Immigrant Song

I was born in Bhopal, India.  In 1984, Bhopal was the site of the Union Carbide gas leak.  At least 5,000 people died, making it the worst industrial accident in history.  I have always taken a perverse pride in being born in Bhopal, as if by leaving I narrowly averted disaster.  So much of your life is determined by the circumstances of your birth.  My parents and I lived in a modest flat, a tidy house with a small yard.  My father was an electrical engineer.  I remember waiting for him when he came from work so I could ride on his scooter.  Since we were too poor to have domestic help, my mother spent time all her time cooking, cleaning, and doing the washing by hand.  I was toilet trained at eight months, before I could walk, to cut back on the diaper burden.

My life in Bhopal was book-ended by trips to extended family.  I was the eldest daughter of the eldest son of the eldest son, a position of great privilege.  During my early years, I was doted on by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and servants.  I thought myself the center of the universe, possessing all-encompassing power and unconditional love.  My paternal grandfather was a devoted gardener.  I ran amok in the vast gardens of the compounds, climbing guava trees, eating mangoes, chasing chickens and dogs.  The maternal compound involved roaming around a massive stone edifice, a building full of art and surrounded by exuberant bougainvillea.  This was my young life.

My first memory of America was the International Arrivals terminal at JFK.  I was four years old, clutching my mother’s hand as we disembarked from the Air India flight.  I don’t remember the Trans-Atlantic flight, which surely must have been a long, strange trip.  I remember the arrival.  I felt very small in the huge hall as I looked up at the balcony lined with international flags.  I remember seeing my father waving from above, and I waved shyly back.

My father had left India ten months earlier, a beneficiary of the Hart-Celler Act (aka the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965.)  This radical piece of legislation was proposed during the Kennedy era and passed during the Johnson administration.  The Act abolished the national origins quota system, opening immigration to non-European nationals.  Priority was given to those from countries affected by war and civil strife (e.g. Cambodia and Vietnam in the 1970s).  The Act also gave preference to certain in-demand professions such as scientists, engineers, and physicians.  Many Asian Americans can trace their roots to the immigration that occurred during this time.  While this migration led to a brain drain in much of Asia, it led to great scientific and technological advancement for the US.

My father had long dreamed of coming to America.  His application process had been expedited by his grandfather, who gave him money surreptitiously and helped him take out a government loan with family property as collateral.  My father was issued a green card on his arrival in New York City.  This card gave him permanent residency in America.  He quickly found an engineering job at American Electric Power on Staten Island.  He had a view of the Hudson River as he worked 10 hour days (with mandatory overtime.)  He rented an apartment in Flushing, Queens.  He and a friend bought a used Impala from the landlord, and my father paid an additional $15 a month in parking fees to the same landlord.  He became part of a community of recently immigrated young Indian engineers.  My father tells stories of their efforts to adapt to this strange country, such as when they tried to boil a turkey on Thanksgiving.  I think their first Thanksgiving meal consisted mostly of beer.

My father is not a foodie, and he lived on white bread and American cheese.  In his first month in America, he developed a boil on his neck.  As he had neither the time off to make a doctor’s appointment nor the health insurance to pay for it, my father used homeopathic remedies which healed the boil.  Thus began his lifelong love affair with homeopathy. My father considers himself the original “Dr. Singh.”  He is nothing if not a frugal man, and he quickly saved enough money to bring my mother and me to the States.  He was first in line at the Indian embassy at 2:00 a.m. so that he could apply for our visas before heading to work.

My mother and I arrived in December.  When you are an immigrant, there is the life before and the life after the move.  And everything is different between the two: the language, the food, the weather, the customs, the people.  Many writers have written about this sense of disorientation and displacement.  Jhumpa Lahiri describes the Indian immigrant experience in her work (see “The Third and Final Continent” from Interpreter of Maladies.)  Her images are poignant—the sari dragging in the snow, the loneliness of young wives separated from their families, the small Hindu deities in home shrines.  These are images I remember from my own life.

In India, there had been two seasons: the summer (dry heat) and the monsoon (wet heat.)  Snow came as a shock.  In America, I always felt cold despite the boots and a winter coat.  We lived in an apartment on Stanford Avenue in Queens, surrounded by concrete and crowds.  There were no expansive gardens and orchards to run around in.

I have a few other visceral memories of my early American life.  I got the mumps shortly after we arrived.  There were no vaccines in India, and my parents had not known to get them in the US.  I can still feel the pain of the swollen glands as I cried in my mother’s lap, holding my head in my hands.  I remember a boy sitting next to me in the cafeteria eating salami and blowing his breath in my face.  I remember getting lost in Rockefeller Center when my father took me to see the Rockettes.  I remember seeing my father only on weekends, as during the week as he would leave for work before I woke up, and he came home after I was asleep.  I remember the strangeness of not seeing my extended family.  I remember making toast and tea for my nauseated mother when she was pregnant with my sister.  I remember her silent sadness which I could neither understand nor erase.

Even in the culturally diverse neighborhood of Queens, I was a stranger in a strange land.  I was not black; I was not white.  My mother tells a story of us passing a group of people and my asking, “Are they laughing because we are Indian?”  I was baffled by American behavior and language.  One time in kindergarten we were told to line up.  I stood behind a girl wearing a halter top.  I was fascinated by this outfit that exposed her bony shoulder blades.  I tapped her scapula and asked why we were standing in line.  “Assembly,” she replied curtly.  “Oh,” was my response.  “You don’t even know what assembly is,” she said as she whipped back around.  She was right.  I fought back the hot tears of shame.  I would ask about that word when I got home.  And every other word I didn’t understand.  There would be many strange words in this language: galoshes, catechism, auditorium, smock.

As I grew up I recognized that despite being educated in English medium schools, my parents retained their accents.  They were not always understood by native speakers.  I remember my mother asking the school for the lunch “me-nu” or my father asking for a “fill-up” at the gas station, their requests being met by baffled stares.  I could understand my parents, why couldn’t other people?  I was fortunate that both my parents were literate in English.  My mother read to me.  I watched hours of Sesame Street and soap operas.  I had access books at home, from my precious Little Golden Books to the Big Book of Science.  I had learned to read and write in Hindi before I came to America, and I quickly became proficient in English.

In first grade, we were required to bring books to read in class.  I always had a book with me but there was a young boy who was usually empty-handed.  I can still see Louis with his big brown eyes and an open, pleasing face.  In retrospect, I suspect his name was Luis.  He didn’t speak English, and he was scolded daily by the teacher for not bringing a book.  One reading period I saw him pull a book out of his backpack.  He looked so proud.  The teacher saw him with the book and accused him of stealing it.  I wanted to intervene, to say, “No, that is his book.”  But I didn’t.  And again I feel the hot tears of shame on my face.  I regret that I kept silent.  Perhaps I was shy or afraid or uncomfortable.  That is no excuse, and I have since learned to use my big girl voice to speak up.

I didn’t consciously set out to master the English language.  I just happened to read voraciously, to the exclusion of all other activity.  I would read anything I could find:  magazines and manuals, novels and dictionaries.  My social life revolved around libraries and bookmobiles, great equalizers of public education.  I did well in English classes and had inspiring teachers.  I ultimately majored in English in college and went on to earn a master’s degree in English and comparative literature.  I recognized early that language is power.  And that those with power have a responsibility to advocate for those who are vulnerable.

We moved away from Queens when I was 7, escaping in our Vista Cruiser station wagon to the suburban oasis of Ann Arbor, Michigan.  We lived in Ann Arbor a couple of years before moving to Gaithersburg, Maryland.  We would move back to Ann Arbor a couple of years after that.  I attended five different elementary schools in six years.  Each move was a mini-migration: new teachers, new classmates, new playgrounds.  Naturally introverted, I was forced to be bold.  Fear was a luxury I could not afford.  I needed to make new friends and learn new rituals as I settled into yet another climate.  This adaptability has served me well as I navigate the world.  The frequent displacement also left me with an existential restlessness.  I am perpetually searching for belonging, for community, for home.

These early memories are the micro-traumas of a five-year-old child, told in retrospect by a middle-aged woman.  Every immigrant has a unique story, one which involves saying goodbye to one life and awkwardly embracing another.  My origin story pales in comparisons to the suffering and sacrifice many immigrants have endured.  Life is not fair.  Wealth and health and human rights are unevenly distributed in the world.  The world has always been full of immigrants and refugees, fleeing tyranny, seeking security and health for their families, hoping to live and worship as they please.  We all want the same things.

In addition to the billion Indians in India, there are countless more dispersed around the globe.  This is the Indian diaspora: the IT prodigies on the campuses of Microsoft and Amazon, the manual laborers in the Middle East and Africa, the shop keepers and motel owners, the doctors and the scientists.  When one Indian recognizes another, there is often eye contact and a slight nod.  Perhaps it is the subtle acknowledgment that we share similar struggles, aspirations, and culture.  We have eaten the same food, recognize our music, laugh about Bollywood movies.  Whether it is the Sikh Uber driver who teaches classical Indian music, or the Fijian hospital workers who share their food, or the Mauritian surgeon who wants me to mentor his daughters, we seek connection within this diverse tribe.

Immigrants face a constant struggle between assimilation and preserving their cultural identity.  Some immigrants keep their heads low, work hard, and try to blend in.  They sense that acceptance is tenuous and can easily be taken away.  America has always had a problematic relationship with its settlers.  This country has prospered on the labor of both willing and enslaved immigrants.  American democracy has been built on shaky ground.  The values of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness were meant for a select few.  The Constitution was written for and by white men, when Blacks were property, and women weren't even acknowledged.

The current American president has unequivocally denounced immigrants and refugees as threats to the American way of life.  Every day there are more deportations.  I have started carrying my passport and a copy of my naturalization papers.  Anger and xenophobia have led to an increase in hate crimes against minorities.  Recently a young Indian engineer was killed in Kansas.  He was simply having a drink with another immigrant friend.  He left behind a young wife.  This could have been my parents.  Despite this threat of violence, I refuse to be intimidated or keep my head down.

My father’s success can be attributed not only to his perseverance, but also to his grandfather's support and to a progressive US administration.  Talent alone is insufficient; there must also be opportunity.  I have benefited from internships and scholarships which allowed me to attend boarding school, an Ivy league college, and medical school.  My teachers encouraged me to be better, to think bigger, to overcome barriers.  How else could a girl child born in Bhopal become an orthopedic surgeon?

It remains to be seen what the future holds for the American political system, whether it can survive the current climate of polarization and divisiveness.  Democracy is a fragile thing.  I am slightly heartened by the appropriation of its ideals by the Canadian, Scandinavian, and mon dieu!, perhaps even the French.  So much of your life is determined by the circumstances of your birth.  I am grateful to have been born in the right place, at the right time.