“Indiranda kunderanda binderanda shinderantha”. Yes, that is most certainly gibberish. But that is what my mother thought Spanish sounded like when she first heard it after immigrating to America. After returning from a grocery store checkout line, she said to my father, “Chachen, I learned Spanish today!” and then repeated that strange combination of syllables that my father would never forget.
This is one of the memories my father nostalgically likes to refer to when he talks about life right after getting married. My mother, Mini Mammen, came here at age 22, after marrying my father, Shibu Mammen in India. While my father had been in America since he was 17 with much of his entire family, my mother never stepped foot outside of India until then. So Spanish was just one of the many surprises that came her way as an immigrant. While the “Spanish Encounter” is one of the funnier memories of my mother’s transition to America, she had her share of struggles.
Born and raised in a home with five older sisters in the town of Kumbanad, in Kerala, South India, my mother was never alone. Although her mother died when she was four, she was practically raised by her eldest. She always had someone to talk to, to borrow clothes from, to fight with. But flash forward another 18 years later, she finds herself in that situation which she never thought possible while with her sisters… Alone.
My mother in a normal salwar outfit prior to moving to America.
At age 21, my mother married my father, age 27. Another year later, she found herself pregnant and in the great country that is “America”, and not only that, but in that bustling state which is New York. And yet, amidst the bustling nature of the famed state, she was alone. She was thousands of miles away from all of family back home, and needed to get accustomed to a new family. The only person she truly knew when she immigrated to America was my father. She moved to a new land, into a new home. This home included my father, his parents, his brother, his sister and her husband and child. A new family that she had to try adopt as her own, because she had no one else.
My mother in more western clothing when she immigrated
I can’t help but imagine how daunting immigrating to America must have been for her. I was born here, and while I was exposed to my Indian culture (the food, the language, the entertainment), I also adapted well to American culture. I knew English, I could communicate well, I could fit in at most times. Looking back, compared to my mother, I had a much easier time socializing and making friends.
My father on the other hand had much more time to adapt to life in America than my mother. Born in Kerala as well, he grew up with two younger siblings (a sister and brother) and his parents. After going to boarding school and visiting his family in Kuwait, he, his siblings, and his parents all moved to America. His uncle and their family were already situated in America. Soon after, my grandfather’s three other brothers moved to America with their families. Combined with all of the uncles, aunts, and first cousins, one could say my father had a decent support group to lean on in America.
My father and his family in Kuwait in 1964; a year before moving to America.
While he was only 17 years old, America instilled a big fear in him. His brother and sister would be able to attend high school here and had time to adjust, but he… he had to go straight to college. As a matter of fact, he attended City College in the City University of New York. My father, as he likes to say, only knew a very formal, “fresh off the boat” sort of English. As a result, it was very difficult to understand the slang being used. While his immigrant status was a source of anxiety as he tried to assimilate as a teenager, it was also the source of motivation and hilarious memories. My father had told me about something his professor told him to motivate him to continue taking a Calculus course. He was taking his first Calculus course in CUNY. Having not been able to understand the professor’s English, after class my father walked up to the professor ready to request dropping the course. “Sir”, my father said, “I could not understand a word of what you said. I think I should drop this course.” Looking at my father, the professor asked for his name. “Shibu”, my father then replied. He then went on to ask his ethnicity. “Indian,” he replied again. “Shibu”, the professor began, “I recommend you stick this course out. All of my Indian students do well.” To me, its funny to think that even back then, people held the stereotype that Indians were good at math- even a professor. Needless to say, my father ended up getting an A in the course, and this helped foster a skill for math. Attending a CUNY college myself, I see how daunting facing college can be to someone like an immigrant. I was born in the United States, and yet college was still a source of anxiety for me. The large campuses, the vast number of people- it is overwhelming, especially in the CUNYs. From the eyes of an immigrant it must feel so foreign and intimidating to see all new and different types of peoples who live and speak differently than him/herself.
While my mother and father are much more adapted to life in America since then, many of their values from India have been instilled in me. For example, the role of family and what it means is something that has been passed down to me from both of my parents. My mother, as said before, has a total of five sisters, and as a result I have a total of 10 first cousins on her side of the family, many of which I am close to. She stresses remaining close with her sisters, and as a result, extended family is important to me. And for my dad? Well that “support group” he had with all of his uncles and cousins has trickled down back to me as well. To me, my “uncles and aunts” are not just his siblings, and neither are my “cousins” solely my first cousins. Ever since I was a child, my life has revolved around family and close ties. My definition of family was very different from those around me. It included “immediate family”, extended family, and even church members. When someone in America is asked who their immediate family is, normally he or she would list their parents and siblings. Growing up, my “immediate family” had a total of at least 12 people. I considered my parents, brother, two first cousins, my father’s sister and her husband, my father’s brother and his wife, and my grandparents all as my immediate family… because in actuality, I grew up in an environment in which we all depended upon each other more often than not. At one point we even all lived together. Whether it was staying at each others homes everyday after school, getting together every Sunday, or having sleepovers- I saw everyone else almost as much as those who lived in my own house. My second and third cousins were and are just as important to me. While my parents did immigrate, their core values like those concerning familial bonds were not diluted in the face of assimilation.
I, while admittedly am “Americanized”, still watch Bollywood movies unashamedly. I can understand my language generally well. I keep the Christian faith that I grew up learning. These are only some of the facets of myself which are derived from my parents’ past and roots from where they came in India. The food I normally eat is usually traditional Indian meals such as Biriyani, curry, nan, but also includes normal American food. My parents have done a wonderful job at exposing me to both types of cultures so that I am not ignorant of either. While I was born here in the United States, my parents’ history and experiences as immigrants influence me. As I still grow and formulate my own opinions, the experiences and knowledge they brought with them and developed during their transition provides the foundation upon which I build my new beliefs. Their immigration is not only vital to where my family ended up today, but it is vital to who I am and become as a person.
