I have gray hair on my head. The wrinkles on my face show the years I have on me. I have been called several things in my life, wife, mother, daughter, sister, teacher and bitch. I was in my early 50’s and had been in America for few years at this point. I was living in Oakland, California with my four daughters. I did not drive a car so the only way I could go anywhere was by taking the bus. I took the bus every time I had to go somewhere. I was getting off the bus with several other people when I saw a child coming close to our bus. I had four children of my own. I touched the child’s head to steer her in the other direction. I was a mother and I would hope someone would steer my child if they were coming close to the bus. The child’s mother did not see it that way. She charged at me and started yelling at me, “Bitch, stop touching my child”. I was shocked because back in Afghanistan and Pakistan every child was like your child and you tried to protect them or guide them. You felt a sense of responsibility for a child, period. I tried to explain to her that I was trying to steer her child away from the bus and did not intend any harm. The mother eventually calmed down and apologized to me. I was in a state of shock for few days after that episode. I never thought at 50+ that I would be called a bitch and would be seen as a threat to a child.
I am an Afghan immigrant in America. When I started high school in America I could barely speak English. There was an Mexican guy in my class who used to tease me a lot. He didn’t like me for some reason. I would complain to the teacher but she couldn’t stop him either. One time I remember I had my hair down and he put some stuff in my hair ( I can’t remember what it was but that stuff was all over my hair. My hair was long and reached my waist). None of the students that were sitting behind me, including the fellow Afghan guy who was sitting behind me, let me know about it. The class finished and my friend who was sitting in front me noticed it. In another instance, he was standing next to this fake blonde beautiful girl and when I passed them and he said “Hi ugly”. I replied back “Hi Puto”. One of the Mexican guys I know taught me Puto which means ugly. So I wanted to tell this jerk Mexican that he’s ugly. But it actually means “fucking”. When I said Hi Puto, he got shocked and turned red and the fake blonde girl was dying of laughter ( she was Mexican too). But that however didn’t stop him from teasing me. After two years in high school, I started wearing a hijab. One day I was talking to my teacher when someone pulled my scarf down from the back. I got so mad and turned around to see who pulled my scarf. The minute I turned around he turned around so I was facing his back. And I slapped him so HARD on his back that he almost fell on the ground. He was scared to even look at me from that day on.
I live in America but I am not an American citizen. I am an immigrant who has for the past few months heard talks from Trump about immigrants and women. I am both but I was hopeful that come November 8th 2016, I would never have to hear of it again beyond the many meme’s that are going to come out after Mr Trump’s defeat. I never for a second believed he could be the face of America. And then it happened. I watched his numbers rise steadily to the slow rise of Hillary Clinton. My worst nightmare was unfolding before my eyes and I couldn’t help but feel disgusted. Did I think Hillary was going to win? I hoped for it but I wasn’t sure because she was a woman. America has always talked about equality but as an electrical engineer in America, I have constantly been reminded that I am a woman in a man’s world. I have constantly been applauded for being smarter than most woman. Do I think it is a complement? Absolutely not! Watching Hillary fall to a man who has demeaned women with his words and actions, and treated them like a piece of meat assured me of how sexist a world we live in. It is not about Republican and Democrat. This election was more than that. It was about the many immigrants who have called America home for years, the women who thought they would finally see someone who looked like them and would represent them. Don’t we as women deserve a person who is us, who represents us? America has made a choice and whether we agree or disagree, it is reality.
I am a software engineer from India. One day I was working in Chennai and the next minute I was standing in front of the US Consulate in Chennai to get my visa for United States of America. I came here late 2000 and in 2001 when my family immigrated to America. We came here as a family a month before the September 11th attacks on New York. I remember that morning my friend called me and asked me to turn on the TV. Initially I thought it was a scene from a movie but when the reality of what was going on struck me, I knew the days ahead for us as immigrants in America were going to be hard. I am from South India (the non turban wearing crowd) and with a last name Mathew, I did not have to deal with any racism. One incident that always stands out happened when one my co workers brought her daughter to work. The little girl was 6-7 years old. She looked at me and said, mommy is he a terrorist. I have a sense of humor so it did not bother me. It was interesting to see how little children associated the bearded, tan look to terrorists.
In 2001, my family and I immigrated to America from India. After a long flight ride of twenty three hours we were excited and nervous as we stood in the visitors line waiting for our turn. We checked our papers a million times. I could feel the tension in the air on our side of the airport while the residents and citizens line had people smiling and talking. As we approached the officer, he stared at us with not a hint of smile on his face. As an immigrant waiting to enter America, I did not feel welcomed at all. I was scared as he turned each paper in our file and scanned it. It was probably ten minutes before he spoke to us, but those ten minutes were probably the longest ten minutes ever. “Welcome to America” he said as he stamped our passports. I was excited to finally make my way into America.
Little did I know the visa that was stamped in my passport would make me an alien. With every immigration document I filed, I became more alien. Somehow between leaving the visitor line to making our home in America I had gone from human to alien. I was given an alien number, and every time I walked through immigration I was nervous as all the sci fi movies played in my head. Would they scan my retina to see if I was really human, or would they draw my blood to see if it was green? Well, it did not happen yet and now that I am an official resident of America, I am no longer an alien. I am in between- something between an alien and a citizen but not quite there yet.
I detest the word alien and wonder what it really means. I guess I could consider it as being called exotic from Planet India or I could be the ET stuck in America trying to phone home.
I am from Ghana, Africa. I lived in Ghana until early 1990’s. Growing up in Ghana was fun but every body and their mamma wanted to come to America. I was no different. I wanted to come here too. I came here initially in 1987 to New Jersey and then we moved here permanently in 1990’s. When we first came here, I was forced to wear a suit for the entire flight ride. It was hot on a long flight ride. I went to school here and was dropped off at school in ninth grade. In Ghana, we had uniforms and there were rules such as no talking even if the teacher wasn’t in class. When the teacher leaves they make someone write down the names of students who talked. My first day in school in America I thought I was going to get beat up because everyone talked in class. I tried to warn them but the kids in my class looked at me crazy. I got teased a lot in school for my accent. When I first came here kids told me you are so dark. In spite of growing up in Ghana, there was a range of skin color and we never thought about it. I was often asked, why did you speak like that. Why don’t you say What’s up? I started saying What’s up but it never came out as smooth as it did when kids here said it.
Long before I was an immigrant traveling to America, I was a young kid who moved from one state to another within India because of a personal situation. India is not only a diverse place, it is also a cultural jigsaw puzzle. North and South India are worlds apart not just in cuisine and language, but also in landscape and history. I knew that having been fed with Indian history throughout my schooling. I was moving between two states with South India and I expected the transition to be an easy one. I was moving from Bangalore, Karnataka to Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu. Bangalore was a diverse metropolitan city moving at the speed of light while Coimbatore was a small town. I was going to continue my seventh grade in Coimbatore. I walked into school in my boy cut hair, mini skirt and top. My attire was completely acceptable in Bangalore but walking into my school campus in Coimbatore, I knew instantly I was dressed inappropriately. This was my first experience with cultural difference. Cultural difference followed me through my four and half years in Tamil Nadu. Everything from the twinge in my English to my short hair was heavily gossiped on. In an all girls Catholic school, I became the latest attraction. In a campus full of long haired girls, I stood out like a sore thumb. The initial years were extremely hard as I tried to retreat into a shell. I refused to participate in activities I used to enjoy prior to the move, and hated being the new girl on campus. With time the novelty of the new short haired girl wore out and I became one among the girls.