Immigrant

Domestic Violence, Humanity, Immigrant / 10.10.2018

Recently, I shared with a friend that I believe in magic, angels, compassion cures all hate, God speaks to me – regularly and most gently, and unicorns must smell like cotton candy. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t call the police with a 5150 (his Dad’s a former police chief so this term isn’t new to him). He didn’t even question me. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been friends for over 33 years and you’re accepted: 100 percent, authentically, and genuinely loved for who you are. It feels good. It’s scary being us, allowing people into our world to discover...

2 Likes
Growing Up, Immigrant, Self Love, Women / 26.04.2018

Having moved from Bellwood, Illinois to Rialto, a suburb in Southern California, most people would be elated: sunshine almost all year round, palm trees, and a mere one hour drive to some of the most famous places in our country. But at the age of 12, having left what I knew of home behind – including Tanessa, my childhood best friend – I was devastated and like most soon-to-be teenagers spent my days in an emotional abyss because “no one understands me, no one has ever gone through what I am” and a general woe-is-me attitude. One day to Umme’s delight,...

2 Likes
Growing Up, Humanity, Immigrant / 08.03.2018

A large black and white poster of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz (almost) kissing hangs in our office above the computer desk where I do most of my writing and book-keeping for our family and business. The poster harkens back to an advertising campaign that Apple launched in the late 90’s to “Think different”. Besides Ball and Arnaz, Apple had the likes of Amelia Earhart, Jim Henson with Kermit the Frog, Cesar Chavez, Ghandi, as well as others, all visionaries in their field. I Love Lucy premiered in our home in the early 80’s, three decades after premiering on television in...

2 Likes
Education, Growing Up, Immigrant, Women / 22.02.2018

In second grade I loved drawing, especially dinosaurs; reading and writing were also a favorite pastime. That is the last recollection I have of what I enjoyed or loved because I liked it and not because I was trying to please someone, wanting them to love me, like me, or accept me. In elementary school, the stacks of fresh-off-the-printer paper sat in a wire basket in the corner of Mrs. Sharp’s classroom. It was understood that after classwork was completed, the students had access to the library, the special paper, pencils, and crayons to occupy their imaginations while peers finished the...

2 Likes
Growing Up, Humanity, Immigrant / 01.02.2018

The trauma of poverty is real and resonates long after there is money in the account, food in the fridge, clothes on your back, shelter over your head, cars in the garage, and decades have passed. The clothes in the dryer were smeared in one or more places by the cherry red ChapStick which I forgot in my jean pocket. The heap of clothes, which smelled like laundry detergent, cherry ChapStick, and curry (the natural smell of our home) were immediately dropped to the floor as opposed to the awaiting laundry basket. Much like the clothes, I collapsed on our cold,...

4 Likes
Growing Up, Immigrant, Women / 25.01.2018

Black people are exquisitely beautiful – skin ranging in shades of dulce de leche to ebony, hair consistency of coarse curls to naturally soft ringlets, attitudes from salty to sultry, and body types from athletic to curves for days. Is it still a stereotype if it’s done in admiration? Maybe so, but it was the African-American community in the hamlet of Bellwood, Illinois which gave my immigrant family a place to call home, a safe space to open a family business, friendships, and refuge, so it’s no wonder I gravitate towards the black community.   "Is it still a stereotype if it’s...

7 Likes
Immigrant / 24.06.2016

One day I woke up and realized that my dreams no longer contained my native tongue, Urdu, from Pakistan but the language of America- English. When it happened a part of me was lost forever. I was around seven years old. My paternal grandparents, the only grandparents I have ever known, Daada and Daadi migrated from India, their ancestral homeland to Pakistan in 1947. In 1979, during political turmoil and within a corrupt country, Daada and Daadi decided it was time to migrate again but this time to Umrica. As immigrants, refugees, and dreamers there is much we are willing to sacrifice...

2 Likes