My family and I decided to strive for better opportunities in life, and although it took about two years for the outcome to manifest, I am glad it happened that way. We left all we had in Colombia and embarked on a journey to enter this country. Continue reading Del español… to the English
It’s interesting, being a Californian in New York City. Although I don’t notice it, New Yorkers say that I have an accent; and, without fail, the magical word ‘California’ evokes images of sandy beaches, tanned bodies, and celebrities. Although I can’t necessarily blame New York; Californians have a similar idea in spirit, if not in specifics, of the Big Apple.
New Yorkers say that I’m a Californian; Californians say that I’m Canadian. It’s a bit of an interesting dichotomy, albeit an understandable one. Talk to me long enough and you’ll understand. The accent never fails to surface. But the question then arises: why on earth does a Californian have a Canadian accent? (And how on earth does someone the colour of sour cream survive in California?) Continue reading The Adventures of a Californian-Canadian
During the winter, New York is a complete contrast to my parent’s home country of Burma. In Yangon, the capital of Burma, the heat scorches the pavement and the air vibrates in the light. My parents came from a country that was the opposite of New York City. My mother would have never imagined that she would live in a city halfway across the world. My father would have never imagined that he would be treating patients in an American hospital. I am sitting here today because of my parents’ journey to America.
Continue reading A Journey To The Other Half Of The World
An Immigration Narrative? Oh Yes! When one has immigrated just three years ago, there can be plenty of things to write about. Unlike most of my classmates, I think I am at an advantage here, as I might just be the most recent immigrant in our class. My family and I landed in the United States on October 2nd 2010, a memorable day for us, as it’s also Mahatma Gandhi’s birthday. After spending almost 16 years of my life in India, America seemed too different. Continue reading 16 and an Immgrant
Unlike many habitants of New York City, I am not an immigrant. I was born in America and have lived here ever since. My parents, grandparents, and great grandparents were also born and raised in America. No one in my family is or was an immigrant. We were forced migrants from Africa over five hundred years ago. Due to the conditions that accompanied slavery, my family does not own any physical documentation of our history and/or journey to this country. If I want to learn about my family’s history, I usually either have to turn to Google or wait for The Slavery Chapter in history class. What little my family does know however, has only been shared by word of mouth and what I have learned from my father is: my family was brought to America through the slave trade over five hundred years ago, were held in the sates of Georgia and Tennessee, and Continue reading Immigration Narrative