Child of Immigrants
My grandfather likes to tell the story of how he came to this country. Supposedly, he arrived in New York with an engineering degree, a portfolio, and $8 in his pocket. He stayed with a friend and walked New York, using his degree until he was able to send for his wife and daughter in India. When the family was finally together, they moved everywhere in the U.S., eventually gaining a second child, a son, and both children grew to gain degrees in a land of opportunity. My grandparents were determined to give future generations of their clan less strife.
My father immigrated when he married Ma. He came over with a Neurology degree and they settled in New York. Ma used her law degree to create contracts. Papa worked long hours …show more content…
We’ve been in the South ever since. We were in Houston for a time. From what I remember and from what I was told, the only good thing to come from our time there was my sister. That was the first taste of an immigrant’s struggle I had. A girl told me, at the tender age of 4, that I was going to jail for sitting in her seat. I bonded with the only other person of color in our preschool because no one else wanted to play with us. At the time, I just saw meanness. Now I see that underlying reason. Melanin is scary when not acquired by tanning, I …show more content…
I made it my mental blueprint. I channeled it into everything I tried. I made it an engine and gave it motivation as fuel. I took the hate like it was fire and used it to spur the engine of struggle. I took the things I endured and made it simmer, propelling my mind long after the event faded into the past. I used it and brought it to heel. I have my method of dealing with the struggles America gives me.
Sometimes I wonder if it is worth it. February 28th, I hear of two Indian engineers, two Indian immigrants shot, told to leave a country that promises opportunity. Their children will not see America the same way. Is that the better life the engineers wanted for their children? March 4th, a Sikh man shot in the arm in his driveway. A man in a white mask shouted for him to go back to India. A few years ago, an Indian grandfather who was visiting and did not understand English was shot by a police officer.
Is this the life my parents wanted for my sister and me? Their struggles equating to my generation and my sister’s generation facing more overt racism than before? Was it worth it for my parents to struggle and sacrifice and grind in America just to see us have to confront this
My grandfather likes to tell the story of how he came to this country. Supposedly, he arrived in New York with an engineering degree, a portfolio, and $8 in his pocket. He stayed with a friend and walked New York, using his degree until he was able to send for his wife and daughter in India. When the family was finally together, they moved everywhere in the U.S., eventually gaining a second child, a son, and both children grew to gain degrees in a land of opportunity. My grandparents were determined to give future generations of their clan less strife.
My father immigrated when he married Ma. He came over with a Neurology degree and they settled in New York. Ma used her law degree to create contracts. Papa worked long hours …show more content…
We’ve been in the South ever since. We were in Houston for a time. From what I remember and from what I was told, the only good thing to come from our time there was my sister. That was the first taste of an immigrant’s struggle I had. A girl told me, at the tender age of 4, that I was going to jail for sitting in her seat. I bonded with the only other person of color in our preschool because no one else wanted to play with us. At the time, I just saw meanness. Now I see that underlying reason. Melanin is scary when not acquired by tanning, I …show more content…
I made it my mental blueprint. I channeled it into everything I tried. I made it an engine and gave it motivation as fuel. I took the hate like it was fire and used it to spur the engine of struggle. I took the things I endured and made it simmer, propelling my mind long after the event faded into the past. I used it and brought it to heel. I have my method of dealing with the struggles America gives me.
Sometimes I wonder if it is worth it. February 28th, I hear of two Indian engineers, two Indian immigrants shot, told to leave a country that promises opportunity. Their children will not see America the same way. Is that the better life the engineers wanted for their children? March 4th, a Sikh man shot in the arm in his driveway. A man in a white mask shouted for him to go back to India. A few years ago, an Indian grandfather who was visiting and did not understand English was shot by a police officer.
Is this the life my parents wanted for my sister and me? Their struggles equating to my generation and my sister’s generation facing more overt racism than before? Was it worth it for my parents to struggle and sacrifice and grind in America just to see us have to confront this