As an immigrant, I often feel conflicted about my ethnicity. Am I American? Or am I Pakistani? In school, I am considered a foreigner, a Pakistani. When I visit family in Pakistan I am considered a foreigner, an American. It seems that I am a foreigner everywhere. Then who am I?
My father visited the United States several times before he finally decided to settle here. “It was hard,” he says, “to think about leaving everything and everyone for an unknown place. I was a manager, I had a house, I had a family.” I could never understand how my parents moved so far from their parents, especially when they grew up in a community that stresses family relations. I can not even think about moving from Woodbridge, New Jersey to Brooklyn, New York. “It’s too far a move,” I think.
Transforming from a princess to a pauper was particularly hard on my Mom. In Karachi, the city in which my parents resided in Pakistan, my mom had a maid for everything: for cooking, for cleaning, for ironing. You name it, she had it. “Our house was so beautiful,” she says. “Your dad brought new clothes for me everyday. Everyone considered me lucky.” My father was a manager in a clothing factory, and he knew a good outfit when he saw one. He would always bring my Mom the best. Even today, when we visit Pakistan, my dad’s connections score the women in the family free, beautiful dresses that are normally very expensive.
Then why did my parents move here? What was their reason? They had everything and more in Pakistan! I could have been leading a luxurious life! “We wanted you guys to get a better education,” my dad tells me. “My father’s dream was for his children to study, get a degree, but none of us [my siblings and I] put much effort into school. Ever since he passed away, it’s like the dream has been passed down.” My eldest sister is graduating with a masters in human resource in May, and my second eldest sister is graduating with a major in accounting as an undergraduate in May aswell. I am now in college pursuing a pre-med path, and my brother has dreams of becoming an engineer. I suppose, then, that my grandfather must be extremely content in the world beyond.
…
I was now beginning to understand my family’s history, and how it shaped the social strata within the family. For instance, ever since I was a child, I always despised my eldest sister because my parents always listened to her. We always vacationed at the places she wanted, we always ate out at the places she wanted, we always did what she wanted us to do! It was annoying! “Why does she always get to decide,” my other siblings and I would complain. However, I have now learned the answer to our why. Let me explain.
My dad has never been educated past the level of junior high school. Yet, he was able to hold a manager position in a garment factory in Pakistan. When my father came to New York, however, the only jobs that wanted him were all unskilled. He worked as a school bus driver by day, and as a janitor by night. My mom says, “After you and your other siblings slept, your dad, eldest sister, and I would go out to the local elementary school and clean it.” This was astonishing! I never knew that my dad worked as a janitor, let alone that my mom and eldest sister helped him each night as my other siblings and I slept soundly. This has definitely led me to appreciate my eldest sister a lot more. No wonder she feels as if she has authority over us; she has worked very hard to give us a peaceful life.
One story in particular that my mom has told me is about my uncle who lived with us for a while. “The first time he accompanied us to the school, he was flabbergasted with the amount of hard work and effort we were putting in to clean the school. He had completed such tasks in London when he lived there for some months. He showed us how to clean in a quick, yet adequate manner. ‘This is not your house,’ he told us. ‘No need to scrub every little corner.’” This story tells me that my immediate family is rooted in hard work, and maybe that is the reason I always give my best to everything I do. I have been given the genes of dedication. Even now, my mom works extremely hard not only to cook for the family, but also to cook for the guests we have over every week; I guess my uncle could not change the family’s defining characteristics. All these roots to why my family is how it is makes it seem as if I never knew my family before today. I now wonder if I still know my family or not. Are there more things that I do notknow because I was too young?
…
Living life as a misplaced American, a misplaced Pakistani, a misplaced identity has been really confusing for me. Every time I visit Pakistan, I imagine how different my life would have been. I have grown up in New York City with the freedom and opportunity of participating in numerous extracurricular activities to the point where I have been on overnight trips. Moreover, I am out of the house all day and basically only go home to sleep at night. My five hours of commute daily are a part of my life now. They are a defining feature as I choose what to do with that time, whether it is looking out the window at the beautiful river, or listening to music, or doing homework, or studying. My travel time is exactly that: “my time.” It is the moment I get to be me, have my own thoughts, have my own feelings, have my own interests. My time defines me.
My life as a Pakistani-American has been particularly interesting lately. While my dad is encouraging me to dorm so I can give more time to my education (he was originally against moving out and I had to convince him), my mom can not imagine letting her little girl move out like that. It is highly uncommon in a Pakistani society for a girl to leave home without marriage, even if it is for education. Ever since I can remember, I have been taught that family relations are very important, and therefore, I am very close with each member of my family: my dad, my mom, my sisters, and my brother. Thus, moving out is a concept that, although I was working hard to convince my parents for, is extremely difficult for me. When I was trying to reason with my dad to allow me to dorm, I did not consider what I would be giving up. Now that my pursuit may be becoming a reality, I am scared of how my life will change dramatically from a cultured Pakistani lifestyle to a more “American” lifestyle.
