I am a child of a Chinese immigrant and a Taiwanese immigrant. My mom came to America from China in 1990, in hopes for a better life. She was 26 years old and was the first out of her siblings and parents to come here. She began her life here as a garment factory worker. Three years after my mother arrived, my father arrived here from Taiwan at 24 years old. He came after he was released from the army to reunite with and take care of his father, who was already here. Eventually, he decided to stay in America after learning to cook and worked in a restaurant. My parents met in 1994 when they went to learn English at the same place, got married in 1996, and I, their second child, was born in 1997. Being born and having lived in Brooklyn, I have always defined myself as an Asian-American or Chinese-American, but this term is too general, somewhat insignificant, and unsuccessful in defining who I am. What part of me is the Asian? What part of me is the American? How much of me is the Asian? The American? As the Asian culture in my family and the American culture in my social surroundings meet, merge, and sometimes clash, my personality and decisions slowly shift and change. It isn’t necessarily a good or bad thing, but the two cultures I closely hold to myself is what becomes my identity.

One thing that really represents my dual ethnicity is language. For as long as I remember, I’ve have always been speaking two languages throughout my daily life. Furthermore, I am bidialectal in Chinese. I grew up learning to speak in Cantonese from my parents and relatives around me. Although my family here all speak Cantonese, it is very important to my father that I learn to speak and understand Mandarin, so I could communicate with my relatives back in Taiwan. As a result, I started going to Chinese School since I was four. I remember the principal of the school refusing to accept me as a student at first because I was too young, but due to my mom’s insistence, I was accepted. I worked really hard learning how to read Mandarin and write Chinese characters. Memorizing how to write Chinese characters were the most difficult for me. Chinese characters are far more complex than the English alphabet and unlike Korean characters, where each stroke of the word means a specific letter, each Chinese character meant a specific word. There was no way to decipher each character, and even if there were simpler characters in that word, it didn’t necessarily mean it would sound similar. There were many incidents when I would cry on my mother’s bed the morning of Chinese school because I couldn’t remember how to write all twenty of the new vocabulary words for the test on that day. Even at this point, I am not fluent in Mandarin, nor am I very good at writing Chinese characters, but I always find myself thinking or reading in Mandarin while I’m texting my parents or reading a Chinese article. I’ve come to learn that language is a really important part of my life because it allows me to maneuver through various situations and places.

My mother when she first arrived to America in 1990

Compared to how often I speak Chinese outside of my house now, I used to hate speaking in Chinese in public places. I worked hard to learn to speak in my parents’ native languages, but I was still embarrassed with my culture. Whenever my mom spoke to me in Chinese when we were taking the train or at my school for a parent-teacher conference, I would always reply in English. If she didn’t understand what I was saying, I would get really annoyed with her. I didn’t want to be seen as an immigrant to other people. Eventually I’ve come to terms with speaking Chinese in public. When walking through Chinatown, people would see me differently if I spoke in Chinese. I went into a restaurant to order takeout with my cousin and the workers were actually impressed that we could speak Chinese and use chopsticks. To them, it shows that I didn’t lose my Chinese touch. Being able to use Chinese makes me proud and it sets me apart from the Chinese-Americans who cannot speak Chinese. Without English, I wouldn’t be able to survive living and going to school in America, but without Chinese, I would not be able to communicate with many of my relatives or walk the streets in China or Taiwan with ease. Chinese is especially important to me because it is my daily connection to the Chinese culture. I can not express that I am Chinese in any other way more than using Chinese in my everyday conversations. Although it contrasts with the English that I am expected to be able to speak fluently in America, without Chinese, my identity now would not be complete.

My father when he first arrived to America in 1993

Aside from having to learn to embrace the Chinese language in America, finding my identity in other aspects was difficult for me as I grew up. A choice that always conflicted in my mind was my plans for a career. As I was growing up, I was told by my father that I had to be a doctor, because being a doctor was the only way to be recognized and praised in my family. In Asian culture, females held less authority than males did and I’ve been told many times that I and my sister will always marry out of my family while my brother will marry someone in. Thus, I was determined to make my father proud by doing what he wanted me to do. But, in school, I had been told to do what I wanted to do and to do what makes me happy. So in my mind, I always thought that I wanted to become a doctor because it was what made me happy. Only recently did I realize that being a doctor wasn’t particularly my dream for myself, but rather my father’s dream for me, and I only thought it would make me happy because I knew happiness and praise would come to me after my family was satisfied with my career choice. Now, I have thoughts of being a cosmetic chemist because it’s become my dream for myself. In this case, my American culture had more of an impact in my choices than my Asian culture did. However, I still have second thoughts about it. I constantly worry about me doing something that is generally uncommon because I still want to be the daughter that will make my parents proud. It might take a while, but I think I’ll be able to overcome these negative thoughts in my head and make my parents proud while doing something I love by showing them my determination and my passion that springs from both my American culture and my Chinese culture.

竹 (Bamboo)

Being an Asian born in America, I hear the phrase 竹升 (pronounced jook sing in Cantonese) used many times to describe me. 竹 is the Chinese character for bamboo. Bamboo has hollow compartments and 竹升 is the phrase used to describe the empty space between each compartment. This phrase is used to describe me and other Chinese Americans because we are connected to both Chinese and American culture. Sometimes, my relatives use this phrase to jokingly tease me when I don’t understand certain cultural references, but it’s an accurate phrase used to describe me. My parents came to America and decided that living in America will be better suited for their children. What resulted from that is me, a 竹升, and being that, I am able to connect to and be a part of two different cultures. That’s just who I am and I’m pretty proud of it.

Punjab is a state in the proud nation of India. It is known as a place of history, as the stronghold of the Sikh religion, and as an area with beautiful farmland and some cities. This is the Punjab that has flowed through the blood of my family for generations. This is the Punjab that flows my own veins, but sadly it is growing more and more dilute. It is losing its effect because my family moved here from Punjab in 1992, and I was not born until 1997; I have only ever been to Punjab once, in 2007.

In 1992, my parents decided to move my family—which then consisted of my parents, obviously, my 10-year-old brother, my 8-year-old brother, and my 4-year-old sister—for really only one reason: opportunity. There were many other times when my family could have moved before 1992. For example, in 1984, there was a wave of religious persecution against Sikhs in India, which resulted in the death of one of my maternal uncles. At the time, he was 27-years-old and living alone in the capital of New Delhi. After that trauma, my family could have left, but my family decided to stay. Then, in 1989, my paternal grandfather had passed away. He was and had been the patriarch of the family for over 40 years; this was the end of an era. Again, my family decided to stay until 1992, which was interesting, because there was nothing of significance that year, which was most likely why my parents decided to come at that time.

Another thing that fascinated me about my parents’ decision to come here was their condition in India. When most people think about immigrant stories, they tend to think about people coming from a small village with not much money, that are trying to “strike it big.” However, my family is actually very well off in India. In fact, when my father’s cousins came to visit, I was shocked to find out that they are billionaires—with a “b”—because they own a chain of hotels across India. Then in a wave succession, I found out that my father’s maternal uncle actually offered my father a business deal in the late 1980s, and my father turned it down since he eventually wanted to move to the United States. Today, that business is doing extremely well. Aside from wealth, my parents were also very well educated; my father had the equivalent of an M.B.A., and my mother—who is shown below—had the equivalent of a Ph.D. in History and was a professor for some time. After I had learned all of this, I began to question their decision to move to the United States, because they were doing well in India. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that they were brave for taking a risk, especially one that had more negative consequences than positive ones. This is actually very emblematic of how my parents instilled a belief of working to our fullest potential into my siblings and me.

My mother. ca. 1992

Once my family got over the initial hurdle of moving to the United States, there were a string of many other problems that came to fruition as well. These problems mainly came from my family’s difficulty in assimilating to American culture and traditions. This is because these two cultures are entirely different.

One of the most persistent problems came from our religion. Sikhism is a religion that is commonly not understood amongst Americans. It is usually thought to be a sect of Hinduism or, mostly, Islam, because the main visual cue of Sikhism is the turban, which is adorned by men. The turban can often lead to the misrepresentation of Sikhs as terrorists. In fact, the first person to die from a hate crime after 9/11, was not a Muslim, but a Sikh man in Arizona who wore a turban. The turban—which my father used to wear as shown in the pictures below—is supposed to be a show of faith to the Sikh religion and as a sign of devotion. However, for my father it was a marker for discrimination, and, due to the negative connotation of the turban, he was not able to get a job when my family moved here. He had to cut off his hair.

My father, before he cut his hair. ca. 1992

At first, this hurt him emotionally, but he understood he was doing this to better the lives of his children. However, only my father had cut his hair and my brothers keep their turbans. A picture of the two them, with their turbans, is also below. This fact did not last very long, because they were teased in high school and eventually had to cut their hair too in order to survive the rest of their lives. Then, interestingly, when I was born my parents decided to keep my hair long and have me wear a turban, even though no one else in the family did so. I was able to do this for some time, until my family moved from Queens to Long Island, when I was seven. At that time, the make up New Hyde Park was considerably white, and they did not understand why I wore a turban. This led to a large amount of teasing, which also can be explained by the fact that the year was 2004 and 9/11 was very much still fresh in the mind of Americans, since the “War on Terror” was going into full swing with the invasion of Iraq. Eventually, after few months of bullying and crying, my parents had enough and cut my hair. Due to this, I don’t feel like a true Sikh, because I cannot be identified with my religion. Even when I came to Brooklyn College, people always assumed I was Hindu, Christian, or Muslim, never Sikh. This was the first time that my connection to Punjab was diluted.

My siblings. My brother Shafi (left), my sister Nydia (middle), and my brother Noni (right). ca. 1992

My second realization, that I was losing my connection to Punjab, came to me when I was about 14-years-old. However, before I discuss it, I must explain the background of the story. When my family had moved to New Hyde Park, my English was extremely poor, because my family only spoke to me in Punjabi at home. My teachers consistently said that my parents should speak English with me at home to ensure I spoke and wrote well. In fact, my English was so bad, the principal of my elementary school once called me retarded, because I “did not understand the difference between under and over,” according to my mother. Eventually, my parents and siblings started only speaking to me in English to help me, but over time this really did hurt me since I stopped speaking any Punjabi. I could still understand the language, but I couldn’t speak it properly. Essentially, I couldn’t form proper sentences. So, when I was 14, and in the temple, an elderly lady had started speaking to me in Punjabi. I could understand what she was saying, but I could not respond coherently since I didn’t know what to say in Punjabi. I had to get my brother to help her, and she just had a somewhat disappointed face that was simultaneously annoyed. This was when I understood that I couldn’t speak Punjabi. This was the only other time that I did not feel like I was a true descendent of Punjab. I realized I was exposed to the culture, but I was not a part of the culture.

In my opinion, the two biggest indicators of any culture are language and religion, but I could no longer apply to these categories under Punjab. I’ve been so disconnected to my culture, that in the last few years I have been trying to reconnect. I have been trying to learn Punjabi and by trying to speak it more often. When it comes to religion, I’ve realized that faith is within and does not come from an external show, like the turban. However, I have been thinking about growing my hair out again and wearing a turban. The one thing I’ve noticed is that the more American I’ve become, the less Punjabi I’ve felt. Now, I just have to find a balance between the two.

Immigration is a big change for anyone especially a seven year old. It’s not hard to imagine what goes through her head as she’s sitting on an airplane for the first time, panting and panicking about death, seat belt tightly tied around her waist, and occasionally looking at the beautiful stewardess in awe as they walked back and forth.

My mom is a nurse, she filed to immigrate to the U.S. as a registered nurse in 2003, and got her visa in August of 2004. She flew here by herself, and as soon as she was settled she filed to bring her family which at the time included, my father and I. When I first heard the news, I was so excited. It was as if I could leave my life that I had built up in Kerala and start anew. Mainly because, my primary school teacher always used to hit me, and now I was saved from the ridicule of my fellow classmates. I was also glad to leave behind a love affair I had started with a boy in my school, who always used to bother me even after I broke up with him…TWICE! At the same time, there was something about Kerala that I was going to miss. The bright green patty fields, the smell of the rich soil, the coolness of the monsoon rain, the fish that tickle your feet when you stand in the canal, the butterflies that flutter away as try to catch them, and so many more. How can I leave these behind? At the age of seven, I was forced to make one of the biggest decisions I was yet to make. It was very difficult for me because there was so many people that I knew as well, my grandparents, neighbors, cousins, relatives etc. They were all very close to my heart. I was about to go to a country where I was going to be alone. But, the truth was that I had no choice other than to accept what my parents had decided.

My cousin (left), grandfather (back), and I
-Kerala, 2002

My first grade class, teacher and principle
-Kerala, 2003

I still remember the night we were leaving. I was packing my handbag, and my grandfather came into my room, and kissed me on the forehead. I started to cry because I knew he wouldn’t be able to function without me. We were best buddies. He handed me something that he had cherished all his life. It was our family Bible given to his father by the Bishop of Antioch. He gave it to me and said three things which I remember so precisely, they were: study hard, come home, and never let go of God. I remember holding the Bible so tightly as I was sitting on the plane and the pilot announced take off. It was the strength and support for my frail body through everything even when I took the first step onto American soil.

The Holy Bible in Malayalam given to me by my grandfather

At the time, my mother worked in Interfaith Medical Hospital, and for convenience we rented an apartment in Brooklyn, New York near Classon Avenue. During my stay, I was so lonely, and couldn’t even even make a friend in my apartment building because no one spoke Malayalam (language of Kerala). But the worst was yet to come. Elementary School…it still gives me shivers. Going to school in Brooklyn was probably one of the biggest cultural shock I have ever experienced. I was the odd man out, and as any other typical immigrant, “fresh off the boat”, I was picked on and bullied for smelling like curry, having oil in my hair, wearing the most unfashionable pieces of clothing, and most of all being the only brown skinned girl amidst white and black skin color. I hated my first few months in America because it gave me some of the worst life experiences. I started to hate myself and forget who I was until then. It was around that time, my family and I started to go to a nearby Lutheran church and it became something I looked forward to every week. There was singing, shouting and something so special about that place to me. Each week I would go there, something would tell me that I could make it, and that I will be okay. To my surprise, school was getting better. I started to do better in my classes and I guess my classmates had grown tired of making fun of me. They were surprisingly a bit more accepting although some jokes never went away. Things were starting to look a lot brighter for me. From then on, religion has played an important role in my life in a way that has influenced my every action.

Growing up in America and keeping close with the culture back home is really difficult because I am surrounded by American culture all the time. One way that I built a bridge or balance both cultures is through taking classical Indian dance classes. It is something that I love to do and at the same time it allows me to remain grounded in my culture. Dancing has given me a whole new language of communication and also a lot of friends who are also in similar circumstances as I am. I don’t think I would have been able to cope with a big change if it wasn’t for dancing because it has shown me that I am not alone and there are people from the same backgrounds as I am. Dancing has allowed me to become part of cultural ritual celebrations that I wouldn’t have normally participated in. For example, a celebration called Onam, which is a festival for the harvest season back home.

My anklets

However, sometimes I detach from my culture as well, mostly when I argue with my parents or behave disrespectfully towards them. I throw these episodes very rarely and they usually occur when I am not allowed to go out with my friends. When I ask, the mood changes and suddenly I am treated like a suspect in a detective movie. The questions include Who? Are they Malayalee (people of Kerala)?, if they are, where in Kerala are they from?, what do their parents do?, and so many more. Usually I hit my breaking point and just walk away from them, give them the silent treatment, or in worse case scenarios yell my heart out and cry but, afterwards I would always feel guilty because there is a constant voice in my head that reminds me of how hard both of them work to feed me and give me the best opportunities. It is quite common in American culture for children to fight with their parents but, in Indian culture parents are equaled to God. Keeping these principles was especially hard for me as an adolescent because it was a hindrance in my social life. When my friends got boyfriends and started to explore different things to find out who they were, I would stay home and study. Although I would get upset, I realized I wouldn’t feel satisfied disobeying my parents or pressuring them to agree to something. This might be because I was rooted in Indian culture but I can never contemplate on hurting my parents. They are my motivation.

I often think how I would have been if I were to stay in India. I am 100% sure that I would be a totally different person. I think coming to America at a young age and growing up here has made me a diverse individual. I can proudly say I am a daughter of both India and America and I am satisfied with my identity.

The story of my family’s immigration narrative starts in a small farming village of about 9,000 people. The name of this beautiful little town full of white houses and some of the best olives in the world: Asira al Shamaliya, Palestine. Asira means “to squeeze” and al Shamaliya means “the north.” The name comes from the fact that Asira is famous in Palestine for its olive oil which is squeezed out of the olives. My family still get fresh tank loads of Asira olive oil exported to us every year because we can’t believe how awful and overpriced the olive oil in America is. “al Shamaliya” comes from the fact that the village is to the north of the much larger city of Nablus. It also differentiates it from the other town similarly called “Asira al Qibiliya”, Qibiliya meaning “the south” because of it southern position to Nablus.

Asira al Shamalaya

Both my parents were born in this small village. My father in 1955 and my mother in 1961. Their lives diverged drastically however. During the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, Israel invaded and occupied the West Bank, which Asira al Shimalaya is located in. Forced out of their homes, my mom and her family became refugees and fled on foot, literally traversing over the Jordan River, to the neighboring country of Jordan where my mom lived the rest of her childhood and teenage life. My father and his family however remained in Asira.

This war had large consequences on my life today. Half of my family now resides in Jordan and the other half still resides in Palestine. As you can imagine, that means a lot of traveling when we visit. And given the tense nature of the region, many difficulties arise. My father’s family and mother’s family were still in touch as everyone from Asira is tightknit and in constant contact. My father visited Jordan often and would many times visit my mother’s family. They then fell in love and married each other. The wedding took place in Asira, Palestine.  My father eventually got a job in Saudi Arabian airlines as a flight attendant and his work gave him the option of being stationed in either London, Paris, Athens, Manila, Bangkok, Bombay, Karachi, Cairo or New York City. When my father told me about this choice, I always found it extremely fascinating. My life was completely formed and shaped by this decision. I could have had a very different life and experience depending on what he chose. I could have been British, French, Greek, Filipino, Thai, Indian, Pakistani, or Egyptian, but my father obviously chose New York City. In my father’s mind, it was the land of opportunity and because American culture is so well permeated around the world, (even in the small village of Asira, American films were everywhere) it seemed the obvious choice. I love to think about what my life would have been had he chosen a different city, but ultimately I’m glad he chose this amazing city.

Parents Wedding

The journey to America is where the item I brought with me to class came into play. The item is is called a misbaha in Arabic. In English it would be synonymous to prayer beads or rosary beads. I brought it because it really is representative of the immigration journey of my family, specifically my mother. The beads belonged to my grandfather and were made in Palestine. When my mother married my father, she subsequently followed him where his work took him and together they moved to New York City. My grandfather gave my mother the prayer beads when she left to America as a token of safe travel and remembrance. She used it on the plane ride to calm her nerves with prayers. She was very nervous to move to a country where she knew no one. My mother has kept the beads ever since her move to America decades ago. The prayer beads itself are used in Islam as an assistance for short prayers, or saying the 99 names of God. There are 33 beads on the misbaha and when used in three cycles, adds up to the 99 names needed. It’s important to me because it’s one of the oldest objects my mother brought with her from Palestine.

Misbaha (Prayer Beads)

When she told me about the story of how she used them to calm herself, its significance automatically became stuck with me. I didn’t appreciate how hard it is to move to a new country that is totally different from your own, so when I heard about her nerves on the plane ride, it finally hit me.

New York City is where my life begins. I was born in Lutheran Hospital, Brooklyn on August 14, 1997. Like many 2^nd generation immigrants, I was raised in a blend of Arab Muslim and American culture. Being an Arab-Muslim in post 9/11 America has been a very difficult experience. In fact, few people know that my birth name was originally Osama, but after 9/11 my parents changed it to Adam, fearing that I would be bullied for sharing the name of the terrorist who brought down the Twin Towers. My name change was a difficult adjustment, but ultimately one I came to accept.

I really do live two lives in a way. At home, my Arabic lifestyle is apparent and my family still refers to me as Osama. Once I leave my house, my name changes and I am Adam in the eyes of the world. It may seem weird, but I respond to both names just as quickly and without any confusion, as if one of my names is just a nickname. Typically, I am well adapted to the blend of cultures I experience, mainly because it’s just so in the norm for New Yorkers to experience and identify as “Something-American.” Because of the open and diverse nature of NYC the feeling of being judged because of my background is less prominent. But there still is undeniable pressures. Racism and xenophobia being one, as the story of my name illustrates, but also trying to fulfill the expectations of both my American and Arab cultures. For example, major life decisions like my career is a constant balance. Arab culture in my experiences loves to propel that the best and only jobs are in medicine, engineering, or law. Trying to balance that with my own interests, which generally lie in history and politics, is a point of contention but one that I am working my way through. Right now I am on the Pre-med track but I do plan on majoring in my interests which either might be Political Science or History, while taking the necessary pre requisites for something in the medical field. It will be tough to balance two very different fields, but ultimately I think it will be rewarding. My older brother faced a similar situation in which my parents pushed him to be a doctor, but after many of passionate, late night arguments, they came to accept his life decisions and now he is getting a P.H.D in Anthropology at Brown University. Ultimately, that is the theme of the story for many immigrants: assimilation and balance. I am no different to that reality than even the earliest of immigrants to New York City.

“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.

“We’re going to America!” my Papa exclaimed as he swerved the car to an abrupt stop, sending a cloud of desert sand into the sky. I didn’t realize it then, but that moment would turn out to be the single biggest thing to ever happen to me and my family. My sister and I sat grudgingly in front of the large wooden sign that read Indian School Al-Seeb, and refused take part in his excitement. My anger subsided within a matter of minutes after seeing the trunk filled with giant bags of chips, chocolates, juices and all my favorite sugar filled junk. Anticipating our displeasure at his repetitive lateness, he had made a pit stop at City Centre, the grand mall in Oman where we had spent so many weekends shopping in. The day proceeded with celebrations and gatherings as my mummy returned from her shift at Sultan Qaboos University Hospital. Caught up in the festivities and thrill of the moment, I failed to realize that I was about to experience the single biggest thing that would ever happen in my life- coming to America.

My family in Muscat, 1999

Three weeks later, all our goodbyes had been said and our apartment, which we so painstakingly cleaned before moving in, was slowly stripped of all our memories and labor. The couch that my papa and I sat on as we watched the 2002 World Cup was now sitting in a storage room to be given to another family. Our two doves, Silvy and Lovely, were given to the Goan couple on the floor across from us. The brand new basketball that I plead so much for, was given to Jobin from the building below us. Although a lot of things were changing around me, it didn’t feel like anything new was going to happen. I was born in Muscat. I was raised in Muscat. I went to school in Muscat. I knew every single candy and balloon vendor on Al- Hail. I knew I would never run out of film for my bulky antiquated camera, because the Kodak owner near the Shell gas station would always give me more. Who was I going to know in America? What kids would we stay up past 9 pm playing cops and robber with? I didn’t think of all these things at the moment. I was just ready to get on that big plane and make my way to the USA.

One of the few things I knew about Americans was that white kids love cheese. “There’s a lot of cheese in America, right mummy? I’ll start eating cheese too.” Whatever preconceived notion I had of the States, I got from Indian/Arab commercials and TV shows. Wanting to get a head start on being as “American” as I could, I dragged my parents to City Centre in search of the yellow cheese slices, just like I had seen the kids on the commercials eat. I remember taking a few nibbles from the corner of one square and fighting to keep back my sour expression. I hated it. How could American kids eat this? I’ll never like it there, I thought to myself. Only six years old at the time, I started wearing more jeans and shirts like I knew the American kids did. My sister and I protested about wearing the long droopy dresses and skirts that Omani children wore, and decided to go for a more “western look”. My biggest complaint however, was regarding my short boyish haircut. The typical arid weather of the region usually meant that most little girls in Muscat had typical short bobs and styles. I dreaded entering into America looking like a boy. “I’ll just came back home if I don’t like it there”: that thought kept replaying in my head.

My sister and I in our apartment, 2000

As our list of childish demands grew, so did the worries of our hardworking parents. Little did we know of the long hours they worked and their scramble to save up every little penny they could so that we can have a decent life in America. While awaiting the travel paperwork to be completed in Mumbai, we had settled in India with our grandparents for two months. It was always nice spending some time with my ammachi and appacha. My appacha was a man of short stature, but it was hard to miss his protruding belly and toothless smile. As the roosters awoke us early in the morning, he would beckon me over to the patio and make me sit right next to him as we drank our chai. My grandparents never missed an opportunity to tell me about the struggles they had to face growing up. It was from these summers in India that I got to realize where my family came from and developed an early sense of identity.

Both of my parents’ families had grown up with economic troubles, and worked hard to create opportunities for themselves. They, along with my aunts and uncles, earned careers in the business and medical fields and settled all over Dubai and India. My mother had left for Muscat when she was just 22. She worked in Sultan Qaboos Hospital, named after the royal King Qaboos bin Said al Said, before marrying my dad who was working in an accounting firm. Like most South Indians at the time, my parents had an arranged marriage and started their life together in Muscat. Trips to Kerala took place often, and I was brought up well immersed in traditional Malayalee culture. Although our lives as Indians in an Arab nation were comfortable, my parents knew the future would be bleak and opportunities were limited. Arabs were given the ability to be part of the educational system, while foreigners were denied the political and economical rights they deserved even though the nation was built on the backs of Indian and Asian immigrants.  Thus, my mom took her nursing examinations and was given a chance to settle in any country she chose to.  At the time, America was the land of the free, the economic and political capital of the world. It represented many things to people all over the world, but to me it was the nation run by that man with the funny sounding name, and the place where Bin Laden bombed two towers and almost killed my uncle. I had indifferent feelings about America, but I wasn’t in any place to argue about our move. My two months in India flew by in the blink of an eye and before I knew it, we were in New York.

My mom and dad in Sultan Qaboos Hospital (Sultan Qaboos pictured top right), 2001

March 1^st, 2005 was the day we landed in JFK airport. I strutted down the aisles, flaunting my brown kaki pants, the first time I’ve ever worn anything but skirts or dresses. “Pants are for boys”, my mummy used to tell us all the time in Muscat. “So if pants are for boys, why am I wearing them now?”, I remembering asking. She simply responded “things are different here”. And so they would be.

Seeing snow for the first time was so foreign and strange, but somehow so inviting. The white blankets enveloped me, and I was living out my Cinderella fairytale. Not even a week into our arrival, my seven-year old imagination had flung into full spring as I envisioned my entire American future right in front of me. I would be a world famous singer, and all my friends back in Muscat would come to see me in America. These thoughts and dreams quickly vanished as the reality of our immigration set in. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Floral Park, and I attended PS 191Q elementary school. The struggle of not speaking fluent English would haunt my school life, as I faced daily anxiety and fear of speaking in class. One of the most daunting challenges however was the use of a computer, which was completely foreign to me as Arabic schooling didn’t involve technology whatsoever. Furthermore, my “fobby” style of dressing set me apart even more from those around me. To make matters worse, I had the shortest hair, even shorter than some of the boys. All of my visibly obvious differences led to the beginnings of my identity formation.

Hindi class at Indian School Al-Seeb, 2003

Being an immigrant meant that I was more aware of my family history and background than other children. I knew from an early age that I was not the same as kids around me, and that I came from a different country. I knew that I was Indian. I was brown. I had an accent and I just wasn’t white. My Indian background influenced my mannerisms, the way I spoke, the way I acted, and my overall demeanor as a child. I was very reserved and reclusive, afraid to talk to people and form friendships. My sense of culture and identity became a big part of how I viewed myself.  My perception of “not belonging” to American culture would lead me to defend my identity even more. In high school, I developed an even stronger connection to my ethnicity, as the majority of my Long Island school was Asian as well. My outlook on life during my high school years was greatly determined from my Indian background. Being Indian meant not being able to fully devote myself to the beloved American pastimes and cultural norms. One of the biggest American familial events is the Super Bowl, which I never really had a strong connection to because of its insignificance in my culture. Like this, I often felt I had to pick and choose between both cultures. I had a hard time choosing between the American ideals that had slowly ingrained into me, and my Indian values that were a part of me since the beginning. Maneuvering my way through two cultures was a difficult task for me, and remains to be even today.

My ethnicity was of greatest influence to me in my academic life, as I was put more pressure on to study and becoming successful, so I wouldn’t have to struggle like my parents did. Being the products of an immigration experience, my sister and I worked our hardest to make our parents and ourselves proud. She went on to pursues her Physician Assistant career and I too worked hard to make something of myself. I was able to stay focused and determined because I saw first hand, my family’s struggle. Growing up, I had heard stories of how my grandparents went hungry for weeks, just so they could feed their 5 children. I knew how my mummy would walk one hour to and from her high school, and still managed to be number one rank in her grade. I remember waking up and hearing my mother’s prayers and sobs, as she worked nonstop so we could lead a decent life. I remember the sound of my papa’s footsteps as he walked in the house at 2 am, after a long day of work.  Hard work was in our blood, and that would carry with me even as I started my new life in America.

The blessings we have received from our immigration to America are not solely because of our abilities or talents, but we attribute much of our life experiences to the will of God. Coming from traditional South Indian Malayalee background, Protestant Christian beliefs are a big part of our household. The mantra of our lives has been “If it is the will of God, it will happen.” Even now, as we have built our life in America with our own white picket fenced- house, I still hold a very strong connection with my immigrant past. My roots, and my family’s roots are what make me who I am. America is a vessel- an extraordinary one that enables me to pursue my dreams and molds me into the blend of Indian and Western values that I am today. If it wasn’t for my immigration to the United States, I know full well that I would not be as capable or confident in my goals and life outlook as I am today. I would’ve never been able to hone my passion for medicine and global issues with the same level of opportunity that I’ve had in America.  While I hold my Indian traditions and values very close to my heart and consider it a defining factor in the person I am today, I place equal importance to the American values I have formed throughout the past decade of living here. As today marks the 11^th year of us being in America, I’m grateful for an immigration journey that has not suppressed my seven-year old spark and curiosity, but one that has only added fuel to it.

“You won’t survive there if you don’t buy it!”

“But Aunty, do I really need-”

“Do you want to thrive in this new country?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“Then you have your answer.”

Thus, my mom bought a travel-sized coconut grinder in India, and brought it with her to America when she first came here.

Coconut grinders can be found in any kitchen in India, since all of our curries, sambars, and achaar require coconut as a staple ingredient. But my mom, unlike other girls, began to work at an early age with her grandfather in the family’s rubber tree forest, and she never really learned the fine arts of cooking. However, when she got married, my mom had to pack up her quiet, peaceful life in her rural village in India and move to bustling New York City with my dad and his family.

My mom was clueless as to how to prepare for this big move. So when my dad’s aunt told her that a coconut grinder was vital for survival, my mom listened blindly and bought a travel-size one. Along with some clothes and religious relics, the grinder came with my mom on her first trip to the US.

Coconut grinder from aerial view

Luckily the grinder came to good use: since my parents came to Queens, New York, before the emergence of Indian grocery stores (filled with frozen, ready-made coconut shavings), my mom used the grinder to authentically grind up coconuts. I have fond memories of my mom sitting on the kitchen floor working on that contraption with me avidly watching in amusement. Although we don’t use it much anymore, my mom has still kept it for almost 30 years in our basement.  

Like my mom, I would like to keep some cultural traditions and rituals in my everyday lifestyle. However, I already see that this wish is really hard to achieve, because I can already tell that I’ve been ‘whitewashed.’ When my older sisters were growing up, their first language was Malayalam, they grew up eating authentic Indian food and they avidly watched Indian movies. However, my first language was English, I grew up eating processed frozen foods, and I watched Channel 13. The process of assimilation into the American society took a big toll on my family – because my uncles and aunts got more ‘Americanized,’ they in turn, transferred these new values onto the next set of younger children in the family.

But how much of a cultural background you have doesn’t solely depend on when you’re born in your family’s timeline. I believe the area a person grows up in has a big influence in how much of their native culture is retained throughout their life. I grew up in the relatively Indian neighborhood of Bellerose, so everywhere I looked I could see the effects of Indian culture in the area. If I had grown up in a whiter neighborhood, I wouldn’t have even kept the Indian culture that I’ve retained now – I believe the environment (including a child’s school, friends, and neighborhood) play a huge role in the shaping of a person’s cultural identity.

Coconut grinder from side view

A person’s cultural identity grows from a young age. I believe childhood is the perfect time for it to foster and blossom – therefore I would want to instill a sense of cultural pride in my future children. I may sound like a hypocrite since I was never fully immersed in the culture, but I find it sad that some children are just purely American. Having that different cultural aspect to a person’s personality just makes the person a more complex, well-rounded person. And although I would prefer if I married a man from the same place in India (but a first-generation American like me), I would be content being with a man from anywhere – despite the many protests my parents would probably have. Just the opportunity for my future children to broaden their horizons from not one, but two different traditions is very appealing.

A person’s cultural identity is vital to their overall lifestyle and daily living. For my mom, her religious beliefs and cultural traditions remained with her despite the many years assimilating and building a life and family here in New York. Now my mom swears that she kept the coconut grinder because she intends for it to be my dowry when I get married. I’m slightly worried about the veracity of this reasoning but I know for a fact that even some of the most minute details about a person’s life can affect and stick with you forever. For my mom it was the coconut grinder, and although I don’t know what it will be for me yet, I hope I can pass it on to my children in the similar way my mom did.

The year 1985 is significant in the life of my father, Antoun Fallah. The Lebanese Civil War had wrecked havoc in the country from 1975 through 1990. For ten years, my father watched the Maronite Christians of Lebanon suffer in the hands of an influx of Palestinian Muslims, mainly Sunnis. Although Maronite Christians were predominant in the country and its politics, the Islamic forces began to fight relentlessly for the upper hand. My father, an Orthodox Christian, was fortunate to be among those who escaped and arrived to the United States in 1985. He, alongside his parents and two younger brothers, found shelter in their grandfather’s home in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. The grandfather had been living in America since 1974. All three teenage boys attended Fort Hamilton Public High School, worked various jobs, and struggled to master the English language.

The Newly Weds (Yolla and Anton Fallah)

In 1994, my father was ready to find a wife. As a Lebanese man, he wanted a traditional Lebanese wife, so the search would be futile in America. He went to Lebanon and was immediately suggested to meet a family friend’s daughter in a village twenty minutes away. There was no such thing as “dating” so the only way to meet her was to stop by the house for a cup of coffee. He had visited the distant village twice to no avail. Every time he went, he faced a belligerent father and only saw the elder sister, whom had been already engaged. Feeling rather hopeless the third time, he quickly arose from his seat to leave, only to find a beautiful young woman enter the home. Within a week, my father and mother were married as he had to return to the States. Her father did not approve and my mother didn’t know her new husband very well, but she says that he was “handsome” and a pharmacist, which is “better than the window-panel guy” she refused to marry.

Adjusting to life in America was certainly not an easy task. Two aspects that stood out to me were the change of names and the necessity of working multiple jobs. My father had changed his name to be spelt ANTON as people would never pronounce it right and made assumptions about his background. The second son, Toufic, always introduced himself as “Tommy” and the youngest son, Abraham (pronounced Brahim in Arabic), was called “Abe” among friends. One’s name is such a huge part of their identity. The fact that all three brothers became uncomfortable living under the name they had known all their lives shows the impact of societal stress to assimilate into American culture.

The Brothers Upon Arrival (Abraham, Anton, and Toufic Fallah from left to right)

Secondly, multiple incomes were needed to survive. In my father’s situation specifically, he had been employed in jobs ranging from wiping tables at White Castle to assisting in a pharmaceutical office of a hospital and owning his own pharmacy. While working two jobs at once with the income of his father and siblings, it was still hard to make ends meet with debt from college and utility expenses. I was fortunate enough to be born and raised while my father had a stable job. He opened Best Care Pharmacy on 3^rd Avenue in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn in 2002. My mother had to fight with her father to even allow her to attend college. She was sent to a trade school where she studied accounting, but she remained a housewife in America. All three brothers lived with their families in one house in Bay Ridge until the 2000s as the families grew too large to stay and savings accumulated. I never had to work to help my family maintain financial stability as my father had and never had been discouraged from pursuing my career goals as my mother had been.

Although I have not experienced the same hardships as my parents assimilating into American society, I am aware of my bicultural identity. When people I meet in New York ask me where I am from, pertaining to ethnicity, I respond with “Lebanon” without hesitation. Lebanon seems to be an enigma in the Middle East and I pride myself in its beauty and reknowned capital of Beirut. However, I am immediately picked out as the “American” when visiting Lebanon by the way I dress, act, think, and speak Arabic. Realizing that I may not be a perfect fit in either culture, I learned that I can be simultaneously Lebanese and American.

In general, my Lebanese values of family, food, hospitality, manners, and strictness have been an ongoing influence on my American life. My parents always want to meet or know about the families of my friends. If aspects of the family are deemed negative, such as divorced parents or a problematic child, it was always best that our friendship drift. Sunday was always a day exclusively for family. Keeping a close-knit relationship with each member of immediate family and the most distant relatives was very important. A home-cooked traditional Lebanese meal was prepared everyday. This includes appetizers, salads, side dishes, and the main entrée. It could never be just a pot of pasta, and fast food was out of the question. My younger sisters become overwhelmingly excited when we take them to McDonald’s since they rarely eat there. If people come over, snacks or food must be offered and take-out must be paid for. If you are inviting people for dinner, it is important that you prepare the entire event yourself because potluck-style looks lazy on the host. When visiting others, a gift should be bought and a greeting of three kisses on the cheeks is expected.

Strictness was applied to two areas– religious practice and social interaction. We had to pray every time we entered the car and went to church every Sunday. We attend Mass at the Maronite Church of Our Lady of Lebanon on Remsen Street in Downtown Brooklyn, even though we are Greek Orthodox. This particular church has become a place for many Lebanese people to assemble, socialize, and pray. In the social aspect, I was never allowed to have sleepovers like the other kids around me and had an earlier curfew. My mother once caught me talking about my menstrual cycle with my friends and she scolded me about it being very private and shameful to speak of. I was expected not to kiss any boys, let alone date them. As my parents experience the aging of an American child with my older sister and I, they have become more lenient and westernized. However, one recent incident reminds me of how their Lebanese mindset will not disappear.

An argument that occurred in my family started over some ear piercings. My younger sister had gotten her second ear piercing. My older sister had also wanted to get her second ear piercing, but, without telling them, she had gotten a few extra ones. With 5 earnings on one ear and three on the other, she had only managed to get away with it for about 3 hours before my mother noticed. What ensued was the silent treatment and glares from across the room. Suddenly, I was her favorite child since I only had the usual one piercing on each ear. Then, my father came home and there was a lot of lecturing about how, somehow, the earnings will lead to drinking, tattoos, drugs, and endless reckless behavior, while my sister argued it was simply self expression. This is just a classic example of having a teenage daughter to most, but it was almost the end of the world for my parents who would have never seen this behavior in Lebanon. In this particular situation, I agree with my sister that the earrings are essentially harmless; however, our Lebanese upbringing still has an influence on the way we think and handle different situations.