Immigrant Tag

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...

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,...

Family, Growing Up, Women / 19.04.2018

Daadi was cooking again. After the last school bell rang and I began to walk home, the air became infused with garlic, ginger, cardamom, cloves, red chili, and the new immigrant stink which penetrated everything within a one block radius of our house. Head hanging down, desperately hoping that no one – especially a friend – would ask, “Where’s that smell coming from?” I quickly walked towards the epicenter of the odor. “Salaam,” I called out to no one in particular and yet everyone upon entering the home. “Samita, ya low [take this],” Daadi presented me with a spoonful of whatever she...

Humanity, Stories / 10.04.2017

Our soul tells a story. Each soul has numerous experiences that make up its journey. Whether that journey is short lived or aged into many lifetimes, it is a journey of moments which make up a story as individual as a fingerprint. According to my Daadi, I was born an “old soul” always gravitating to the elders: their conversations, their laughter, and stories were intoxicating. I couldn’t get enough! Sitting underneath the stars in Pakistan, in the basement of our family home in Chicago, or on the Persian carpet in our living room in Rialto, the stories were endless, the nights...

Family, Growing Up / 21.12.2016

You don’t ever forget your first Star Wars movie. It doesn’t matter what Episode you watched, it leaves a bit of an imprint on you or in my case a lasting impression. Only 10 months earlier had my family immigrated to the United States from Pakistan to a suburb of Chicago called Bellwood. My English was getting better every day but I was still struggling to adjust. As the story is told to me (I’ve tried desperately to block it out but it is true- 100%), it took two grown adults to drag me to school every single day for the...

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...

Growing Up / 03.04.2016

You never forget your first hate crime, especially as the victim. Just like your first day of school, first kiss, or first love the moment is seared into your brain. Moving from Bellwood, Illinois to Rialto, California at the end of 5th grade and start of my 6th grade year was a challenge for our entire family. The harsh winters of Chicago were too much to bear for my aging grandparents, great-aunties, and Puppa, who worked outside at O’Hare Airport. Puppa’s “bones would ache” from the bitter winds that the area was known for; no matter how many layers of...