One. Two. Three.
I closed my eyes as each number
echoed in my head and my anxi-
ety grew. I focused on my internal
counting, hoping to prevent a shut
down. However, it couldn’t mask
the sound of my family circling
around me as they spoke about a
deportation in our local Mexican
store. I shielded myself from real-
ity, forcing my warm hands over
each ear. Individually, my toes
curled on the staircase’s steps as
my body formed into a ball, clench-
ing every muscle.
“Tengan cuidado cuando vayan
al supermercado. Están depor-
tando a varios Hispanos,” someone
had said.
Tears streamed down my face
when I heard the word “deport-
ación.” I was 8. I didn’t understand
the true meaning of the word. All
I knew was that deportation was
our enemy, and we needed to run
from it whenever it approached.
From then on, I lived with a
constant feeling of anxiety. Each
moment felt like a ticking time
bomb, the threat of deportation
looming over my family’s heads. It
could happen any time, anywhere.
As we innocently pushed a shop-
ping cart through the store’s aisles,
my heart raced at the thought of my
mother being snatched away from
us. I could already hear the border
patrol officer’s harsh commands,
tearing my mother’s arms away
from me. I would cry and scream,
but my plea would fall on deaf ears.
I wish things like that only hap-
pened in nightmares, but this was
my reality. The United States has
a history of border patrol ignoring
the anguished cries of little chil-
dren as they’re ripped apart from
their loved ones and thrown into
the unknown. The pain and trau-
ma inflicted on these families is
unimaginable, yet the cycle of cru-
elty and separation persists, like a
never-ending nightmare.
Mass migration into the Unit-
ed States has been a recurring
phenomenon for centuries, but
through the years, obtaining the
ticket to the American Dream
has become increasingly diffi-
cult. Since the 1700’s, laws have
become more stringent, requir-
ing immigrants to reside in the
United States for many years prior
to citizenship eligibility. During
the Great Depression, racist argu-
ments Nativists accused Mexican
immigrants of being responsible
for the economic crash. Most of the
detestation stemmed from Presi-
dent Herbert Hoover’s campaign
with the slogan, “American Jobs
for Real Americans.” Hoover’s
anti-Mexican views called for
the Mexican Repatriation Act in
1929, forcibly deporting close to
400,000-2
million
individuals
with Mexican descent.
History only shows that the
government has made the lives of
immigrants harder. For instance,
Immigration
and
Customs
Enforcement was created after
9/11 to protect the United States
border. After ICE’s formation,
it has become harder for immi-
grants to enter the country with its
advanced security and weapons,
making it easier to be detained
at the border. The fear, however,
doesn’t end at the border. Those
who settle illegally inside the
United States live with the con-
stant fear of ICE deporting them
and separating them from their
families. During his two terms,
President Barack Obama used
ICE to deport about three million
immigrants, the most of any U.S.
president.
My dad was a victim of the vari-
ous anti-immigrant laws imple-
mented in the United States. As
I sat on the staircase, I recalled
the stories he would tell me about
crossing the Mexican border. He
would describe in vivid detail how
he hid in a tiny case inside a vehi-
cle along with a few other people.
They quietly concealed themselves
in the trunk, packing together like
sardines in a can, making sure they
weren’t found by border control.
Sweat dripped down his face from
the lack of airflow. His tongue
wouldn’t carry the English lan-
guage or have financial stability
at first, but the American Dream
kept him hoping. In the process,
these travelers, like my dad, are
given a story. A story they can tell
their kids as they grow old. A story
that will open their children’s
eyes and make them see that suc-
cess is not given once the border
is crossed; rather, it is achieved by
working hard even when the laws
go against you.
Crossing the United States bor-
der as a Mexican immigrant can be
a harrowing experience. The jour-
ney is often filled with treacherous
terrain, scorching heat and an end-
less sea of uncertainty. Every step
taken is a step closer to the dream
of a better life, but also a step closer
to border control. For those who
are caught, the experience can be
traumatizing. They are stripped
of their dignity and treated like
mere objects, herded like cattle
and shoved into cramped and dirty
holding cells. The conditions are
often inhumane, with little access
to basic necessities like food, water
and medical care. Conditions do
not seem to be improving due to
the creation of stronger border
protection with precise train-
ing and expensive equipment. Its
strength has only caused terror in
the minds of these families.
This terror became familiar
to my parents, then gradually
it crawled into me. My parents
moved to the United States in
order to provide a better future
for their children, following the
footsteps of many other immi-
grants. They endure hardship and
work tirelessly to build a new life
in a completely unknown country.
However, this can have a lasting
impact on their children’s mental
health as they feel the pressure to
prove that their parents’ sacrifices
were worth it. Children of immi-
grant parents have been shown to
have double the amount of men-
tal distress in comparison to their
parents.
I remember sitting at the dinner
table, my elbows stuck to the sur-
face like glue, staring at the docu-
ments in front of me, which, in my
mind, appeared to be written in a
foreign language because of the
sophisticated words. However, I
refused to disappoint my parents
with my lack of comprehension, so
I recited the words with a shaky
voice. I felt like the weight of our
world was on my shoulders, and
every mistake I made would cause
the ground to crumble beneath us.
Like many children, I had
dreams of joining theater or play-
ing a sport. However, these dreams
seemed out of reach because my
parents’ priorities were different.
They worked long hours everyday
to bring food to the table every
night. As the oldest child, I strived
to take on more responsibility; I
helped my younger siblings with
their homework or cleaned the
house while my parents were at
work. I knew that they were work-
ing hard to provide for us, but it
still felt like a heavy burden to bear.
Translation, along with selfless-
ly putting dreams on hold, is the
life I continuously lived. It’s the
life that millions of other children
who live in immigrant households
live, creating independence from a
young age. Growing up, these ado-
lescents strive towards stability
that their parents may have lacked,
often showing high signs of anxi-
ety and stress.
Slowly but ever so surely, the
paradise of the American refuge
sold to my young, naïve parents
has crumbled piece by piece. As I
stare at my third anti-depressant
of the day, the lottery that gave
my family our visas feels more
like we were selected for the Hun-
ger Games. On campus, I avoid
my room for weeks to escape the
isolation ––my couch becom-
ing my bed –– but all that I have
accomplished is turning my house
into my prison. Droplets of guilt
trickle down my face, for I do not
enjoy the sacrifice my parents
have made for me. I blame their
decision for traumatizing me with
the perpetual sense of loneliness
lodged within me. In my darkest
moments, I’m flooded with mem-
ories of a much smaller me.
I still see myself hunched over
on a playground bench, sobbing
because I cannot understand
why no one will talk to me, why
I can’t seem to fit in, why I can’t
afford anything anyone else can,
why everyone acts as if I’m dif-
ferent or as if I don’t exist at all. I
still see that crying child silently
pleading for anyone, for even a
teacher, to acknowledge him,
only to see blank stares on white
faces brush past, toward their
next game of handball.
My parents left everything
they had to escape the destitu-
tion of their home country, to try
to give me a chance at a life that
they were robbed of, so I cannot
possibly tell them that the happi-
ness they thought they could give
me was never possible to begin
with –– not in a place where we
didn’t belong –– and certainly
not with the pocket change they
had. Immigrants are an especially
vulnerable group in a medical and
educational system designed to
prioritize wealthy, white bodies
and minds. Not only are immi-
grants three times more likely to
be uninsured, but they are also
15% less likely to have a regu-
lar source of mental health care
than native U.S. citizens. Studies
have found that racial discrimina-
tion experienced in educational
settings is a strong predictor of
depressive
symptoms
among
immigrant children. Additionally,
the overall stress associated with
assimilating into new cultures,
known as acculturation stress,
has been shown to predict depres-
sion and anxiety, especially for
low-income immigrants. I was no
exception to any of these struc-
tural inequalities.
I don’t fault my parents for the
things out of their control, and I
am grateful for the security here
that Sri Lanka could not have
provided, but a tinge of bitter-
ness resides as I daydream of a life
without the traumatic effects of
my childhood isolation.
We immigrated from Sri Lanka
to the United States in 2003, in
the 20th year of a 26-year civil
war. I was just about 11 months
old and my brother was 5 years
old, giving us both the distinction
of being in the “1.5 generation”:
first-generation immigrants that
moved before our teens. Natural-
ly, we were plunged into a world
where no one’s heard of our coun-
try, everyone wants us to go back
and our names butchered by our
teachers became running jokes
amongst our classmates.
My transition to American
culture wasn’t seamless, not by
a long shot, but my brother’s was
especially challenging. He had
developed the ability to speak and
write in Sinhalese at 5, but after
moving he had lost the progress
made in those essential years
of development and was forced
to start learning English from
scratch. At first, I was envious of
how much more proficient he was
at speaking and understanding
our native tongue; I see it now as
the genesis of his otherness.
He was extremely quiet in
school, unable to articulate or
communicate his thoughts with
his peers, so his teachers raised
concerns about the possibility of
a learning disability. A psycholo-
gist tasked with his diagnosis
chalked up his antisocial behavior
to acculturation stress, or as they
put it, “culture shock,” which he
would simply grow out of. As he
got older, it became obvious that
“he’ll grow out of it” really meant
“you’re on your own.” Despite
achieving English fluency, my
brother continued to face dif-
ficulties in social situations and
creating friendships. Without any
assistance from medical profes-
sionals, my parents, especially my
father, were painfully unprepared
to provide support during these
emotionally turbulent times. At
19 years old, my father worked
12-hour shifts in a dangerous
rubber factory to provide for his
family as the eldest son instead of
going to school. Issues of mental
health weren’t a concern in a life
where food was never guaran-
teed, and every day was a chance
to lose his hand to a piece of heavy
machinery. So, it was only until
late into my brother’s adolescence
and through adulthood, that
therapists and doctors attributed
his behavioral issues to a myriad
of conditions: bipolar disorder,
ADHD, depression and anxiety.
These conditions are inseparable
from “culture shock,” for they
manifest and develop in ways spe-
cific to the traumatic experience
of assimilation.
Instead of bringing us togeth-
er, our collective desire to feel
accepted pitted my brother and me
against each other. Hot elemen-
tary school summers were full of
flared tempers, punches thrown
and tears sizzling on pavement.
My brother knew exactly how
to push my buttons, much to the
delight and glee of our neighbor-
hood friends. Pent-up anger from
years of shouting in the walls of
the miniature bedroom that we
shared, began to subside when
someone who I had never met,
towering above me, asked in the
school bathroom, “[blank] is your
brother right? You should’ve seen
him today,” followed by laughter. I
didn’t understand what he meant,
but my brother’s dead silence told
me not to ask. And I never did. I
wonder now if that bullying was
just another part of the “culture
shock” that the psychologist had
in mind. It was then that I under-
stood his treatment of me was a
way to gain the approval of our
peers, and a chance for him to
be on the other side of the abuse
handed to him. I have long forgiv-
en him, yet I only wish he could’ve
known then, despite us being five
years apart, we were looking for
the same thing. We just wanted to
feel included, but after my older
brother turned me away, I had no
one left.
Thankfully, as I have got-
ten older, my relationship with
my brother and my family has
improved tremendously, some-
thing that I have endless gratitude
for. Years of therapy, medica-
tion and support from my family
and friends have allowed me to
unpack the isolating events from
which my anxiety and depression
originate. When my family and I
talk now, our conversations are no
longer clouded by American fan-
tasies of grandeur and we speak
fondly of the possibility of going
to Sri Lanka, even for just a little
while. I write this article at peace
because I know that the isolation
I experienced was not deserved,
and those vestigial feelings of
loneliness are not my reality when
I come home and I am with people
I love.
Still, while being in yet another
educational setting where diver-
sity is grossly insufficient, that
alienation continues to pervade
my consciousness, as it does for
many of the marginalized stu-
dents on campus. From being the
only brown person in my classes
to trying to connect with peers
at a university where the median
household income is $154,000, the
constant state of déjà vu brings me
to times I so desperately wish to
put behind me. I sit on that same
playground bench when I sit on
the porch of my home, positioned
across the street from frat row.
Hives
I never liked the texture of skin
Too monotonous, too mundane
But now intruders invade
Summoned, necromanced, into
existence
Adding flavoring and intrigue
Adding an elusive
Flash
That tickles my brain
One more itch
Can’t possibly hurt
(like the business kids say
marginal cost)
In return for the
Spark
And stream of serotonin,
It will leave scars
The justification
for Amma’s slap
But for that moment
I’ll risk it.
Why do you wear yourself
down to the bones working,
Toiling deep into the night
For that moment
Why do athletes tear
apart their body
day after day
Why do students
sacrifice years of their lives
You say
there’s a difference,
Those are earned
It may be,
yet,
My hands burn
from when you
ripped earned out of them
My arms scream
as you dangle earned
out of their reach
My head bows
after earned been wrestled away
despite my tireless struggle
So I’ll risk this moment
Quick and Easy
To catch this fleeting feeling
That always seems to run away
Eyes
Has the sky
ever run away?
The clouds sprinting
as fast as little cousins,
as I cover my eyes.
Sitting back,
and meeting the steely
blue glare,
coldly observing
my descent towards
rich brown irises.
Will looking up or down make it
easier?
At the stygian blue,
that demands
I tell the truth.
Is there anything in your pockets.
No! The caramel brown
puddles
that weep for me,
With me.
That hold my gaze with
enough warmth to
incubate my reincarnation.
My hands surf
the wind currents,
as I did in
Martin’s car, where
I‘d finally found
another brother
But the sky
inevitably finds me.
In friendships,
grocery stores, and in lovers.
Is it really all-in
if you only have
two chips
Why didn’t you win?
The only choice
was to lose
You know what—
How Dare You—
How dare you
chant my name,
when you know
I’m going to fail.
How dare you—
castigate.
Make it seem that
I carry the sin.
Now,
Now I understand
why my Brother
dropped from the race,
and swims
in gin,
and turns
and hands off his problems,
inherited by his `
Next-of-kin.
You, on the ground,
Understand,
it will be hard.
There’s nothing like a fall,
Michigan in Color
Wednesday, April 12, 2023 — 7
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
I wouldn’t wish a PWI on my worst enemy
ANONYMOUS MiC
CONTRIBUTOR
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Jane and Jack
KUVIN SATYADEV
MiC Columnist
Kuvin Satyadev/MiC
The complexities of growing up in an immigrant household
JACQUELINE AGUIAR
MiC Columnist
Sian Tian/MiC
Read more at MichiganDaily.com