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

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CONTRIBUTOR

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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

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