Showing posts with label home country vs place country of immigration. Show all posts
How is Immigration a Reset Button?
A few years ago, before immigrating, I was ostracized in my old
school, I was called “special” and was teased for my eccentricity, and then I
became the black sheep. All of that because I was raised with foreign beliefs,
something my xenophobic home country has no tolerance for. Luckily, a major
change happened, it opened up a million possibilities, an ongoing story’s new
chapter—immigration.
The chilly winds did not remind me of home; the snowy fields
did not even cause surprise; budding flowers inspire; the hot summer breeze
desired. Coming to Canada made me realize that I should not waste a hefty
privilege by sticking to my old, pre-immigration self. As much as I regret to
say, I don’t miss my past, and having a new life, a new society, peers and
expectations, is a really big change for a young person. However, I’m not
trying to persuade you to relinquish your background, just try to integrate it
into this Western environment.
Possible reasons for leaving your old self behind:
- - People from your country have terrible attitudes towards your new society
- - Afraid of racism and discrimination
- - Your old society’s habits may be harmful, especially to the new environment you’re in now
- - Can’t progress without adopting some Western attitudes
- - And a lot more you can probably think of
Now, I want you to think about a choice. If you
could ever relive the first days after immigration, what would you want?
- - Speak English without a thick accent?
- - Handle culture shock in a better way?
- - Have your family and friends be more Canadian?
- - Be an advocate for your country, being an exemplary immigrant who fares better here?
These are all wishes many of us did not receive as
newcomers. The first weeks were the hardest, but it is also one of the most
memorable, a puzzling era of your life.
Just start changing. Immigration has many positives as well
as negatives.
You will experience negative stereotypes, ultimately causing
you to ignore the underlying causes, then you will not be able to adapt to the
new culture. A few years later, your life plans become awry, your life in the
self-segregating ghetto groups, you lose contact with your family as a bonus
too. This actually happened to a person my family knew, he could not CHANGE
because he was AFRAID. No matter how we look at it, his life got ruined, his
extreme attachment to his long-established beliefs caused his downfall.
While his case was severe, it does not mean it can’t happen
to anyone. His projections to society were pathetic, they just reinforce
negative stereotypes. YES, negative stereotypes are the problems! A black
person who is not a brain-dead athlete, an Oriental who is not a robot
mathlete, Muslims are not brainwashed terrorists, and whites people are not
racists; and a lot more. Society is built by humans, so society should not
force humans its beliefs. Be an individual, not a boring, hollow,
insignificant, ignorant sheep. Start changing for the better now!
To simplify my point, think of an elastic metal spring,
stretch it too much then it breaks, not stretching it means it won’t be of any
use. I like to think of people as metal springs, they need to stretch to have
some use, they become useless and rusty if there is no change after a long
time, changing too much will break the spring and make you an individual, free
from self-stigma if you ever try to do something different in a conformist
environment. A heavy load breaks a spring; a lot of effort can go a long way.
Why try?
Every person has special talents, traits, abilities, potentials…
they just don’t get to use them. Everyone you know has a niche in society, not
everyone can be rich, not everyone can be popular, not everyone can be like
Leonardo DiCaprio. However, you can be as best as you can be, limitless, by
changing into a better, productive person.
"Haters gonna hate cuz I'm doing great" - Anonymous
- Angelo
Home Again
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| Photo by: John Ward |
It was less than eight hours since we arrived in the small town I grew up in. It almost felt funny but I was not allowed to laugh. After years of living abroad, we came back home because my grandmother passed away. And she was lying in a coffin merely five meters away from where I was sitting. Her casket was in the center of the living room, on the same spot where the long couch used to be. It was surrounded by white flowers and white candles and white curtains that only made the soft yellow paint enraged. My cousins were sitting beside her casket. They were talking about their fond memories of her. Perhaps it was the jetlag after eighteen hours of plane ride and another three-hour drive from the city to our small town, or maybe it was the fact that I was away for a long time that made me indifferent of those memories of her that they were reminiscing. Yet, as I looked at my grandmother’s photograph that was sitting on top of her coffin, with her sullen eyes, thin lined lips, furrowed brows and looking more annoyed than usual, the person they were talking about was definitely not the grandmother who, when I was in second grade, told me to punch the boy who called me fat. If she was there, we would have laughed at it together, all while she took a hit on her cigar, coughed and then spat on the nearest, most appropriate spot.
As they all walked down the memory lane, I excused myself and searched for my mom. She was in the room trying to get some sleep. But really, she was crying. I told her I was going to my grandmother’s house, not the one lying inside the coffin, but the one who gave birth to my father. She called the driver and asked him to take me there. The driver and I bonded over a thick blanket of silence. He was probably the same age as my father but he got that serious look on his face that was almost intimidating. He was wearing the same uniform that the drivers before him had, a black khaki pants and a polo shirt. Somehow it made me feel uncomfortable. It had been a long time since I had someone take me to places, let alone call me “ma’am”. He looked on the road ahead of us and I looked just outside the window. As we passed by the elementary school that my brother and I went to, I noticed that the gates and the walls were artistically painted with children’s bright and shiny faces. Before that, it was just red that screamed murder. Few minutes later, we arrived in my grandmother’s house. The driver told me that he would just come back to pick me up. He waited until I reached the front walkway before he reversed and vanished. I walked the rest of the steps leading to the stairs to my grandmother’s front door. Suddenly, I was twelve years old again, transported back in time to where the rest of my childhood was spent.
It was the house that my grandfather did not build. It was made out of cement and gravel and glass and hardwood. It is masculine and feminine all at the same time. The windows did not have curtains, it was always open. The doors, despite its many locks, never seemed to close. The house was naked out of colours. Unlike the house on my other side of the family, with its grandeur, proud, and brandishing features, the house of my father’s side was solid, unassuming and humble. It was both welcoming and intimidating. It was a house of endless contradiction. But mostly, it was the house that my grandmother strengthened.
At the end of the stairs from the front walkway was an ample sized balcony. It was situated with a garden set and pots of plants lined along the balcony’s edge. Those pots of plants had been there for as long as I can remember. The only difference at that moment was that, they no longer carry the exuberance of sunlight’s love and tender care. Also, there were two rocking chairs angled from one another. The frames of both rocking chairs were made out of oak and the only difference between the two was their bodies. One was constructed out of hand-woven rattan while the other one was re-built and re-furbished with bamboo sticks aligned together as support. The latter was etched with a butterfly. I was not quite sure what it signifies. Out of old habits, I opened the door without knocking. It was not locked but my grandmother was nowhere in sight.
Everything was still the same and all was placed at the exact same spot I remembered. I peeked into the glass cabinet underneath the television case. Our photos were still displayed. They were lined up according to age, from the eldest grandchild to the youngest ones. There were nineteen of us and mine was right in the middle. I did not recognize myself though, but it looked too familiar – sullen eyes, thin lined lips, furrowed brows and already annoyed at the early age of three. I looked up from the photos to the wall and a set of eyes looked back at me. It was a picture of Sacred Heart of Jesus covering the entire panel on the wall. He had his one hand over his heart and the other was raised like a student shyly wanting to get the teacher’s attention. He was judging me. I dodged out of the room avoiding another eye contact.
My grandmother was still nowhere to be found, I checked in the first room on the left side of the hallway. The old bed lying in the middle of the room was no longer there. In fact, there was nothing else in that room except for the diplomas hanging on the wall. It was engraved in a wooden frame, like a plaque of appreciation. There were eight of those, one for each child that my grandmother has. I did not check the door across that empty room for I was sure it was the room of my grandmother’s nursemaid and we were never allowed in that room. The last room left was the master’s bedroom, but mostly it was what we called “everyone else’s room” for it was the room where the kids hung out and stayed whenever we were in that house. The room was still the same. The old television was still lying at the foot of the bed. The photo of my grandfather’s parents was hanging on the wall. Beside it was my grandfather in his glorious days. He was wearing his police uniform and stood like the decorated officer that he was. His face was unrecognizable, though. It was faded by time or maybe, I just knew him with his fragments -devoid of emotional connection and familial recognition and no more connected than blood relation. I have accumulated a fair amount of memories from that room. It was the room my cousins and I played wrestling, it was the room where my older cousins shared the stories of their first kiss, it was the room where we had our first drink, it was the room where we all cried, and it was the room where my grandfather died. Just thinking about it made me cringe a little bit. I left the room without looking back. I walked down the hallway to the kitchen but still, my grandmother was nowhere to be found. I have loved my grandmother’s kitchen until I was forced to wash the dishes. My father’s family, despite having nursemaids, were firm believers of putting their children in labour. I was one of their first recruits. The plastic chairs were stacked up against the wall; the old wooden table was still covered with a dilapidated mantle with its design faded through time. I have had countless meals with the entire family on that table. My grandmother had a proper dinner table with a glass surface and hand-carved chairs but it was only used for special guests. Yet, in her household, there was no such thing as guests. As I examined the room, I realized that it had shrunk. I could easily reach the top of the cupboard, turn on the faucet without having to tip-toe and I could reach the window pane in front of the sink without going over the counter. And as soon as I opened the window, I found my grandmother.
She was sitting under the mango tree and was feeding the neighbour’s chickens. I knew fairly well that the chickens belonged to the neighbours because my grandmother spent most of her time in the city. I walked down the staircase and went directly to where she was sitting. She saw me and a smile etched on her face. I stopped on my track and looked at her for the first time after a long time. She was beautiful. She was the same woman who survived the death of her husband and eldest daughter within the span of five months. She was the same woman who fought with her children’s battle against cancer. I hugged her and she hugged me back. I sat beside her and she gave me rice grains to feed the neighbours’ chickens. I looked at her again, her eyes were shining and her lips hid a smile. The lines on her face that aged through time was even more noticeable but the woman that she used to be was still carved on the outlines of her face, on the rough surface of her hands and in the depth of her warm embrace. She was the house that got me strengthened through time.
An hour later, the driver arrived. He said it was time to go home. I looked at the house and to my grandmother and I could not imagine one without the other. The word ‘home’ echoed into my ears and I thought about my grandmother, the one who passed away, and I could not imagine one without the other. I thought about the chapel at the bend of the road, the murdered gates and walls of my elementary school, the photograph on top of her casket, and my cousins with their memories of her, and those white flowers and white candles and white curtains. It was almost funny but I was not allowed to laugh. After all, my home was not there anymore.
- Janine
TED Talks Tuesdays: My Immigration Story
Today’s Ted
Talk Tuesday is about the immigration story of Tan Le. Tan Le’s talk grabbed my
attention because of her puzzle pieces analogy. She compared each of her family
members and her immigration adventures to a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Her
story, she said, is not yet finished; it is a one big puzzle that is still
being put together.
What
captivated me the most from her story was how her mother worked two jobs whilst
getting a college degree. I can personally relate to this. Ever since I moved
here to Canada with my family, my mother has always protected and nurtured us. During
my first few days here, it was like being a child again; I had to rely heavily
on my parents. Looking back, I actually think it was a good thing for it strengthened my bond with my parents.
Going back
to Tan Le’s story, she shared their journey to Australia where they had to hide
in a concealed boat to escape her mother’s cruel
life. Her mother brought poison with her, which they were ready to drink
in case their boat got caught. I cannot
possibly imagine myself having the same courage that she had—the courage of
walking in a thin thread, to be ready to jump off a cliff when the situation
begs it.
Tan Le ended
her story by revealing the last piece of her puzzle. As she stabled her life and finished her law
degree, she realized that she could not get a career in law. She thought that
there had to be another piece. Soon enough, she found it. And that is, the realization that is okay to be
an outsider, a recent arrival, new on the scene. She says that it's even “something to be thankful for” because “being an insider can so
easily mean collapsing the horizons, can so easily mean accepting the
presumptions of your province”. Sometimes, it is better when we are in a strange
place. It gives us the chance to grow, be braver and be smarter.
Favourite quote from the talk: “I have stepped outside my comfort zone enough now to know that, yes,
the world does fall apart, but not in the way that you fear.”
TED Talks Tuesdays: My Escape From North Korea
Today's TED Talk is by Hyeonseo Lee, who was born in North Korea. When she was younger, she thought that her country "was the best in the world". However, when she was 14, there was a period of terrible famine in North Korea. To survive, she escaped to China to be in company of her distant relatives.
There, her life was put to danger when she was brought by the Chinese police to a station for interrogation. Since North Korean refugees are considered in China as illegal migrants, she was very close to being imprisoned or repatriated. Thankfully, she was able to answer all the questions calmly and was let go. The years that followed were spent covering her real identity from the Chinese officials. After 10 years of doing this, she decided to take another risk by going to Seoul, South Korea.
There, she greatly struggled to adjust with her new life, confessing that she even experienced identity crisis. As she was trying to cope up with her life in Seoul, she received a call saying that the North Korean authorities intercepted the money that she had sent to her family. You won't believe what happened next..
Watch Hyeonseo Lee tell her riveting story about escape that inspires hope, bravery, and persistence:
The Transition From Air-Conditioners to Heaters: A Productive Ramble.
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| Christopher John SSF |
I like change just as much as I like uncomfortable situations, which is to say, a lot. There’s something about the novelty, that extra rush of adrenaline triggering my lizard, that makes me want to seek it out and bathe in its sweat-inducing, blood-pumping, knee-jerking effect. I become the change physically, mentally, and spiritually. Or maybe I’m just an adrenaline junkie who drinks too much coffee, that’s much more probable.
I’ve been in Canada for a bit more than a year now, and alas, I’ve fallen into a monotonous routine birthed by school and my ever-persistent aversion to homework. Albeit, my methods of procrastination may not be the most conventional for a teenager. I prefer books to the internet (Twitter and Tumblr are too complex for my simple minded self). I suppose at first, it was just my utter loneliness that drove me to take a shot at finding companionship in books. Soon, it turned into an addiction where I could hardly pull myself away from this fictional world of metaphors and similes. I’m trying to find a balance, now that I actually have some friends.
It’s challenging, making friends in a country that has a culture vastly different than what I’ve known all my life (there’s quite a disparity between watching American T.V and living it). Now, people that know me will attest to the fact that I’m an extrovert that finds pleasure in attention and random conversations with strangers on the skytrain, but I was conflicted; I wanted to “be myself”, but High School turned out to be a runway where “myself” wasn’t good enough. I went through a black clothes, head down, loner phase that I’m in all honesty, rather embarrassed about. I’m not insinuating that people that wear black clothes and don’t have much in the way of company should be embarrassed about it, just that I wasn’t a person that could be satisfied that way. In my defence, it was because I missed India. I missed being semi-popular, and I achingly missed my best friends, (let’s call them Z, P and D for the purpose of this text). Being invisible seemed like a better option than attempting to fit in, with my barely understandable accent (pfft Canadians can’t even pronounce my name right), my accidental use of British English (people look at me weird when I say ‘dustbin’ instead of the Canadian-accepted ‘garbage can’), and a somewhat jet-lagged brain. I also don’t get my fashion sense until the start of my Grade 12 year, though admittedly the few outfits that turned out well were probably those that I ‘borrowed’ from my elder sister.
I’d enter a mall, get assaulted by the sudden, comforting warmth and remember, for the tenth time that day, that I’m in Canada where Heaters beat Air-Conditioners, even in the summers (though disappointingly, I haven’t met an actual Eskimo that lives in an igloo yet). I missed Mumbai’s salty, humid air that had a lingering scent of spices, and more often than not, urine.
But other than these moments where depression and longing would hit me faster than I could say ‘kutta’, I was happy. Living the dream, even! The roads were well-paved and the buildings didn’t have paan stains on every wall. I was surrounded to the point of being swamped by people of all races, from far away countries that spoke a multitude of languages. It was different, fascinating. Vancouver happens to be one of the many multicultural cities where I didn’t stand out like a sore thumb but I was still an individual with a valuable story. So I embarked upon a perilous journey, fraught with dangers of the unknown, personal demons and skeletons in closets. A generally non-judgemental folk (not necessarily including High Schoolers here), allowed me to experiment with clubs, volunteer organisations like Leave Out Violence (LOVE), subjects I liked, and an education system wherein my future did not depend upon the much dreaded End of The Year Final Exams. I explored this new land, while at the same time delving into the depths of my mind, my thoughts about religion and spirituality, my sexuality (I could be something other than heterosexual and that would be okay? Mind blown!), my passion for history, psychology, sociology, and other social sciences, and my music (I went to my first live concert!).
I found ways to express myself positively to the people around me and suddenly, I didn’t feel as socially incapacitated and oppressed as I did in India. I’m not implying that India doesn’t have its glories for me. As cheesy as I may sound, growing up in such a tight knit society that was above the petty grievances of religion and language barriers with an unquestionably peaceful co-existence (SHIKHAR), gave me a well-rounded perspective of society and the relationships we form in it, making me what I am today.
A part of me will probably always be the eight-year old Rhea who eats pani-puri at the roadside stalls every other day (which may or may not be hygienic), and buys 50 paise Coffee Bites by the dozen at Mahavir’s.
I realize that I’ve probably been a little too candid in this emotional purge of words, and that makes me feel vulnerable, so I shall end this rather cathartic rant on a quote from one of my favourite poems:
“I am large, I contain multitudes.” –Walt Whitman, Song of Myself. (Section 51)
- Gargi Parkale (Guest Blogger)
Where I Grew Up
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| (source: www.freehdw.com) |
I grew up in a country full of history,
From the Spanish Era to the Americans,
From Martial Law to People Power.
I grew up in a country filled with passion,
From sports to flag-waving
From one helping hand to
A community.
I grew up in a country
That never loses hope.
From one war to the other,
From one calamity and another,
My country stands still.
We may cry,
We may fall,
You may stick us with dirt,
With trials,
With tragedies,
We will stand up.
And we will continue
To survive.
Because I grew up in a country,
Where there is unity.
Where love, hope and passion,
Are our inspiration.
For we are a strong nation,
That will continue to hold on
No matter what the situation.
- Janine
