobile; where toy stores were always crowded and birthday cards cost less than a dollar, plus a free lollipop from the man at the cash register.

I walk on, making my way home, all the while picturing a Kathy in her mid-thirties walking these very streets. I glance at the Asian restaurants that begin to appear on 78^th St., wondering if they were once ice cream parlors or barbershops that she knew when she was younger. And as I look more and more into the glass windows of places such as Aruni Thai and Spicy Shallot, I start to realize that my reflection is not too different from the faces of the workers inside, that we share the same role in shaping a newer, more diverse Jackson Heights—a role I was given the moment my mother stepped off the plane from the Philippines. Coming to the entrance of my building, I hold the front door open for an elderly Indian woman and go to the elevator, where I am greeted by one of our neighbors. She talks to me in my mother’s tongue, forgetting that I can’t speak the language, and we get off at the 5^th floor, where a mix of Filipino and Indian cuisine leaks out from under every door. We say goodbye as I turn the key to our apartment, suddenly welcomed by the mouth-watering smell of chicken adobo. I think faintly about Kathy and her strong coffee, about flags and the power of time. And while I still don’t know which roots to call my own, I look out the window at the great mosaic of the city, finally feeling like all of me is where it belongs.

My mother had always been different from her family. The middle child of ten brothers and sisters, her life growing up in the Philippines was marked by a thirst for adventure and independence. This being said, she was raised in fortunate circumstance; her father was an engineer while both her parents also ran small businesses in which her and her siblings took part. These sources of income allowed all of them to get a good education and pursue the careers they truly wanted. For my mother, this was nursing. She was always good with kids so it was a given that she’d go to nursing school with the intention of working in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), where she would care for premature and sick newborn babies.

However, there were too many nurses in the Philippines and they were paid a very low salary. She could only find work as a pharmacist’s assistant and was tired of still having to ask her parents for money while not doing what she wanted. So when my mother and her friends heard that nurses were in demand in America, they found an employment agency through ads. The employment agency would look for jobs in America, specifically New York, and provide connections for those who wanted to apply. But there were requirements. For one, you had to pass an English proficiency test administered by the U.S. Department of Education. Because English is a second language in the Philippines, they passed easily, and a hospital in Queens approved them to work.

For my mother, such an opportunity meant much more than the start of her career. To her, America was like the ocean she loved to swim in. One time when she was younger, she went out into the water to float and, letting herself get lost in the effortless calm, accidentally fell asleep. She woke up hours later, lost in the middle of the ocean with no choice but to simply swim back. And she did. In the same way she found comfort in the ocean’s infinite freedom, despite knowing the dangers of such a mysterious place, she saw America as her escape as well. She didn’t want to rely on anyone but herself, whether it was her parent’s efforts or their family’s wealth. At the same time, she naturally gravitated towards things she wasn’t used to. She felt a need to explore, to be part of a culture that wasn’t as conservative and uniform as that of the Philippines. She wanted to be surrounded by people of different beliefs, colors, and experiences. She wanted to be the first American in her family.

After saying goodbye to everyone in the Philippines and getting a flight to New York, my mother was picked up from the airport by the employment agency’s American representative. Her and her friends temporarily stayed in an apartment in Briarwood, which had already been arranged for by the agency. With ten people living in a one-bedroom apartment, it wasn’t exactly the most comfortable move. Another drawback was the seasonal change. They weren’t used to the fall weather and, having lived in a tropical climate, didn’t have the right clothes for the weather. However, this could be fixed easily. More problematic was the general disorientation of being in a new country, with the issues of both location and language. It was difficult to find their way around, especially since there were no subways in the Philippines. On the other hand, they were fascinated by the height of the buildings and organization of the traffic system, contrasting greatly from the dusty, unpaved roads they were used to and the little shacks that lined them. According to my mom, “Everything was so clean-looking and there was always a structure. The blocks were straight and so measured.” While being exposed to such a developed city was overwhelming to them, they were impressed and very grateful for it. It was also alienating to adjust to the change in language. Although my mother knew how to speak English, everyday American English was very different from the English she was taught in school. One time her roommate came home crying because her supervisor said to her “Are you crazy?” Such expressions are used commonly here and don’t mean anything offensive. However, my mother’s roommate interpreted it literally and felt disrespected because being called “crazy” was very demeaning in the Philippines.

When asked about how it was like being surrounded by such diverse people, my mother did mention that she had a coworker who’d constantly embarrass the nurses who were Filipino. Whenever there’d be a health problem with a baby being cared for by a Filipino nurse, her coworker would blame the nurse, no matter how much they reasoned with her. “A lot of us Filipinos, we are peace loving people. We don’t want to argue. If we are here, we came here to work,” my mom reflects. While the blunt, fast-paced way of the American lifestyle was opposite to the culture she grew up in, my mother learned to toughen. She knew that she was lucky to be in a country many of those back home had only dreamed of living in. She viewed the obstacles as growing experiences and though she didn’t have her support system—her parents, siblings, and the majority of her friends—she was satisfied to be making hard-earned money with the thrill of a new start.

The classmate I interviewed was Ledia Duro, who came to America from Albania in 2002. At eight years old, she, her older sister, and her parents moved to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, as the last of their family to immigrate to America. To Ledia, an immigrant is a foreign born individual who comes to reside in another country. This being so, the relatives who already lived in America when her family arrived included her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Her grandparents and uncle who lived in Bay Ridge were the ones who provided a home for Ledia’s family for approximately six months, allowing the family to get situated. During this time, her parents got jobs and the children were enrolled in school. Today, her family frequently visits them, despite the grandparents and uncle moving to the Bensonhurst region of Brooklyn. Other extended relatives originally lived in other parts of America as well, such as New Jersey and Michigan. However, most of her relatives now live in Brooklyn.

The reason why Ledia’s family moved in the first place was to create better opportunities for her and her sister Marlin, who is now 21. As Albania was very poor and corrupt, with little hope for upward social mobility (meaning that if you wanted to move up in society, you had to know people), her parents believed that their children would have a better education and job market in America. In order to achieve these hopes, her father applied for a lottery aimed at giving children more opportunities by granting them residency in this country. And luckily, his family was one of those selected under her father’s name. After several interviews and documentation, all four of them were given the chance to come to America despite having to buy the plane tickets themselves. To her parents, it was worth it.

In a flight that took less than a day, their lifestyle was drastically changed. They had just taken the first step to fulfilling their version of the American Dream and drawing on such a blank slate would not be easy. For example, Ledia’s father owned a warehouse store in Albania and her mother was a teacher. But the language barrier that came with being Albanian immigrants forced her parents to change their jobs completely. Not only would they have different occupations, but they were also required to go to college again to learn English, eventually working as medical assistants. Taking into account the obstacles associated with undergoing a major cultural transition, this fresh start proved to be a challenge for the whole family. For Ledia and her sister, going to school was difficult since they didn’t have any basics of the language, such as reading and writing. It was even hard to make friends, as they were unable to easily communicate with the other kids. According to Ledia,

“Mine and my sister’s transitions were different. She knew more of the language and was more willing to accept the change. I was a bit more reluctant. I would sometimes get so frustrated and lost in class since I didn’t speak a word of English, I would cry.”

In the present-day she sometimes still feels judged and belittled for being an immigrant because of her accent. Although this causes people to underestimate her, she chooses not to take the judgment too personally and instead lets her actions speak for themselves. This positive, self-assured outlook reflects other aspects of Ledia and her family’s perspectives as immigrants. Despite the drawbacks they faced and the ways in which they have shaped her family, they have each come to view the move as a fulfilled goal. Her parents are proud to know that their ambitions were realized, Ledia being a successful honors student and her sister now in her senior year of Macaulay Honors College. She is planning on attending law school after graduation. In turn, Ledia is also grateful for the sacrifices her parents made for her, knowing that they had happy lives in Albania.

As for the experience of living here for about ten years, Ledia doesn’t even consider living in Albania anymore. However, she has visited a few times and is always happy to do so because she gets to see her family. She appreciates that America is diverse and different, a place with structure and sense of individuality. Here, there are chances for everyone and hope is always present. At home, Ledia’s family speaks a combination of English and Albanian, and she has no problem communicating to her parents in either language. She has said that their ongoing support throughout the whole experience has only strengthened her relationship with her parents and that she respects them greatly for giving her a better circumstance, which wouldn’t have been possible without their initiative.