The Mexican boy with the messy apron hands me my slice of pizza on a flimsy paper plate. I step back towards the open window, rest the plate on the sill, grip the crust with my shaky fingers and take a slow first bite. The bottom is burnt, as usual, but nevertheless it seems to melt into the sauce and cheese as I chew. Patsy’s pizza is as good as ever. Even with my dentures in, it tastes good as it did seventy-five years ago, when Papa took me as a treat on my tenth birthday. Can it really be seventy-five years??

Nowadays nobody expects to see an eighty-five-year-old woman walking the streets of East Harlem. The neighborhood has cleaned up considerably, but there are still a good number of crazies wandering around. They do not scare me, though. I am quite active for my age, and I am also very handy with my cane—so all you hoodlums, beware! And after all, how could I be frightened of these familiar streets, where I played as a young girl?

I suppose, though, these streets are not entirely familiar. I used to bump into all kinds of family and friends at each and every corner, but now I am surrounded by foreigners—those Latino types. “El Barrio” sounds to me like the Italian word “barriera,” a barrier, a barrier that blocks me out of here because I no longer belong. “Barriera.” A barrier between me and these strange new people. To me they will always seem strange and new, through they have already been in this neighborhood for over half a century.

Among bodegas, dollar stores and “cuchifritos” (what in heaven’s name are those!?), Patsy’s seems like the last outpost of a forgotten world. But a few of us Italians still remember. Those few who attended the memorial service at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel certainly do.

Joey Caruso died ten years ago. He did not get a parade like Pete Pascale, though by golly, did he deserve one. He deserved ten parades. I remember, right on this corner, when I was playing jacks with Luisa, some ruffian came and stole our ball. Joey Caruso ran right after him and snatched it back! A real gentleman, he was, and he stayed that way his whole life, God bless him.

And now he’s been ashes for ten years. Imagine? There were only about ten or fifteen of us at the memorial service, all old friends of his from the neighborhood. All old folks, like me, who still remember. The inside of the Church is just the same as it was when I was a girl, where Mama and Nonna would kneel down on the pew, white lace over their head and shoulders, rosary beads in their hands. The Church seemed emptier than it was when I was a girl, but I did see a few Spanish ladies crossing themselves, praying in a language that I could not understand. Do their words express the same reverence as Mama’s and Nonna’s?

My son, his wife, and my three grandchildren do not care about this neighborhood the way I do. I left East Harlem for the suburbs once my oldest son was born, in ’50. Today he said he was too busy to come to the memorial. Little Annie has a soccer game, I think. Or maybe it was Little Susie. My memory isn’t as good as it used to be.

But here there are still things that I remember quite clearly. I toss my empty plate into the trash, avoid looking at the Mexican boy with the messy apron, and head back onto the street at a grandmother’s pace. I turn towards Park Avenue. It was here that Jewish tailors lined the streets and an open market bustled beneath the elevated tracks. Suddenly I hear a quick shout, and I turn around half-expecting it to be a Jew haggling with a customer over the price of a suit. They were always very insistent about their prices. I remember threads and strips of fabric beneath our feet and the smell of Eastern European cooking, so different from our own, that radiated from those shops. I turn around and to my disappointment discover that the source of the commotion was two dreadlocked hooligans having a disagreement. Ah, well.

Suddenly the whole street seems terribly deserted. I move onward onto Park and walk up to 125^th street, and then I arrive at the Metro-North train station.

I enter the wood-paneled waiting area as if moving from the past into the present. I am surrounded by young suburbanites: wives and husbands, sisters and brothers, and groups of friends who have come to the city for the day, all waiting for their train back home. They all look like my son, like his wife, like my grandchildren. They walk through East Harlem and see nothing more than loonies and bodegas…

I climb the steps to wait up on the platform, and from my seat I can see all the way down East 125^th street. I try to picture Sophie and Annie playing jacks like I did, seventy-five years ago, on one of the street corners. Joey Caruso’s been ashes for 10 years. Can you imagine?

The train approaches the platform and the doors “ding” open like a perfumed elevator or a TV commercial. I step inside and take a seat by the window. The train takes off. We race through Harlem and fly over the river.

We enter the Bronx. Behind me I hear a little girl ask her mother, “Where are we? What is this place?” The mother answers, “I don’t know, sweetie. Looks like the middle of nowhere.”

Is that all that’s left of us?

Soon the train leaves the city entirely. We run alongside a highway and then plunge into the woods, where here and there you see a house and a neat backyard peeking out from the trees. Any of these houses could be my son’s. My grandchildren could be playing in any of those yards.

Who are we now? Are we still the same people in the forest as we were in East Harlem? Are we still Italian?

For me being Italian means jacks on the corner, Joey Caruso, white lace at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, and buying our clothes from the Jewish tailors near Park Avenue. For my son being Italian means a cannoli for the kids, the occasional pasta dinner, and a vague feeling of contempt for establishments like Olive Garden. My grandchildren barely even know that they are Italian. They don’t even call me “Nonna.”

Where did we cease to become real Italians? Did leave our “Italian-ness” on the side of the highway, when our moving van sped out of the city? Did it fall out of our moving boxes as we carried them into our new suburban home? Did we lose it somewhere among the trees?

Part of me believes that we can only be real Italians in East Harlem. Our surroundings shape our identity. Now we are the Italians of Westchester, not the Italians of East Harlem. Something is lost, I think, in that transformation.

We cannot move back—my journey out of the city is irreversible. El Barrio is the barriera that bars our return.

The train arrives at my station. I step out and look over a parking lot filled with cars, and I see my son step out of his forest-green Volkswagen. I tell him that I don’t need any help down the steps—I made it to Harlem and back by myself, for goodness’ sake!—but he helps me anyway. A real gentleman, he is, and he’d better stay that way his whole life, God bless him.

My mother immigrated from St. Petersburg, Russia to New York in 1993 after marrying my father, an American. Unlike those who move to the United States in search of economic opportunities or for a good education, my mother came without any plans or ambitions. In a sense, her immigration was unintentional and unpremeditated: she fell in love and followed her American husband back to his home.

My mother’s adventurous spirit carried her to a country which had enchanted her as a girl. She loved American authors such as James Fenimore Cooper, Jack London, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, whose novels promised beauty and freedom.

To be sure, these writers did little to prepare my mother for life in New York. She settled in suburban Westchester, in a culture that was unfamiliar and alien for someone who had grown up in the state-controlled Soviet economy. At first, American consumerism was overwhelming: for just one product, like hand soap, suddenly there were ten different brands to choose from! The most difficult adjustment was to America’s “car culture.” My mother had never learned to drive, since cars were a luxury in the Soviet Union. Driving was a difficult skill to learn, and to this day she still dislikes driving and misses her city sidewalks.

My mother eventually adjusted to life in the U.S, got her driver’s license, perfected her English, and became an adjunct professor of Russian. Her life had improved significantly: she moved from a small Russian apartment to 3-story American house, bought her own car, and now had enough income to send money back to her parents in St. Petersburg.

But despite these material gains, my mother became increasingly disappointed with America, for New York did not live up to the promise of Fitzgerald or Hemingway. Her disappointment was spiritual: suburban American values were incompatible with her urban, European sensibility. Certain parts of American culture and values still feel unnatural to her: Why does everybody walk around holding a Starbucks drink? Moreover, why is their coffee always so weak? Why do our neighbors strive to have the largest car or the largest house? Why must everyone drive? Where are the sidewalks? Becoming fluent in English and learning how to drive were not enough to make my mother feel at home. Though she has acclimated, she does not feel entirely comfortable. She will never become a suburban mom, as long as she remains a child of the urban Russian intelligentsia.

Though my mother dislikes these elements of life in New York, she has stayed nevertheless. She loves the United States for the natural beauty of its oceans, mountains, canyons and plains. She indulged this love by traveling all over the country, from Maine to Arizona. She embraced the country and it has rewarded her enthusiasm with rich experiences. But one immigrates not only to a physical landscape, but also to a culture and way of life. This latter, spiritual aspect of her move to a new country remains incomplete. 

My mother’s story of immigration is not yet finished. Her journey, which began unintentionally, has now become purposeful. She seeks a place where she feels more at home than in the States. Part of this search includes returning to an urban way of life, but part of it also means escaping American culture and values, which remain unnatural for her. My mother has begun to discover France. She feels that Parisians share her values: sidewalks, strolls, small cars, strong coffee and often pessimistic—or, to her, realistic—frankness. My mother is unlike those immigrants who settle permanently in America, or who earn some money before returning to their home country. For her, New York may prove a temporary stop en-route to somewhere else.

Gautam Ramasubramanian was born in 1995 in Mumbai, India. When he was four years old, he and his parents immigrated to the United States. For his parents, the United States had an almost fairy-tale appeal, as it seemed to offer the chance of a better life. Gautam’s father, an accountant, aspired to find a better job and to give his son an American education. This story of immigration is in fact two stories in one: the story of Gautam and the story of his parents. Gautam’s experience assimilating to American customs was very different from that of his parents. But despite these differences, both stories are similar in that they exemplify some of the disappointments of immigration. Gautam’s father was unable to realize his hopes of a more successful career. As a consequence of being foreign-born and U.S.-raised, Gautam struggles to stay true to his Indian heritage and is uncertain about his own identity. Whether he is  Indian or American remains perplexingly unclear.

In 1993, six years before the family’s move, Gautam’s uncle had immigrated from India to Flushing. The uncle worked for the State Bank of India and was transferred to the Bank’s U.S. branch. The uncle’s successful career in New York made Gautam’s father optimistic about finding work in the United States. Unfortunately, the father’s experience developed in sharp contrast to the uncle’s. The father had trouble finding a high-ranking, well-paying job in the U.S., since American employers did not trust his Indian education and experience in accounting. He was forced to re-train, which put him a step behind where he would have been in India. He once said that he regretted the move, since in India he would have risen higher in his career. But despite this disappointment, Gautam’s father chose to remain in America for the sake of his only child’s education.

It was in Gautam’s education where his father’s hopes were realized. Gautam started elementary school in New York and did very well: he was a thoughtful and diligent pupil who prospered in the American school system. Moreover, since he arrived in New York when he was very young, Gautam had no difficulty in adopting an American lifestyle. Still very young and impressionable, he assimilated to American customs easily and naturally.

Gautam’s parents, in contrast, were more conscious than he of the cultural adjustments they had to make. Luckily his parents were able to avoid many of the difficulties of assimilation by settling in Flushing’s Indian neighborhood. Not only did they have relatives near by—Gautam’s uncle, aunt and cousins—but they also belonged to a tight-knit community that maintained many Indian traditions. Flushing has an Indian temple and stores selling Indian food, which helped Gautam’s parents feel at home.

Even though Gautam’s parents lived in an Indian community, they nevertheless abandoned some Indian customs in favor of Western ones. After all, even an ethnic enclave cannot remain entirely insulated from mainstream American culture. For example, rather than eating and sleeping on the floor, Gautam’s family began to use tables, chairs and beds. Along with this came a difference in eating habits: utensils appeared on the table, and what was formerly eaten with the hands now submitted to fork and knife. In addition, English replaced Tamil as the main language spoken at home. Throughout all these changes, Gautam’s parents felt no real loss. Even in their Indian neighborhood his parents were eager to become less foreign and more American. These were common changes in lifestyle that other Indians in the community had already made.

Assimilation was most difficult when it came to the family’s last name—or, rather, last names. Surnames in South India are passed down differently than surnames in the United States. In the West, last names are traditionally passed down though the men in the family so that one family shares the same surname. Certain South Indians, however, derive their surnames from their father’s first name—or husband’s first name, for married women. Ramasubramanian is Gautam’s father’s first name. While Gautam and his mother are surnamed Ramasubramanian, the father is actually surnamed Sundram, since Sundram is the grandfather’s first name. The fact that one family had different surnames complicated life in the United States. Consider, for example, what would happen when Gautam’s father picked his son up from school. Gautam’s father was not Mr. Ramasubramanian. Western schoolteachers found this perplexing: How could father and his own son have a different last name?

This problem was remedied two years ago when Gautam’s parents became U.S. citizens and changed their last name to Ayer. Ayer is the name of their family line and comes from their distant ancestors. Perhaps this name represented a way to stay true to their Indian heritage. Or perhaps, now that Gautam’s parents were citizens, this new name was a symbol of complete assimilation.

Gautam, however, did not change his name from Ramasubramanian to Ayer. At that time Gautam was becoming more interested in his Indian roots, and keeping his original last name seemed a way to hold onto his Indian identity. As a child, Gautam was teased for his unusual and very long last name. Now this name became a source of pride. Gautam also began to lament the loss of his native Tamil, a language which he had failed to master.

Unfortunately, Gautam finds it difficult to hold onto what remains of his Indian heritage. His Tamil is so poor that becoming fluent in the language would require an immense amount of work. Gautam also says that it will only be a matter of time before he will change his last name to Ayer, since it is problematic to have a last name that differs from that of his parents.

For Gautam’s parents, assimilation to Western customs required a conscious effort, but now they feel comfortable being Americanized. Gautam’s experience of assimilation was the reverse: his assimilation was not deliberate, and unlike his parents he does not want to be Americanized. He strives to retain whatever fragments of Indian culture and traditions still remain in his family. Consequently, Gautam straddles two countries and is not exactly sure where he belongs. He does not consider himself Indian, nor does he consider himself a New Yorker. Immigration has left Gautam incomplete, since he is neither entirely Indian nor entirely American. In a way, Gautam’s father is incomplete as well, since he is unable to reach his full potential in his career. His aspirations remain unfulfilled.

This feeling of incompleteness which Gautam shares with his father is an unfortunate consequence of immigration. That is not to say, though, that immigration did not have its advantages. Gautam was indeed able to benefit from the American system of education, and his acceptance into Macaulay is clear evidence of that fact. And perhaps Gautam’s struggle to define himself can also be seen in a positive light. The incompleteness that he feels may in fact be the starting point for a self-reflective journey, traversing the intersections between foreign roots and present circumstances, which non-immigrants rarely have an opportunity to explore.