John F. Kennedy once said that, “Everywhere immigrants have enriched and strengthened the fabric of American life.” Every immigrant has a story, a background, a family, something they are hoping for, something they are yearning for, and something they have come to find. Most of the make-up of American society is that of immigrants. Whether that be first generation immigrants, second generation immigrants, or those that came on the Mayflower before 1776. We can all trace back to the country in which we originated, a country other than the United States.

There is a question as to whether an immigrant is described as American at their core or as the place from which they came. For Jews, this question is whether one describes themselves and identifies as an American Jew or as a Jewish American. At a quick glance the two may look similar, however once the contrast between the two is pointed out it makes a world of a difference. A Jewish American is a Jew who came to America and decided that at his root he wanted to be American. Therefore, the word “Jewish” is describing the word “American.” This person’s essence is that he is American. An American Jew, is someone that came to America with their strong set of traditions and values and knew that regardless of where they are, they are first and foremost Jewish and then they are American. The word “American” is describing who they are at their core, and that is Jewish. There are other Jews coming from different countries that find a balance of the two. They adopt some American things along the way and find a way to connect the two to create a delicately intertwined relationship between them.

My parents were born in America. My grandparents and great-grandparents however, were born in Europe in countries such as Hungary, Poland, and Germany. This makes me a Jew of European descent. My great-grandparents were living in Europe before and during the time of the Holocaust, around the late 1930’s and early 1940’s. They had businesses and a way of living that was ripped away from them all because they were Jewish. Before the Holocaust my great- grandfather learned and wrote Hebrew books while my great-grandmother ran the textile company. They lived a normal life in Poland and were comfortable; there was no way to predict what was yet to come. When the Holocaust began, their homes and their families were torn apart before their eyes. They came to America with a story; a history of a past that must not be forgotten.  The hardships and terrible atrocities that they went through in the Holocaust. A life in a country that was stripped away from them out of pure hatred. They lost everything, except the three things that they made sure to hold onto: hope, family, and tradition. They stayed strong and kept those things with them even when all felt lost. My great-grandparents kept their heads up, for what they hoped to be a promising future.  They picked themselves up from the literal ashes and moved towards what they hoped would be a better tomorrow.

My grandmother was born in a displaced person camp (DP camp) in Germany after World War Two. This was a place created for former inmates of the German Nazi concentration camps, who had no where else to go and nowhere to call home, because everything was destroyed. My great-grandparents then picked up and immigrated to America. They moved to Texas for a while and then made their way to New York.

One story that really stands out to me and that I believe ties the history of my family and the horrific things they faced in Europe with the present day American Jew, is something that occurred with my great-uncle. He had been in the Holocaust and had been through many life or death moments that he was forced to make split second decisions to save his life. He had numbers branded into his arm and his head shaven all at the age of fourteen. Many years later he was in Florida with his wife on a nice summer day, walking on the boardwalk. Another American Jewish couple walked by and they began to talk. During their conversation they noticed that both my great-uncle and this man had numbers on their arm from the Holocaust. They looked at their forearms and saw that they were just a few numbers apart. This means that they were a few people behind each other on the line in the concentration camp towards their death. Miraculously, they both survived and here they were in sunny Florida with their spouses discussing the weather and their plans for the day.

The stories of all the atrocities that my family went through before they came to America has had a very strong impact on who I am today as a person. Firstly, I do not take anything for granted and I try to appreciate all that I have in my life. I understand that life here was not received on a silver platter, but rather there were so many things that my family went through before we got to this point. In addition, the Jewish traditions and values have an even deeper meaning behind them for me, and in keeping them I feel myself having a very special connection and relationship with my family on a different level. Two of the most important values in Judaism are family and respect. Many of the traditions and customs in Judaism are centered around these values. The tradition of keeping the Sabbath contains a huge family factor, where every Friday night and Saturday there are family meals and gatherings to pray. Prayer is another big aspect of Judaism. The strength and bravery it took my great- grandparents to keep these traditions and values in the Holocaust, gives me a deeper understanding and appreciation for them now.

I also try to have an optimistic outlook on life and I try to not let things get me down for too long. My great-grandparents went through things that no one should ever have to experience in their lifetime. They did not like speaking of the horrible things that they went through. However, they did enjoy speaking of their past before and after the Holocaust. They focused on the positive stories about their happy memories instead of focusing on the suffering and pain of the past. This has taught me to always look for the silver lining and although sometimes it might seem hard, it is definitely worth it to try because tomorrow is always a new day.

Most Jews whom immigrated to American around the early 1940’s were fleeing persecution. Some felt they wanted to start completely anew and left their traditions in the background for some time. While others thought the only thing they had left to hold on to were their values and traditions. These family members of mine, would always have those numbers on their arms and those burning memories, that they would constantly try to forget, but they would try to focus on the good and the positive things in their life. Their stories continue on, the faith continues on, the family continues on, and most importantly the hope continues on.

The Question was asked

The silence permeated the air

Hanging above our heads

The words reverberating in the inside of my head

Again and again

Why did I ask?

 

The silence was followed by a faraway look in their eyes

A look of hopelessness

Of despair

Of the memories

The memories that were trying to be forgotten

Why did I ask?

 

Suddenly tears followed

All because of my curiosity

The need I felt to know more

To know the stories of what happened

The personal stories, in addition to the general ones I had been hearing for years

Why did I ask?

 

It was an innocent question

I didn’t mean to make their conscience go back to that time

I didn’t mean to make them bring the atrocities to the forefront of their minds

I should’ve been content with what I did know

I should’ve told myself it was enough

Why did I ask?

 

A few weeks later they sat me down

They gave me a brief overview of what it was all like

They kept getting choked up

I did whatever I could to not cry myself

It was nearly impossible

Why did I ask?

 

My grandparents came to me the next day and thanked me

They still did not want to go into detail of the horrible memories

But they seemed relieved

They had always wanted to pass down the stories so people would never forget

But they never knew exactly how to do it, they were happy they finally did

And I realized that’s why I asked.

Milan Mathew
Prof. Siegel
Immigration Narrative
03/01/16
Immigration Narrative
Back in the small state of Kerala there was a hard-working woman named Aleyamma Chacko who was the oldest of twelve siblings. She was the only one sibling who had the will power to persevere and do well in school. One day her mom’s step-brother came to her house and told her that since she was doing well in school he would take her to Jaipur, another state in India, to pursue a nursing degree. In the the late 60’s and 70’s a lot of young Indian women were pursuing a nursing degree, because it was a job that allowed them to go abroad to countries like America, England, New Zealand, Ireland etc. Aleyamma went to Jaipur and completed her nursing degree and by that time there was a marriage proposal waiting for her back home. It was a young man who she had been family friends with for a long time, Mathew Thomas. He came back from the Indian military for vacation. On November 5th, 1970 Aleyamma Chacko became Mathew Thomas’ lawfully wedded wife. A year later, Mathew Thomas was stationed in Baroda, Gujurat and he and his newly wedded wife moved there to the military headquarters. A year later, Aleyamma was expecting her first born and soon after she was a mother to two beautiful baby boys. Aleyamma thought her life would always be in India and she wouldn’t be able to broaden her horizons. In 1977 her uncle, the uncle who had sent her to nursing school, had moved to America and filed for her visa to come to America. On April 14th, 1978 Aleyamma Mathews embarked on her journey to America. Though she was saddened to leaved her mother land and to go to a country where she was not familiar with the language or culture, Aleyamma knew this was the best decision she could make for the future of her family. Aleyamma left her husband and kids in the hopes that in a few months she would have all the tools to file for the rest of her family. Two weeks after being in America, Aleyamma landed her first job in a nursing home in New Jersey. She worked endlessly with one goal in her mind, to be finally reunited with her family. After working in a nursing home for a year and a half Aleyamma was able to bring her family to America and become reunited again. In 1979, Aleyamma and her newly migrated family moved to Manhattan and lived in a one bedroom apartment on Thayer Street. Soon after with the help of Aleyamma’s uncles, Mathew Thomas was able to get a job in the Transit Authority of New York. From that point onwards Aleyamma worked hard to make sure her two sons got really good education, and worked day and night to provide for family along side her husband. As things started to stabilize, Aleyamma decided to move her family to Long Island, where a lot of South Indians were living at that time. In 1986, the Mathews moved to Westbury to their first ever home.
Aleyamma made sure her children were raised in Christian Indian household. Aleyamma made sure her sons knew how to speak the mother tongue, Malayalam, and was well versed in Indian culture. Aleyamma and her husband made it a point to make sure her children were taken to Indian once a year to never forget their roots and who they were.
Aleyamma is my dad’s mother, also known as my grandmother, and also known as one of my best friends. If it wasn’t for the determination my grandmother, I, Milan Liz Mathew, wouldn’t be here in this country today. Though my grandmother isn’t given a lot of recognition for providing a future for my family, Since my grandma instilled cultural values into my father, he transferred those same values into me. Even though my friends make fun of me for being a “FOB” or a “fresh off the boat”, I always see it as being culturally well versed. I enjoy going to India every year, watching Indian movies, and being able to converse with my grandparents in Malayalam.
Since I have been raised to be culturally sensitive, I have been able to appreciate the beauty of other cultures. My mother coming straight to America after marriage has had a big impact on the person I am today. My father, who was brought up in America since he was 7 went back to India when he was 24 to get married in a traditional Indian arranged marriage. Soon after the marriage my mother was expecting me, so she stayed back in India and we both came to America when I was three months old. In this day and age, it is very uncommon for young grooms to go back to India to find a bride, yet alone commit to an arranged marriage. Since my mother was born and brought up in India and was only exposed to American culture after marriage, that has had a big impact on the way I was raised. My dad being a bit more modern and understanding to the fads allowed me to do things my mother was not comfortable with because of her background. For me this worked in my favor as well, I had a modern dad who allowed me to lead a normal life in an immigrant Indian, while I had an Indian mother who kept me in check with my Indian heritage and reminded me of the expectations that were put on me. Today I am a person who puts culture first, before every decision I make I rethink and to see if culturally this was the right thing to do. Would my parents be upset about it? Is this what they did back in India? What would mom do? In my eighteen years of life I have dated a total of two guys. When I decide to go into a relationship there are two criterions the boy has to fulfill, they have to be able to understand Malayalam and be willing to visit India with me every year, if it becomes a long term relationship. As you can see, culture plays a big role in my dating life as well. I would need a guy who is able to appreciate the Indian culture like I do, and come from a culturally sound childhood like mine.
Without the persistence and determination of my grandmother, my family would not be economically and socially sound like we are today. It was through her big decision to move to this big country and give her a family a better life that I am able to sit in an American college pursuing my dream to become a doctor.

My family came to the United States from Kerala, a state in India located in the south. My family on my father’s side owned a rubber-tree plantation, and my grandmother was a housewife. On my mother’s side, my grandfather was the head clerk at a railway station, and his wife was a matron. Needless to say, both of my parents lived comfortably in India, but after they completed their collegiate educations, they realized that they would have better economic opportunities in America rather than their home country.
My dad first visited the United States in 1987 and began working, though he studied to be an accountant in India, he works in the United States Postal Service, and has been doing so for the past 29 years. He went back to India later that year to marry my mother in India who studied to become nurse. My parents had my oldest sister in 1988, and my dad returned to America to continue working while my mom stayed in India with my sister since taking care of the baby with my grandparents was easier. In early 1989, my sister and mother finally migrated to the United States with my uncle to reunite with my dad.

My parents lived in many different homes before finally moving to our current home in New Hyde Park. First, they lived with my uncle and aunt in Mineola, then a rental apartment in Queens, followed by another apartment in New Hyde Park. Later, my dad and another uncle of mine bought a two-family house together in New Hyde Park. That was the home that I was born and raised in, though I don’t remember much living there. It wasn’t until 1999 that my parents bought their own home in New Hyde Park, the house that we currently live in now, and the only home that I have real memories from.

Throughout the late 80s and 90s, many of my relatives also moved to the city of New Hyde Park, lessening the culture shock that is typically experienced by foreign immigrants. My parents weren’t pressured to completely assimilate to “American culture” when they first moved since they were still able to speak in their mother tongue, Malayalam, and spend their free time with others of the same ethnicity. When I was little, I primarily spent time playing with my cousins because my family already had an established social network of relatives experiencing the same cultural dynamics as me. Since we all lived in such close proximity, our families often carpooled to school, which was an interesting experience for my parents.

My sisters went to school before me, so by the time I started grade school, my parents had already known how the system worked. With my oldest sister, however, my parents had to learn everything as they went on. When it came to PTA meetings, how exams worked, field trips, etc. my parents were learning how the American schooling system worked with my oldest sister. My mother and father both achieved a collegiate education in India, however, the education system in India is very different from that of America. For example, in for my parents India, high school ended in the 10th grade and afterwards they begin specialized education that reflect their prospective careers. A doctor would start taking specific science courses in their “11th grade” and an engineering student would take mathematics. Encountering the education system here involved a lot of trial and error for my parents, but I was raised into the system and learned from the experiences and advice from my sisters, making school especially difficult for my sisters since they didn’t have someone to learn the ropes from.
My initial experiences of school were interesting, mainly because it was the first time I started making friends with people that weren’t Indian. However, the demographics of my classes were always diverse. I was never the lone minority; I had Chinese, Filipino, Pakistani, and Latin American classmates. Growing up, I didn’t really face much discrimination because I was just as “American” as the kids around me, I was interested in the same things as they were, liked the same foods, and spoke English just as well as they did.
Of course, it was easier to make friends with other Indians because we shared more things in common than others. Among others of the same ethnic backgrounds, certain cultural practices are conceived as normal. For example, it’s a normal part of Indian culture to eat with your hands, so whenever friends came over we would all eat with our hands without paying it any mind. However, this practice is frowned upon by many other cultures, so students of other ethnicities wouldn’t be as comfortable with it. Also, it was easier to have friends that are also Indian because my parents get to understand their parents better, which is very important when it came to my parents. More often than not, Indian parents can find something to relate with each other, whether it be religion, where they’re from in the motherland, or even where they buy groceries from. There aren’t as many overlaps with adults of other ethnicities so my parents didn’t feel as comfortable. Granted, this didn’t mean that I wasn’t allowed to have friends of other ethnicities, it just explain why parents are more comfortable with friends with the same backgrounds.
Growing up surrounded by American media, I never really took much interest in my Indian heritage. Around the house my parents would speak to me in Malayalam, our native tongue. I was never fluent in the language so I avoid speaking it so as not to embarrass myself. My sisters on the other hand, do know how to speak it because when they were young my parents sent them to Malayalam school, which was established to help American-born children of immigrants learn the fundamentals of the language outside of just speaking it at home. By the time I was born my parents didn’t think to send me because they figured it would be futile, since my sisters didn’t really pick it up as well. Many of the conversations between my parents and me consist of them speaking to me in Malayalam and me responding in English since I’m not that confident in speaking Malayalam. English is a language that I’ve mastered so I stick with it, but every now and then I’ll use a Malayalam word to help clarify what I’m saying or be cheeky. This is unfortunate in some ways and is often the source of miscommunication; but I believe it’s better than having nothing but English spoken in the household.
The lack of language and cultural practices has definitely distanced me from my native culture. I’m not ashamed of my heritage, I just haven’t had the opportunity or inspiration to really practice them here in America. Whenever we visit India I feel very American, because that’s what I am. I was born and raised in America, so I’m familiar with American culture, but I still identify myself as Indian. I regret not learning the language or practicing traditions, but it isn’t too late to learn it. There is definitely still time to embrace my culture more, and I plan on doing so to make sure my children also experience Indian culture with their American lives.

When people ask me, “What are you?” I reply, “I’m Vietnamese”. Some think I mean “Vietnamese” as an ethnicity, while some think “Vietnamese” as a nationality. I was born in California, so I’m technically an American, but since my parents are from Vietnam, I have great pride in calling myself both “Vietnamese” and “American”. Both my parents immigrated from Vietnam nearly three decades ago for similar reasons. However, their methods of leaving the country were different and each greatly impacted me.

My dad was sixteen when he left Vietnam with his uncle in January 1980, in hopes to find better educational opportunities, escape the unjust communist government, and avoid the draft for the Cambodian-Vietnamese War. My dad and his uncle traveled with a group of people who had similar motives for leaving the country. Their mission was to get to Thailand, the “Land of Freedom”, and end up in the popular refugee camp, where they would stay before immigrating to other countries. However, before reaching Thailand, they had to go through Cambodia. As they traveled through Cambodia, they disguised themselves as Cambodian merchants, so they would not get caught; suspicions weren’t raised until they arrived at the Thailand-Cambodia border in February. My dad told me that there were Khmer Rouge, communist Cambodian soldiers, lined up at the border. The border was not official, but it seemed like the safest way to get to the other side. My dad, his uncle, and the group rode their bikes past the soldiers as if they were the locals. Unfortunately, because my dad looked paler than the average Cambodian and he did not speak the language at all, the Khmer Rouge picked him out of the group and accused my dad of being a spy. Of course, this was not true, but there was no way my dad could explain anything. Everyone made it to the camp, except for him.

The Khmer Rouge captured him, tied his hands, and placed him in a cage containing other prisoners and trespassers. At this point, my dad thought he was finished, but he was only kept there for five days. The most traumatizing day, he recalls, was when a Khmer Rouge soldier took him out of the cage, made him stand in the forest, loaded a gun, aimed at him, and pretty much said some form of “Just kidding”. My dad was then thrown back into the cage. There was another day when a different soldier threatened to slash my dad with a long knife.

Luckily, at the time, the Khmer Rouge were smart enough to keep their prisoners alive and trade them to the United Nation Security Council Resolution (UNSCR), an organization affiliated with Red Cross, in return for food and supplies. And that is what saved my dad; he was traded for a few bags of rice. The UNSCR then placed my dad in the infamous refugee camp in Thailand, where he joined his uncle. They spent about nine months there before sailing to Indonesia, where all the refugees were given English Language classes, health screenings, and interviews. Once all requirements were met, the American government welcomed them into the country.

My dad and his uncle flew to California in 1981. Immediately, my dad started attending high school, where he was known as the “smart foreign kid” because he managed to earn almost straight A’s. During school and during his summer vacations, he’d work to earn something he did not have at the time—money. My dad’s first job was a cleaner at a print shop, which only lasted a week because he landed a job at a golf course, where he picked up golf balls and random trash. Soon, he was hired at Longs Drugs (similar to CVS/Rite Aid) to restock shelves. Eventually, throughout his high school career, my dad gained a big interest in computers and databases because he’d taken a few computer science classes. He ultimately acquired a job as a data entry operator in an office. Then, after graduating high school, he attended college and received a B.S. in Computer Science. During this time, he still worked at that office, married my mom, and had me! From learning about my dad’s past, I’ve discovered that he went through so many obstacles and still managed to be where he is today. To think that he could have been shot in the forest is truly frightening.

 

Alternatively, my mom’s immigration process was much safer and faster. My mom’s family wanted to leave Vietnam because some friends and relatives started immigrating too. Early 1987, my mom and her family were granted immigration from the Orderly Departure Program (ODP), which was created to help the Vietnamese leave their homeland safely and resettle abroad. When the time came, my mom, her siblings, and her parents packed their suitcases and flew to the Philippines, where they spent seven months learning English, volunteering, and getting their immigration paperwork done. Then, they flew straight to New York, where my grandpa reunited with his siblings, who had immigrated a few years earlier.

Within a week in America, my mom began working at a Chinese sewing factory. Her parents and older siblings also worked, while her younger siblings started school. My mom was 21 when she arrived, so she could not attend public school. Although she does not have a high school diploma, my mom is still quite knowledgeable. Also, often at work, she got praised for her handiworks. Several years later, my mom was hired at a jewelry factory, where her pay raised, while her parents lost their jobs. My mom is very family-oriented, so most of the money she earned was contributed to the family house, which is where we live in today. Although my mom’s journey to America is less exciting than my dad’s, her story shows me that I need to work as hard as her, so I can to help out anyone in need. In her case, it was her family.

This may sound cliché, but after learning about my parents’ immigration stories, I feel grateful for all my opportunities, and I know I need to work very hard for things I want. My parents are no doubt my role models. If my dad, who struggled to flee from communist Vietnam and ended up in America, managed to get straight A’s and graduate from college, then I should have the capability to do well too. He told me that he didn’t really have a strong support system when he was young, but now I do, so I should take advantage of that. Also, if my mom could work endlessly and still be happy with what she contributes to the family, at the cost of her formal education, then I should be even happier with what I can or will contribute to my family, especially since I’m receiving a college education. If I am ever having trouble envisioning my future, I tend to think about my parents’ pasts and compare my circumstances to theirs. And that easily makes it a big source of motivation.

Moreover, as an effect of my parents’ immigration, my life differs from others. For one, my parents don’t let me work or date anyone because they emphasize that education should be my top priority and that I should not waste time thinking about money or boys or anything unrelated to my education. Originally, like other students, I wanted to work during my first semester, but my parents did not allow me to because they did not want me to fall behind in my classes, just for the sake of earning some extra bucks. They give me money whenever I need it because they believe money should not be important at this stage in my life.

They think the same about boys. My parents are overprotective, especially my mom, so I am constantly monitored. Whenever I say something involving a boy, or my mom sees me near a boy, she freaks out, questions me, and proceeds to lecture me about the danger of boys. This is why I didn’t bother to ask if I could attend my high school prom because I knew my mom would make assumptions and not let me go. Also, it’s why I don’t go out to hang out with my friends often, which is probably one of the causes of my introversion. I think my parents are overprotective because their parents were not overprotective back in Vietnam, and they know of all the loopholes that could lead to trouble. Nevertheless, I understand my priorities and limits and I try my best to work around them.

On a different note, because both my parents are Vietnamese, I have learned to balance and fuse the American and Vietnamese aspects of me. One out of every five songs I listen to are Vietnamese, and I enjoy looking up the lyrics. I also watch Vietnamese dramas or sometimes Korean dramas that are Vietnamese dubbed, rather than English subbed. My parents have also influenced my speech. Vietnamese was the first language they taught me. Then, they started teaching me English to prepare me for kindergarten. Today, I speak a mixture of both Vietnamese and English at home, which allows me to express my thoughts more clearly because sometimes there would be a Vietnamese word that doesn’t have an English equivalent or vice versa. Furthermore, in many sentences, I would say a Vietnamese verb and literally add “-ing” instead of simply saying the gerunds in either language. This is because gerunds in Vietnamese require me to say the word “đang” before the actual verb. For example, “run” in Vietnamese is “chạy”, so “running” would be “đang chạy”. An example of a sentence I would say at home is, “He was chạy-ing”. Hence, when I add “-ing” to the Vietnamese verb, I am using one less word in my speech. Interestingly, I notice that my brother and all my cousins also do this, so maybe it’s an effect of us knowing two languages and wanting to make our speech more efficient.

The fact that my parents immigrated from Vietnam has impacted my life in the the way I think about my future, the way I deal with obstacles, the way I explore my Vietnamese roots, and the way I express myself through speech. It’s nice to balance beliefs and cultures because I see myself as both “Vietnamese” and “American”.

My family came from India in the 1980s. My father is one of 13 children, and his sister was the first to go to the United States of America. My grandfather was a businessman who dealt with rubber, and he knew a lot about taking risks. He knew that America was the place where his family could grow and become financially stable. He sent his newlywed daughter off with her husband to New York, and she told all the siblings about how great it was and the many opportunities in New York City. She filed for all of their visas, and in groups of four, my dad’s family was able to settle down.

None of the thirteen children knew how to speak English or how to be accustomed to the American culture. They stayed together in their two apartments in Spanish Harlem and eventually developed an unbreakable family bond that still exists today. My uncles and aunts spent the little money they brought to America on these two small apartments in Washington Heights, Manhattan. There, they would all live together with their spouses until they worked and made enough money to move out. Slowly, each of the thirteen siblings were able to move out of the apartment and buy their own houses and settle down with their families in Floral Park, New York, a small town bordering Nassau County.

But how did my dad settle down? He was the eleventh child of the family. He came to America when he was twenty-one years old in 1985. He left his comfort zone of India and had to experience college in New York. The rest of his brothers and sisters already had either a nursing degree or some sort of computer electronics certificate, so getting a job was a lot harder for my dad. He decided to take baby steps, knowing that he would have to overcome the language barrier to communicate well with others, especially during interviews. He worked at Duane Reade full-time, slowly picking up English by talking to the customers. He once told me that when people asked him which brand of a product worked better, he would tell them the brand that had the least in stock.

He took computer classes in community college to try and obtain some sort of degree. However, he was unfortunately unable to get a degree after failing a class on the subject that he spent years trying to speak but not enough time to master completely: English. He spent about 6 years going to work in the morning and going to night classes in the evening. But not all hope was lost when in the 1990s, he went back to India and got married to my mom, who was a nurse in the military. But once he came back to America, he was not ready to move out and settle down. He had a younger brother and sister to take care of, and he needed to help pay for their education. He eventually got to work for an electronics company, and he later got a position as a Traffic Device Maintainer at the New York City Department of Transportation, where he would work all the way until January 2016. All of his brothers had similar jobs in the MTA fixing trains, so he knew that this opening was perfect for him because it did not involve much of a formal education. After a while of working, my mom was finally able to come to America because of her visa. They stayed a while in Washington Heights until the birth of my brother. They had finally been one of the last to move out of the apartment in Manhattan and settle down in Woodhaven, Queens. After I was born, I stayed in Woodhaven and finally moved to Floral Park, where we continue to live today.

I have always asked my dad what was the hardest time of his life. I had always thought that it was the time when he worked a full-time job and went to school. However, he says that he enjoyed that time of his life. There are three things that kept my dad relaxed while he was struggling to make end’s meet.  The first thing was the Catholic Church, which shapes my life today. My dad and his family learned to trust in the Lord, and luckily for them, a South Indian church had just opened up. They were able to pray in their native tongue around each other, reminding them of their homeland. All of my family still attend the same church today. The second thing was family. My dad knew that he was not the only person going through this situation. It was his family going through a change, and he had older brothers and sisters to talk to and ask for help. If he had ever needed help with anything such as babysitting, he had twelve other siblings lined up to take care of us. The last thing that helped him relieve stress and kept the family together was volleyball. In India, my dad and his brothers cleared some of the field and put up a net, playing with a leather ball. When they came to America, they would rent out a gym in a church and play with their church friends. They would play in church tournaments, and meet other South Indians who had also immigrated to the United States. All of these things play some sort of relevance to my life.

My family still retains most of the South Indian culture that they brought to America during the 1980s. They have found a balance between the American and Indian cultures to raise up me and my siblings. I have been able to identify myself as American and Indian, even though Americans in America and Indians in India tend to say otherwise. I remember times when I have tried to play basketball at the park, and strangers yell, “Shouldn’t you go back to India and attend medical school?” Even though these insults hurt at first, I had finally understood that everyone in America except the Native Americans had ancestors that are immigrants that are foreign. This common ground makes me no different from anyone else. My family as a whole has become more receptive to the American culture, especially now as we have grown up and some of our cousins have married non-Indians. They treat them just as equally as everybody else, immersing them in a whole new culture full of new foods, trying to get them to speak our South Indian language.

The three things that helped my dad and his brothers succeed in America – the Malankara Catholic religion, volleyball, and family – have been passed down to my generation. My dad, his twelve siblings, and all of my cousins still go to the same church that our parents had gone to when they first came to America. They had become active in the church, and that still holds true today. Now, my family gives money to the church, and my cousins have office positions in order to expand the church develop it. Even though the service is from 11AM to 1PM, my family goes to church from 9AM to 2:30PM to talk to each other and their friends. Volleyball also has a big influence on my family today. All of my cousins play volleyball, and it is essential that we play whenever we have picnics and barbecues. We spend every day in the summer playing volleyball at a park until it gets dark using a pole and net that my dad had made. My uncle is currently the manager of a travel team in New Jersey, and this team is made up of me, my brother, and my three cousins. My family was the first to introduce me to volleyball, and it is because of them that I played volleyball in high school and even in Brooklyn College. My family was very supportive after hearing that I was playing the family sport collegiately. With all that said, even though volleyball and church play a significant role in my life. I believe that the camaraderie of my family has had the strongest influence on my life today. After moving out of Manhattan and being able to settle down, my parents along with their brothers and sisters moved to Floral Park in Queens. We live blocks away from each other, and we hang out together, watch basketball games, and play cards together. We see each other three times a week during the school year, and every day in the week during the summer. We have been so close to each other for so long that we do not hang out with friends very often. And even though common households find it disrespectful, grabbing something to eat or drink out of the refrigerator is expected with my family.  Our camaraderie today reminds my parents, uncles, and aunts of the time when they all squeezed themselves in two little apartments in Manhattan.

This picture is of my grandfather’s obituary in the Indian newspaper. It gives information about the funeral service and his children. My grandfather came to America once, and he hated it so he tore up his passport. Without him and his willingness to let go of his children in hopes for a better future, our family would not be the way it is today. 

This photo is of a lot of my cousins playing cards with my deceased uncle two weeks before he passed away. The loser of the game (my cousin on the left) has to wear a card on his ear as a symbol of shame.

            I am of Italian, specifically Sicilian, descent. All of my great-grandparents on both my maternal and paternal sides were born in Sicily. They instilled important traditions and values in their families, all of them having to work hard to build lives for themselves when they came to America. They lived in a world where nothing was handed to you, especially not to immigrants, and they worked for everything.

            Food is a very important part of my culture. For Italians, dinnertime is a time when the entire family gathers and really connects with one another, as we sometimes forget to do in our busy lives. My maternal grandmother, Mary, has been cooking a Sicilian dish, called “Cardone,” for as long as I can remember. Cardone is the stalk of an artichoke, which is skinned, sliced thin, and boiled. Then it is breaded and fried. They taste delicious! My family usually eats these on special occasion such as Christmas and Easter. Another tradition that is associated with food is Christmas Eve. Normally celebrated with the maternal side of my family, we prepare the traditional “Seven Fishes” for Christmas Eve. The Seven Fishes is a literal term; we make seven different kinds of fish, varying from fish salad to baked clams to lobster tails. It is part of our Sicilian culture. A tradition my paternal grandmother has taught me from a young age is making rice balls from scratch. She also plays Italian opera music in her house whenever we visit her. I remember being a young girl and going to my grandmother’s house after school, with her teaching me how to cook and singing in Italian. Now that I am living on my own, I use these recipes I remember from my childhood, and if I forget a step or two, my grandmother is only a call away.

            A cultural tradition my parents have made with my immediate family is using Sicilian slang all the time. When I take liquid medicine, my mom will say, “Scuola” which translates to “Drink up.” Another example of this would be during dinner, my father will say “Buon Pranza” which means “a good meal.” His grandmother used to say that phrase, and he passed it on to our family.

            My maternal grandfather, Joseph Campagna, was born in the United States, but traveled back to Sicily at the age of five. While he was there, he spoke fluent Sicilian (slightly different than Italian) before returning back to the states at the age of eighteen. This was something I learned recently when asking my family about our history. Since I knew my grandfather moved here from Italy, I assumed he had been born there. Now that I know he was born here, I understand more why he was so proud to be an American. My mother says he lived a hard life as a boy, working on a farm. He refused to speak Italian in the presence of his children, and would not talk about his life in Italy. It was only after his death that my family traveled to Italy. My paternal great-grandfather, Melchiore Aveni, worked on a boat that traveled all around the world. When the boat reached the United States, he got off with the clothes on his back and the money in his pocket and made a life for himself. This story is one that is very dear to my heart. I often think about the image of my young, handsome great-grandfather starting a new adventure in a new city. Though I know the reality was not that simple, I like to romanticize his story in my head. I never met him, but my father tells me that my tendency to imagine tall tales is a quality I shared with him, which makes me feel more connected to my past.

            My remaining ancestors came to America through the traditional route at the time. They took a boat to Ellis Island, where, like thousands of others, they were processed and accepted into the country. However, the families did not travel all at once. The father would typically go first, find work and in years’ time, send enough money back to Italy to send the rest of the family over. Such was the case with two of my my maternal great-grandparents, Ferdinand Assenza and Rose Montalbano. They were married before they came to America, with my great-grandfather having to leave his wife for 5 years before he could afford to pay for her to come here. However, two of my paternal great-grandparets, Melchiore Aveni and Caterine Bongiovanni, met in America. They both came to this country as young adults, Melchiore alone and Caterine with her family.

            All of my relatives who have traveled to this country eventually became legal citizens of the United States. Though my heritage is important to my family, we are also very proud to be American, and grateful to be living the life we do in this wonderful country. My maternal grandfather would rebuke if anyone called him “Italian.” He was born in America, he served in war, he voted, and he loved this country. My maternal great grandmother lived on Mulberry Street in Manhattan, which is now famous for being the center of the “Little Italy” neighborhood in Manhattan. She eventually made her way to Brooklyn, New York. Her daughter, my grandmother, has lived in the same house in Brooklyn for 80+ years. My paternal great-grandfather (the same one that jumped off the boat) lived in Detroit to work on the railroads. He eventually moved to New York City and met his sweetheart, my nonna, Caterine Bongiovanni.

My religion is a huge part of my culture and my immigration story. The religion from both sides of my family is Roman Catholic. As Roman Catholics, our religion requires a member of the church to be baptized, receive communion, and to be confirmed. If one wants to be eligible to be married in a Roman Catholic Church, both parties must be baptized a Catholic Church. My maternal grandmother, Mary, is extremely religious. She has been a Eucharistic Administer for over twenty years. A Eucharistic Administer is a person who distributes the Body of Christ, the most holy thing a Catholic can receive. She is also a member of her parish’s prayer group. My paternal grandmother is also very religious, and has many Catholic figurines and statuettes throughout her home. She always has a Bible story to tell us to help relate to our struggles, and how God can help us through. Though we freely practice now, my great-grandparents were persecuted for being Catholics in New York City in the early 20^th century. My family remembers the presidency of John F. Kennedy as a wonderful time for Catholics, because people of other religions started to realize that they did not only listen to the Pope as an authority figure, and could be tolerant of all religions.

As a whole, my entire family on both sides relies on our religion to pull us through many struggles. Speaking for myself, I follow the Catholic religion very closely and participate as much as I can. During the Lenten season, which is currently taking place, I refrain from meat on Fridays and I received ashes on Ash Wednesday. Also, all nine of my first cousins on my mother’s side went to Catholic school at some point in their life.

            The name Joseph is an extremely prevalent name in both sides of my family. My paternal great-grandfather and grandfather were both named Joseph, and my maternal grandfather’s name is Joseph. Also, my father’s middle name is Joseph. I have three cousins on my mother’s side named Joseph after my grandfather. I also have an uncle on my father’s side named after his father, Joseph. This is related to the religiousness of my family, as Joseph is a biblical name.

All eight of my great grandparents had to establish themselves when they came to America. Immigrants from Sicily, it was extremely hard for them to make a life for themselves. My great grandmothers were housewives and seamstresses, and my great grandfathers worked in factories and on the railroads. I am proud of my family’s struggles because I feel like they were a part of history, and they paved the way for me to live the life I live today.

            All of my grandparents struggled as well. None of them were college graduates. My maternal grandmother went to secretary school and worked as a secretary in Rockefeller Center for a few years. Then she met my grandfather at Coney Island in Brooklyn, New York. My maternal grandfather enrolled in the army before marrying my grandmother. Upon his return, he didn’t have much income to support a family with, so he decided to open a restaurant with his brother in Connecticut. My grandfather had to support four children and my grandmother had no income because she had to raise their children. My mother has told me the stories of her childhood and how her father worked very hard to give his family a good life. Her father would often be away for days or even weeks on end trying to establish his business. It put a huge stress on the family, especially my grandmother who was alone with four young children. Eventually, my grandfather and his two sons started a cheese distribution company, which still runs today out of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, called Joseph Campagna & Sons. All my grandparents and great grandparents went through their struggles and successes for their children’s happiness. Both of my parents were the first in their families’ to go to college, something I am extremely proud of. They have stressed the importance of an education to me throughout my entire life, and have encouraged me to follow my dreams.

            I relate many of my characteristics to my cultural identity. My family instilled in me at a young age that it was imperative to build a strong work ethic. I feel as though this is because my lineage has consisted of hard workers for many generations. My mother and father also have taught me that nothing will be handed to you in your life and that you are to earn every success you have the pleasure to experience.

I feel as though my love and devotion to my family is related to my culture. Sicilians are known to be loud, boisterous, and have a heavy accent when we talk; but at the end of the day, we always come together as family. I love my family and would do anything to see anyone happy.

“Do you know how hard we worked to get you to this country and give you these opportunities?” These were the words my brother and I have always heard whenever we got bad grades in school or decided not to obey our parents. It was expected that my brother and I displayed a diligent work ethic like my parents developed when they first came to America. My mom and dad both had to work hard in order to break the language barrier and assimilate into the American culture. Since America was known as the land of opportunity, my parents always tried to push me past my limits so that they can be assured that I would have a better life than they had in India.

Throughout the thirty-five years my dad has lived in America, he has worked multiple jobs as a chef, hotel manager, and convenience store owner in order to provide for his family. He was the first in his family to come to America from Vadodara, India even though he was the youngest out of twelve children and he started off by having only $20 to spend each week.

Ten years later, he married my mom in India and brought her to America, however she didn’t know any English and wasn’t ready to assimilate into the American culture. In fact, on her first job interview, she ended up running home in tears because she had not understood any of the words that were exchanged. Eventually she started making friends with people who lived in the same apartment building as her in Elmhurst, Queens, a rather diverse neighborhood. With these new interactions, my mom built up her English vocabulary, went back to college, and moved her way up at her workplace. She started off by checking blood samples as a lab technician and twelve years later, she now inspects the labs (where those lab technicians work) as a lab consultant. She obtained a highly respected job where people from her former job were falling over their own feet to try and impress her.

Before my mom went back to college and my parents bought a four-bedroom house in the suburbs of Queens, they lived in a two-bedroom apartment where my brother and I shared a bunk bed and slept in the same room as our parents. I remember that although my parents didn’t have much at the time, their lack of money never stopped them from trying to help others. Whenever someone new from my mom’s or dad’s family would come to America, my parents would offer them a place to stay for a few months while they searched for a job and a place of their own. My mom would work double shifts at the hospital to make sure she was making enough money for a comfortable living as well as some extra money for savings.

Although my parents started off with little to nothing, that never stopped them from giving me and my brother the things we wanted. Obviously we weren’t spoiled, but once in a while, we would get toys we had been asking for. The best gift my parents gave me, however, was not the endless supply of toys, but rather the many family vacations we went on. My parents were too poor in India to travel outside the country, but once they started to save up money, vacations became a once or twice a year event where we would go to different states in America as well as different countries, such as England, Italy, Egypt, multiple trips to India, etcetera. This not only transformed me into a more cultured individual, but it also made me become more comfortable embracing my American and Indian identity. It allowed me to broaden my horizons so that I could reach out to people who came from different backgrounds and who had parents come from different countries and religions, an essential skill needed when living in a place as diverse as New York City.

As a first generation American, the immigration stories of my family as well as the cultures my parents have passed down to me have had a great impact on the way I was brought up. I can even say that it has made me the person I am today. Although I have heard about my parent’s hardships when they first came to America ad nauseam, it has taught me to respect my parents more and it has motivated me to work harder to make them proud. I always have an urge to make them happy since they worked so hard to make me happy. My parents’ generosity also has inspired me to always try to help people even if you don’t have a lot to offer. The phrase “a little goes a long way” applies here because my parents helped settle more than a handful of families into America with the little amount of money they had. Lastly, my parents taught me to appreciate the more meaningful things in life instead of being materialistic. Even though they did buy me toys I wanted, once we started going on family vacations, I realized that spending time with the family and exploring a new country is a great experience. I cherished these trips and I would love to travel with my own kids in the future.

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.

 

My immigration story is a unique, often misunderstood one. My parents were born and raised in Guyana (although my father took a brief hiatus in his late-teen years to Suriname, but that is irrelevant), and migrated to the United States in 1991. However, my history of relocation from one place to the next did not begin there. Instead, it began with my great-grandmother (maternal), who moved from Jaipur of Northern India to Essequibo, Guyana as an indentured servant under British rule. When she moved to Guyana, on the farm where she worked, she met my great-grandfather who was also from India (region unknown), and a few years later, they got married and gave birth to my grandfather. Often people do not understand the concept of Indo-Guyanese migration, but it should be noted that this story was shared by many, many of who live in Queens, NY today. Although the migration of my great-grandparents to Guyana was forced, they did not neglect their Indian culture and instead worked, through many generations, to preserve their cultural identity and most notably, religion.

My grandfather, who is the most recent descendant from my North-Indian great-grandmother, grew up in Guyana and did not have the opportunity to pursue much education, due to poverty. However, he worked hard and bought ricefield land, where he cultivated rice and sold within the markets. Years later, he met my maternal grandmother and married her, and continued his business of ricefield-work, while my grandmother remained a housewife. My grandmother and grandfather gave birth to 6 children, my mom being the youngest.

On my father’s side, the history remains unclear. My father was 1 of 7 boys in his family, who was very poor. Due to their economic situation, he was forced to drop out of school at a young age (in elementary school), and take up rice-field work as well (yes, he did work alongside who would be his father-in-law). As I previously, briefly mentioned, my father took a brief hiatus to Suriname to sell agricultural goods, and during that time, his father passed. With his father’s passing, so did the history of his family. Because of this, neither my father nor I were lucky enough to learn about the history of my paternal grandfather’s history.

Despite all of this, my parents grew up in Guyana and practiced, on the daily, Indian and Hindu customs such as, morning prayers in their home’s mandir (temple), cleaning of the house, preparation of fresh meals, worship of their elders, service to their community, cultural shows such as religious depictions and plays, and much more. My paternal grandmother, after the passing of my grandfather, applied for immigration to the U.S. for both herself and her 7 sons. Luckily, their whole family eventually received visas and moved to the U.S. However, shortly after moving, my grandmother was diagnosed with Stage IV ovarian cancer, with only a short time to live. However, having admired my mother from a young age, she asked my father to marry her and bring her to America to build a life. Unfortunately she did not live long enough to witness their marriage, but my father did marry my mother in 1989, and was able to bring her to America in 1991.

From my mother’s point of view, she had little say in this. In the year 1989, she was only 17 years old, and had just graduated high school, but her father did not allow her to go to college. Therefore, her only option was to get married. And so, my parents married at the ages of 17 and 25 (mom and dad, respectively), with the hopes of coming to America for a better life.  Little did they know, this “land of opportunity”, brought just that with the great cost of difficulty.

1991 – My parents getting legally married, nearly 2 years after their Hindu ceremonial wedding.

1991 – My parents signing their legal travel documents.

1991 – My parents posing next to an airplane, coming to America.

My parents moved to America in 1991, as previously mentioned, but after my paternal grandmother’s funeral and their wedding that soon followed, my parents flew here with just $50 in their pocket. After moving in with my dad’s oldest brother, my parents soon realized they had to get jobs to support their living, and so my dad began with 2 jobs – a mechanic by day, Chinese food delivery guy by night, and my mom as a cashier in Stop and Shop during the day, and a cashier at Rainbow at night.  Yes, that’s right, they worked 2 jobs, each. However, getting these jobs were not easy. My parents initially had a hard time finding work, my father with minimal (elementary) education, and my mother with only a high school diploma. But, even when they found work, worries remained, for my mother especially. Not being outgoing (yet) or confident at the age of 19 in an entirely new country, she faced immense discrimination (with her boss forcing her to work long, late shifts) and difficulty in the workplace. However, neither of my parents let their hardship discourage them. They had a goal – to buy a home of their own, to start a family, and they were willing to go any length in order to accomplish this.

After my parents were somewhat settled in America, my mother applied for visas for her parents, which they also received within a few years. After moving here, one by one, my mother sponsored each of her siblings, some coming as early as 1994, with the last of her siblings arriving in 2012. So, at this point, we barely have any family left in Guyana, only a few older relatives, just because they all wanted to chase the American dream.

Although all of this contributes to their immigration narrative, one topic that really piques my interest is that of Indo-Guyanese identity. As previously explained, many Indo-Guyanese people were the result of indentured slavery by the British, where there was forced migration of Indians to Guyana to work on fields of rice and sugar. However, to Indians today, there is a very large stigma that Guyanese people are not the same as Indians. While this stigma applies to Indians from Guyana, Indians are not as quick to label Indians from other countries such as South Africa, U.K., Fiji, Brazil. etc., with the same “you’re not a true Indian” stigma. I find this interesting, because yes, we differ in language and cuisine, because those are both factors that heavily depend on your direct environment, but custom and religion-wise, we are at the same level, if not better. Not to be biased, but the degree of religiosity in Guyanese Hindus compared to Indian Hindus considerably greater, in some instances, but there is not recognition for this. Personally, I know growing up, my identity as an Indian has been denied by many, because my parents were from Guyana. Yet, I continue to eat Indian foods, watch Hindi films, listen to Hindi/similar carnatic music, celebrate all Hindu holidays, and even make a yatra to India every two years to visit the holy sites of India. Although my Hindi may not be up to par, I still consider myself a Hindu. In this way, my immigration experience has been filled with difficulty from Indians themselves, and Americans.

In terms of my immigration experience with Americans, I grew up in a small town in Long Island, called Island Park. Being the one Indian, among 39 white students, in a grade with only 40 kids, my childhood was not easy, to say the least. I was constantly pointed out for not being white, and the events following 9/11 only worsened my experience. I now recall one young man, in particular, who threatened to kill both me and my family for being terrorists. I think that those experiences, always being left out (though children would never admit it was because I was Indian), treated differently, and having to occupy myself that made me who I am today. I am not one to tolerate discrimination, no matter what it is based on. I believe that all people should be respected, and their differences should be appreciated.

In terms of how, overall, their immigration experience affected me, I have never felt more connected to my culture. As I grow, mature, and begin to truly understand the levels of hardship my family endured to make a life in America, and subsequently build a beautiful life for me, I only gain more respect and gratitude for them. I hope to emulate their work ethic, persistence, and strong connection to their roots as I continue my journey as a first-generation American. I don’t regret any decisions I have made in my life, including those where I have chosen my own culture and values over the “American” culture and values. Although I do respect American culture as an American citizen myself, I feel that it is often easy to lose one’s unique cultural identity, the very individual identity that makes up the magnificent American mosaic of culture and diversity, and so I make an effort to hold on to the values and traditions that have been handed down from my great-grandmother to me. In terms of when I am an adult myself, I intend to instill the same Indian pride into my children, while also encouraging them to appreciate their privilege to be an American. Overall, I can say that I deeply value my family’s immigration experience, and I am happy that it brought me to where I am today.