There Is Just Us

The only time I ever feel like I really belong somewhere is when I am home with my partner and three kids. “Home” is a word laden with so much meaning, too much, mainly because it has no permanence for me, and because it has multiple interpretations. I don’t have a childhood home where I grew up in to look back on, and at this point I don’t even know if I have a country to fall back on in times when I feel completely disjointed. My heart jumps between oceans and seas, pulled into places that no longer look the same as they do in my brain. People identify me as British from my accent, which despite 31 years living outside of the UK I have not lost, but I’ve always felt as British as I feel French. Nowadays I feel more of a mishmash of everywhere I have been rather than a strong tie to one country, even if it is the country where I was born, and where generations and generations of my family members lived and died.

I moved to New York City in 2005. Before that there was rural England, town England, The Netherlands, city life surrounded by mountains France, a year in Israel, a few months in California, and London. I moved from Streatham, London, to Spanish Harlem in NYC, by way of the Lower East Side. I’ve been in this country for 14 years now, longer than I have lived in any other country. I never asked for French citizenship, even though I am eligible and France was home to me growing up, because it didn’t ever feel necessary. I applied for Canadian citizenship because I could, even though I had never set foot in Canada at the time, and had no ties to the country at all. Canadian citizenship and my multilingual skills gave me temporary status in the US, a status laden with so many restrictions, while my permanent resident application inched through years, decades, of time. Nowadays I am pondering on whether I should apply for US citizenship. Do I want it?

Pondering on it, not because this country feels like home, and not because I have fallen in love with this country, but because I want my US-born children to feel safe. I had a difficult, long, and very depressing immigration process that involved a lot of tears and heartache, and also choices that I may not have made if I actually had had a choice. My children’s father, my partner in life, is also an immigrant, and although he is native to these continents we call America, doesn’t come from Norway, or any new “desirable” country name the current president decides to tweet about this week. I often think about the concept of the “good” immigrant and wonder what you have to “be” to fit into that mold. We probably don’t fit into it, neither of us really wanted to be here, we just ended up in NYC, and fell in love with the city (and very much later with each other once our paths finally crossed). I think about citizenship because for one I am finally eligible to do so, but mainly because I don’t want my children to have to worry about us, or be separated from us, now or ever. I know what it feels like to not be allowed to live in the same country as a parent and siblings, and it’s not something I plan on revisiting, ever.

Is citizenship meant to feel like a transaction rather than actual belonging? My blood is undoubtedly very English and Welsh (and apparently Scottish), but I feel like a mix of England, The Netherlands, France, Israel, NYC, and now California, with a little bit of India thrown in, and a lot of Polish heritage, collected through my mother’s second marriage to a man I called Tatuś for part of my childhood. I love parts of all of the countries I have lived in, but do I belong to any of them? I have no idea.

Living for New York for a large part of my time in the US made it easy to pretend I lived on an island slightly apart from the rest of the country, skipping between relocations of England, France, Mexico and Israel faster than it would take me to walk two blocks on my beloved Lower East Side. Languages were everywhere, it was never too difficult to find a shakshuka that tasted like my uncle’s or a packet of Walker’s crisps, or even a perfect French omelette that reminded me of time spent in late winter on the slopes of a mountain in the Alps. I spoke French as much as I spoke English and while I still felt out of place in certain parts of my life, I was able to rectify that by quickly running to Orchard St. Of course I missed so many things from all of my different homes, but NYC made it easier to consolidate all of them together under one roof. That was the beauty of the city for me: I could be at home with parts of my multiple homes and feel like I belonged for a while.

Belonging... Is that not something that we all crave somehow? The need to belong with someone, to belong somewhere? For so many years I prided myself with the statement that I never belonged anywhere except NYC (or the Arava desert, or Grenoble, or Empingham, or Paris, depending on my mood). I would however still be plagued with days, weeks, of deep yearnings for home, a home that didn’t exist anymore. But I belonged on the street I worked, and I belonged amidst my ragtag group of friends from all over the world. I didn’t think I craved that sense of belonging until I actually came close to feeling like I belonged somewhere.

NYC was in no shape or form a bubble. Not for us immigrants anyway. For me it did often feel like I was hovering between the US and Europe, but I was fully aware of what was going on in the world, in the country. I always have been. It felt safer somehow, you could disappear into the streets and be swallowed up by the city’s protective arms. The only airport where I never had problems in when coming back from abroad was JFK. Every other border control has been a story I would euphemize to those around me because I was embarrassed, upset at letting myself be treated like that. Niagara Falls and Phoenix were the worst. Border control agents are obviously trained to diminish you as a person, reduce you to tears, to saying things in a tone of submission despite your intents to remain stoic and strong, and to make you feel guilty even though you are not. Guilty of what? Wanting to go “home”? In the end you really start to wonder why you are fighting to be there so hard: is it worth it?   

My own personal answer to that is that it was, because I met my partner, another immigrant but from a very different part of the world, and we have three amazing children together. We have made our own home together, here. Neither of us feel at home anywhere anymore, after years of living in places we never quite imagined ourselves living, but together we are home. Our children are growing up American, and Mexican, and Native American, and English, and French…  Isn’t that what America is anyway? We already make the US great, no need for an orange-faced despot to tell us the opposite.

We haven’t lived in NYC for a while now, and it’s harder for both of us to find the same sense of belonging in our current city. But still, it’s “home” for now. We still don’t know where to find fresh tamales first thing in the morning, and I have given up on finding HP Sauce anywhere accessible, or a proper pain au chocolat, but they are just minor inconveniences, aren’t they? I miss the sense of family that we had in NYC, the sense of community, and I doubt we will ever find the same here. But our “home” in NYC has changed, moved on, and evolved too. As you can see, home really does not have permanence for me, except when it comes to my family.

And belonging? It’s a fleeting sense. I feel it during certain marches and rallies, surrounded by other people who I know have a similar sense of floating here and there, digging in roots in a new place. It’s a feeling that starts in my stomach and rises, ending in spontaneous tears as my voice becomes one with other voices. But then we disperse, and that feeling is gone. It pops back up again here and there, a smell, a voice, a thought. It never will be a permanent feeling, but always a surprising one. Oh wait, I belong here in this moment!

There is nothing wrong with never quite feeling at home, never quite belonging to a place. As human beings our nature is to keep moving, to explore, to find each other. Borders are arbitrary and unnatural, barricades are really just a last ditch stand against our nomadic drive. There is no “other”, there is just us.  

Your Visa Is Denied

I went to Niagara Falls once. I actually saw those amazing waterfalls from the Canadian side: water crashing down the side of a mountain, the spray more a steam, soaking you, like heavy condensation. And the noise! I wonder if that noise just becomes part of the background after a while.

We drove up to Canada in early June 2006, it must have been June 1st as my TN visa expired on the 3rd. 12 years later and June 3rd is still engraved in my memory, an anniversary laced with dread. We stayed at a hotel near the Hard Rock Cafe, having driven up from New York City in the company BMW, loaned to us for the occasion.

We hit a storm about halfway into the 6 hour trip. We had been speeding down the highway, making great time on the empty roads when the rain came down. Vertical sheets of water struck us from all sides, the type of summer storm that comes in with a bang, and leaves as suddenly as it arrives, blue skies in its wake. My friend and manager, who was driving, navigated it like a pro race driver, only the whitened knuckles gripping the steering wheel blew his cover. We still made it to Buffalo in good time despite the Pennsylvania storm hiccup.

We had a laugh, and we saw Niagara Falls. It was an adventure. I just wish I had been able to appreciate it rather than stress out about whether my visa would be renewed the next day or not. Too many experiences marred by an overhead, looming anxiety for something I had no control over. I have to search deep into my memory for the sound of crashing water and the mist rising from everywhere, coating everything is a glistening humidity. But I don’t need anything to remind me of that ball of angst that had taken up residency in my stomach, because it’s still there, it will always be there as long as I live in this country.

The next morning we drove up to border control. I handed my papers over: passport and visa, diplomas and work papers, and the border patrol official sent me to the office and denied my visa. Just like that. I didn’t have an evaluation of my French university diploma in English, not from an INS-certified university in any case. Funnily enough no one had asked for this the year before when I arrived in NYC from the UK. The visa had been issued without that piece of all-important paperwork then. But that was a moot point, I was told that the NYC had made a mistake and that I would not be granted a new visa unless I provided this evaluation.

Denial.

They let me back into the US as there were still two days left on my visa. We decided to move forward, as we were already at the border, found a Kinko’s that had an internet café section, and evaluated the situation. Remember, this was 2006, and we didn’t have smartphones, and it was a Sunday. We had really thought that we could just get this done over the weekend without missing any time at work. I can’t believe how naïve I was. We looked up the best place to get the evaluation done in the nearby vicinity (Toronto University was our only choice), and after a few phone calls I purchased an $800 flight from Rochester NY to Toronto (literally an across the border hop), booked a hotel room, and printed out a map of where I needed to go the next day to get that important piece of paper. And then I was on my own.

I was so lucky I had recently been approved a line of credit, because if I hadn’t had that extra cash there is no way in the world that I would have been able to afford any of that. My yearly salary was $34,000, and I lived in NYC. I was lucky to have a few dollars left at the end of the month, let alone $800 to fork out on a 30 minute flight.

Coming into Canada was a breath of fresh air, the passport control manned by smiling individuals who said “welcome home”. Maybe I should have just stayed in Toronto. I remember it as colorful, warm, like a smaller version of NYC.

I ate at the hotel restaurant, alone, too nervous to read or write, longing for a drink, but replacing it with a packet of cigarettes instead. I needed to keep a clear head. I had an early night, stomach in my heart. In the morning I took a bus to the university, and paid $320 to fast track my evaluation, begging them to do it within a few hours rather than a day or two. There was no guarantee I was going to make my flight back to the US later that day, no guarantee they would be able to find the time to do it.

I drank coffee in a little cafe, en terrasse, unable to enjoy my second time in Canada in two days, a country of which I am a citizen thanks to my father, but have to this day only visited three times. That day luck was on my side as I received a phone call a few hours later, picked up my evaluation, and headed back to the airport with my heart pounding in my chest.

When you fly to the US from Canada border control is in the airport before you board the airplane. I was practically waved through, new visa in hand, although the weekend had cost me well over a thousand dollars... My manager and friend, the one who had accompanied me initially, fought for me with the company and managed to get them to reimburse half of the flight but they honestly should have paid for the whole thing. The visa I was on was a TN visa, a temporary visa available to Canadians and Mexicans who do jobs that an American can’t. So for example, as someone who speaks multiple languages fluently my company could have written up a really good job description of why I was providing necessary work that someone else couldn’t do. But no, instead they had my job title down as something they deemed to be technical work only I could perform. A job title that had nothing to do with what I actually did do. Luckily for me no one asked me about my job that time, they just stamped the visa and let me through. My visa was denied the day before, and on the following day I was waved through, safe for another year… Nothing really made any sense at that point, but it didn’t really matter.

Being on a TN visa at that time required that I leave and come back once a year to renew my visa. The company I worked for hired many non US citizens, which is pretty normal for that industry. This meant that they had a set quota of H1B visas a year that they could request and if they could get away with another type of visa that’s what they did. With my Canadian citizenship and the fact that my mother was already sponsoring me for a green card some person in HR assumed a TN would be fine. I don’t blame the immigration officials for what happened that time around, they were only doing their job. I do blame my company for not providing me with the correct tools to renew my visa correctly. If you hire someone from abroad you do your best to ensure they can renew their visa properly. We aren’t talking about a small agency here either. I still remember the nightmares I had for years running up to June 3rd, wondering if I would have to stay in Canada and work from the Toronto office, have my best friends pack up my apartment, break my lease, look after my cat...

When your visa is temporary so is your life. How can you contemplate things like marriage and children when you don’t even know if you will be allowed back to your now home in a few months? How does it feel when the company you have been working 12-18 hour days for turns its back on you because they can’t be bothered to deal with something like getting you a more permanent immigration solution? You manage million dollar accounts but they can’t even foot an $800 flight bill? It’s funny because at the time I was annoyed, frustrated, and upset, but I just assumed that this is how it had to be. I was lucky to be in the US, lucky to finally be able to live in the same country as my immediate family. With hindsight I can see just how messed up it was. If a large corporation can’t navigate the immigration process correctly, then how can you expect the everyday individual to do so?

The following year I bought my own return ticket to Toronto, making sure I did it a few days before June 3rd, just in case. I stayed in a hotel by the airport, worked in my room on the Monday and went back to catch my flight on the Tuesday.

There was no waving through this time. The official sat me down in his office and left me for 30 minutes, and came back and sat there, staring at my documents and then at me. He had me explain in detail what type of technical manuals I wrote and asked me to provide technical words that he wouldn’t know. My brain felt like it had melted, zapped by anxiety, and I bumbled my way through a lame example involving a how to install a toilet manual. Even now I cringe when I remember, feeling 1 foot high beneath the gaze of this man, lying through my teeth, knowing that my luck had most likely run out. It hadn’t, I was finally let through to board my flight back home. On my third renewal I was told I needed to start thinking of a more permanent status, and by that point my nerves were frayed anyway. I couldn’t do it anymore. Miraculously my company had decided to file for an H1B as I suppose I had finally proven my worth, but the following year the TN specifications changed anyway, it became a 3 year visa and was renewed by the company attorney with USCIS without me having to leave the country.

When I finally left the job in 2011, completely burnt out, it also meant that I no longer had the right to be in the country. Six years on and I was still just temporary. I stayed because I didn’t want to leave, but at this point I wasn’t even temporary anymore, I was residing in the country without legal paperwork. By that point I didn’t even care anymore, my green card application seemed to still be years off and it just felt easier to blend into the shadows and live my life that way.

The more I write about immigration, the more I remember events that I let myself pass away as “normal” or “just part of the process”, when they shouldn’t have been. I have started keeping tally of certain numbers as I remember them. There may of course be moments that I have forgotten over the years too.

• Visas denied: 2 (one tourist visa on the grounds that I had too many ties – family – in the US, and one TN)
• Times I have been told I would be deported by officials: 4
• Amount of money spent dealing with immigration processes: thousands, both for me and for my mother
• Times I have been told I am banned from re-entry for a year: 1
• Amount of tax paid in the US: thousands and thousands of dollars (including the time when I didn’t have a visa or green card)
• Times I have been yelled at by officials until I cried: 5 (that I vividly remember, it could be more)
• Times I have been sent for secondary interrogation on entering the country: more than 20
• Times I have been threatened with the immigration judge: 2

It drives me mad when people sit around talking about the “right” and the “wrong” way to do things. There are no “right” or “wrong” ways when it comes to dealing with the US immigration system. The company I worked for had no issues fudging the truth to avoid having to do the paperwork for a more permanent working visa for me, the system was broken a long time ago, and it’s just getting worse and worse today. I suppose I could have paid someone to marry me, or married a friend, like so many other Europeans I know have done, but I was so afraid of adding even more attention to my immigration case and being denied. And if I married I lost my mother's sponsorship too. I was stuck.

While this administration and the media focus their attention and rabid rage on the poor, the refugee, the asylum seeker, and the person who is simply looking for a better life, instead of focusing on real immigration reform that everyone will benefit from, the system will remain completely broken. There ARE ways of fixing it, but it’s clear that those in power have no intention of actually doing that.

More of my Immigration Stories can be found here.

Immigration Stories: Female Janitors say ¡Ya Basta!

Over the past few months I have discovered that while California may be the state with the second highest deportation rate in the US (Texas is number one) , there are actually many laws that protect immigrants, documented and undocumented. While undocumented immigrants cannot benefit from state or federal welfare, they can obtain a driving license just like anyone else and it is illegal for a prospective landlord to ask your immigration status when applying for an apartment. The driving license part seems like a no-brainer to me and should be widespread across the US, I think it’s more important for everyone to follow driving rules than it is to flush undocumented immigrants out into the open. It makes me pretty happy to be living in a state that actually tries to protect us with basic human laws.

Anyway, I was at the Capitol last week and my mind was immediately drawn to a tent on the grass and people camping out peacefully beside it. There were signs all around and flyers at our disposal, all with the word “immigrant” clearly visible. Of course I couldn’t help taking a closer look to see what was going on and have to admit that I felt both horrified and so privileged. I was lucky. I came here as an immigrant into a good job, and even when I left said job and lost my visa I still worked and had no problems finding work. I got a SSN the first day I arrived in this country and still have the same one. I haven’t suffered from any more discrimination than your average white female does (meaning not much), and I have never been afraid of the law, or of reporting anything that may have happened to me.

This is not how it is for many female immigrants.

Writing this is actually making my eyes well up with tears. My first jobs as a teen were working in the janitorial industry, cleaning hotel rooms, offices and even a factory, and we were all female employees, often working alone. I never felt under threat, just usually looked down upon. If I had ever felt threatened I had immediate access to the union, the police and to a myriad of laws set up to protect the worker from harassment of any kind. I didn’t live in the US at the time, but in a country where the employee is majorly protected (France). Let’s just say that last week I learned that in the US a huge percentage of female janitorial workers still work for extremely low wages, have no ability to apply for benefits and are often confronted with sexual harassment and rape in the work place. Many janitorial workers are immigrants, and rather than lose their job or expose themselves to a system that may denounce their lack of status they suffer in silence.

While there has been a Justice 4 Janitors movement around for over quarter of a century now, women janitors, and specifically women immigrants, are not protected by any sexual harassment laws in their place of work. Can you imagine going into work every night, fear tying your stomach into knots, wondering if you will get through the night without being raped? Not being able to speak up out of fear of reprisals? When you don’t exist in a system it leaves you completely open to exploitation, whether that be working for much less than the market wage, doing the jobs no one else wants to, working without breaks or being exposed to violence, assault and rape.

On September 12th the SEIU United Service Workers West started a Survivors 5-day fast where women janitors who have suffered in silence over the years fasted in front of the Capitol, requesting Governor Jerry Brown to sign Bill AB 1978. Basically the bill, amongst other issues, pushes for the creation of a registry for janitorial contractors and super importantly, mandates training for both janitorial supervisors and employees on sexual harassment, sexual assault and human trafficking.

I briefly talked to a couple of the volunteers at the tent to find out what was going on and was horrified that first of all I was completely unaware of how entrenched and ongoing these situations are, and second of all by the fact that in this country so many women are still reduced to suffering in silence at the hands of men in their workplace. The women who were fasting last week were only a small number of survivors, the faces of many, many women who are still behind them in the shadows.

On September 15th, four days into the fast, Governor Jerry Brown signed AB1978, giving many families a sense of relief and accomplishment. While this will hopefully make life a lot better for female janitorial workers, we still must think of all of the pain, guilt and shame that so many women have had to suffer through to get here. I hope this will help all women, especially those who feel like they cannot speak up because their immigration status is not stable, to report abuse and to therefore help bring the abusers and rapists out into the open, where they will be tried and sent to jail.

For more information on the subject, including some extensive coverage of the fast last week and some bone-chilling survivor stories, please visit SEIU United Service Workers West’s Facebook page here.

There is also a harrowing PBS documentary entitled Rape on the Night Shift, that was released last year and can be viewed online right here.

I also picked up some leaflets on My Sister’s House that were available at the volunteers’ booth. My Sister’s House is a safe haven set up for women and children of Asian and Pacific Islander descent (as well as any other women and children) where they can find help against domestic abuse, sexual assault and human trafficking. These issues, and those of underserved women and children, are issues that are very important to me and I will be joining in with their sponsored run/walk on October 22nd, and if anybody would like to join me please let me know.

Immigration Series: They Are Coming For You

Can you imagine having to leave your country because you don't have the right skin colour, religion or just because you don't belong to the right family? While the previous stories that I have published depict images of voluntary migration, the next few are heartbreaking stories of forced moves. I vividly remember the Berlin Wall coming down, and the slow crumble of the Soviet Union in the following years, cheering when states gained their independence one by one. But I never really delved much further into those countries that are often forgotten about on the eastern side, countries where civil wars and ethnic cleansing initiatives forced people to flee for their lives with their families. Please read on for a true story of heartbreak and strength, and remember that refugees are not refugees by choice, but because they want to live.

It was late at night when the call came, long after everyone in Rustam’s house had gone to bed. The words that came over the phone, though, jolted his mother awake. “Leave now – they are coming for you.”

It was 1992, and Tajikistan, newly independent from the Soviet Union, was swiftly sliding into what would turn into a brutal, grinding war. Simmering rivalries between different regions and ethnic groups bubbled over into horrific violence, stoked by regional powers and the steady flow of guns, gunmen, and heroin that flowed in from chronically unstable Afghanistan to the south. As prominent members of the Pamiri, or Mountain Tajik ethnic minority, Rustam’s family were on what would ultimately become the losing side of this conflict, which officially lasted for half a decade, though sporadic clashes continued for many months after peace was officially declared.

The Pamiri minority, made up of around a dozen different related Eastern Iranian tribes, each with their own unique and distinct language, historically had lived isolated in the high mountains of the Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Region in eastern Tajikistan, and spilled over the borders into neighboring China and Afghanistan. As Ismaili Muslims who also incorporated elements of Zoroastrianism and shamanism into their worship, they were religiously distinct from their countrymen, and were also often easily identified by the light hair and eyes and relatively fair complexions that made them physically distinct as well. During the Soviet era, many Pamiris had moved to the cities of western Tajikistan, where they earned a reputation for ambition, high education, and loyalty to the Soviet regime. For their part, the Soviets felt that the Pamiris were a more trustworthy group than their western countrymen, in part because (as Ismailis) they were considered impervious to the jihadist radicalism that the Soviets sought to keep out of their mostly Muslim southern republics. As a result, many in western Tajikistan resented what they saw as preferential treatment of Pamiris by the Soviet authorities.

An alliance of Pamiris, Tajiks from Gharm in the southern part of the country, and others, fought with Tajiks and ethnic Uzbek militias from the western Khujand and Külob regions. As 1992 ground on, the tide of the war was clearly turning against the Pamiris and their allies, and an exodus began towards their ancestral villages in the mountain fortress of Gorno-Badakhshan. Pamiris who were unfortunate enough to be caught as they fled eastward were typically killed outright, either by soldiers, militiamen, lynch mobs, or some combination of the three. So Rustam and his family hastily gathered a few possessions, left others with trusted non-Pamiri neighbors who vowed to safeguard them, and drove as fast as possible east to Gorno-Badakhshan. When they arrived, they found the provincial capital, Khorog, crowded with thousands of other Pamiri refugees from the west, with more refugees dispersing into their ancestral villages, tucked away in the lofty Pamir Mountains.

With the cleansing of Pamiris from the western part of the country practically complete, the victors then blockaded Gorno-Badakhshan and destroyed fields, orchards, and flocks, with the aim of starving out as many Pamiris as possible. It wasn’t long before famine set in, and it became clear that staying in Gorno-Badakhshan would mean dying a slow, painful death. Rustam’s family made the difficult decision to flee the country, at least until it was safe to return. Like many other Pamiris who were unable to get air transport out (usually to Russia), Rustam’s family was forced to take the only possible land route, which lay south, through war-torn Afghanistan. Months went by in tent camps where cholera and starvation were rife, and international aid was virtually non-existent. Overwhelmed with the ongoing humanitarian crisis in Afghanistan, many international agencies and governments were unwilling or unable to assist the refugees from Tajikistan. Ultimately, the Iranian Red Cross and the local Ismaili community in Afghanistan provided the bulk of the meager assistance that was received.

Once the weather conditions were right, Rustam’s family knew that they had to leave Afghanistan. While Pamiris in particular were not being sought out for death there, the situation was still extremely dangerous, in addition to the lack of adequate food rations, medicine, and housing for refugees. The next step was to cross into Pakistan, to the east, which was far less chaotic than Afghanistan, and where they would be able to begin the process of emigration to the West. Many Pamiris ended up emigrating to Russia, but Rustam’s family dreamed of the United States. His mother told him why: “In Russia, we can live there, work there, serve the country our whole lives, and we will still be foreigners. Europe is the same. But in America, we can become Americans, and we can be truly accepted.”

Rustam was frightened of the United States, which seemed worlds away from everything he knew. At the same time, the situation in Pakistan, while moderately better than Afghanistan, was still untenable. The Pamiris, coming from the cold, high mountains of Gorno-Badakhshan, found the tropical heat of the Pakistani plains unbearable. Untold thousands succumbed to heat exhaustion, starvation, malaria, cholera, and other afflictions. Rustam had lost count of the number of bodies of relatives and friends that he had helped wash and bury since the war and the subsequent flight began. He was starting to forget what normal life was like; what it felt like to be able to sleep without nightmares; what it felt like not to be hungry and weak; what it felt like to have a home; what it felt like to belong somewhere; what it felt like to be wanted. He often wondered why his people had even been created, if they were only suitable for slaughter.

Months in Pakistan dragged on into a year, and one year dragged on into two, as the long process of vetting Rustam’s family’s application for asylum slowly progressed forward. Conditions improved somewhat, as the Pakistani Ismaili community – many of them wealthy merchants in the country’s commercial center, Karachi – pulled together to assist their coreligionists from Tajikistan. Rustam’s family moved into a small apartment, and then a larger one. As Rustam’s English and Urdu improved, he felt a little less helpless and was even able to help support his family by doing odd jobs now and then.

In early 1997, Rustam’s family’s application finally was approved, and they made their way to the United States, where several other relatives had already recently arrived and settled down. After more than two days of travel, Rustam’s family marveled at the vast skyline of New York City as they circled over the airport. Rustam’s heart was torn – he hoped very much that he would find the safety and sense of belonging that he craved, and felt profoundly grateful to the United States for permitting his family to come. Still, he knew deep in his heart that he would likely never again see his beloved homeland, half a world away. It was time to start over and build a new life in a new country.

Immigration Series: In the Dead of the Night

This is one story of many, anonymous amongst the masses, one of the people who cleans your house or your car, fixes your roof, cooks your 5 star meal or mows your lawn for you; one of the people who pays into the system but who never asks for any of it back; one of the people who is so often cited as the cause of all issues by politicians but who you don’t even notice in your everyday activities. While this is one person’s personal story, it is also the story of millions of people, dating back decades.

In the Dead of the Night

It didn’t really take that long to organize, it’s not as if I was the first person to make the journey, and I was definitely not the last to. The network runs like clockwork, via word of mouth, safe houses, people who know certain routes so well they could do them blindfolded, with headphones on and turned round and round before setting off. The entire process may be dictated by money, but it’s a well-oiled machine, you just don’t pay the ferryman until he gets you to the other side. Wherever you are in the US you have met one of us, although you probably have no idea that you have. And that’s fine, because that’s the whole point: we come here to work hard and to cause no trouble. Although that’s not what some politicians would have you believe.

It’s been years, but I still remember it all quite vividly. The sudden noises in the middle of the silent black night, the bright, sweeping light of a helicopter approaching, throwing myself to the ground, face pressed into the dirt and stones, the freezing cold AC blasting in the detention center, and then doing it all over again two days later. I’m lucky; I only had to try twice. Others aren’t so lucky. You see our faces, but you can’t really imagine the stories behind them. You can’t really imagine the sacrifices that we have made and why we made the decision to go. And we don’t really care that you don’t know, because you can only try to understand, but you never will really.

I don’t even know why I decided to go anymore. It was what was best for my family at the time I suppose. There is no point in wondering how things would have been if I hadn’t left, as I did, and this is my life now. I packed a few things and made my way to the next town over where I was given a plane ticket and a few instructions. You didn’t really write much down, just memorized what you were told. And you kept your mouth shut. The less people who knew where you are going, the better. People talk, and talk doesn’t help anybody.

I landed somewhere near the border where I spent a night in a hotel, waiting for dark until we started out on our way. You may think that people just randomly try to cross the border at any given time, but it’s not that simple. I mean we aren’t stupid… The light of the moon may provide guidance but it also makes you visible from miles away, a perfect target for border control or for thieves, murderers and rapists. I’m not one of the latter, nor do I have drugs on me. Actually all I have on me is a few gallons of water, a change of clothes, and about $300 for food and other small necessities.  Dark clothes for the crossing, clean clothes for the next step. But there are always people lurking, preying on those who, if they survive, will never dare to go to the authorities. If you have to get caught by someone, it’s probably best that it be border control. Nobody wants to imagine anything else.

There were about 20 of us, walking single file, staying as close as possible in the dark, silent, listening to our hearts beating, wondering if anyone could hear them. A broken stick seemed to reverberate for miles; a stone scuttling down a hillside became a siren pointing towards our existence. One night, two nights, three nights, sleeping in dry river beds during the day, hiding from the sun and police and anyone else who wanted us gone. On the third night we were told to listen carefully and to duck whenever anyone said to, duck as fast as possible, play dead until the danger passed. I can’t remember how many times I threw myself to the ground, head in the sand and stones, daring not to think of snakes and scorpions that were lurking, waiting for my code name to be called, the sign I could get up and move along. It was one for all and all for one. We were together for a few days, banded on this journey, never to see each other again. The fence, so significant in our minds, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, as the danger wasn’t over once you put your foot on the other side, it was just the beginning.

There is silence and then suddenly the sound of a helicopter above, sweeping its lights across the plains, looking for us, or others like us. You can hear the border patrol trucks driving around, headlights off and then on. We would wait and then move along, coming to roads here and there, waiting, then running as fast as we could across, hoping that we would make it safely to the other side without being seen. And then, after three days of interminable walking and ducking and hiding and keeping our fingers crossed so tightly they were beginning to hurt it happened. We ran across the road and just as I threw myself into the grass on the other side the lights of a truck lit up the road, our coyotes yelled “DUCK” and people started running in all directions. I stayed hidden with a few others, but we ended up getting picked up a little way down the road.

The detention center was freezing, but I was lucky and they only detained me for 12 hours, I suppose because it was my first time trying. I’ve heard that laws are a little different nowadays and it can be much, much longer. Then again, I doubt that I would be doing the journey all these years later anyway. Not with all of the hindsight that I have now.

They dropped me off back in my home country, right across the border. I went back to the safe house, collected some food and a few gallons of water and started right back on the journey again. This time I made it further, three more nights of walking and ducking and hiding, face in the sand, hearing my heart beat in my throat, running across those roads and waiting for the helicopters to move along, beaming their lights upon other stretches of desert. We made it to our pick up point, and hid in a truck, head to foot, head to foot, breathing in gasoline and fear and no idea what was going to happen to us. The truck would drive in spurts, light the headlights for a second and zoom along, stopping and starting in order to avoid detection, enough to make anyone lightheaded and nauseous.

I made it to the safe house and spoke to the person who organized my trip. He transferred the money to the handler and I was lead to the truck that would take me to the city that would become my home for a decade. As I said before, I don’t expect you to understand or to even want to understand. But this is my story and that of many, many people who walk the same streets as everyone else. 

Immigration Series: Henna from the Heart

Here is Henna's story straight from the heart. Daughter of Indian immigrants, growing up Punjabi and American, navigating through the mix cultures and finding herself right there, right in the middle of it. Actually this isn't really Henna's story, as she talks about her father, but really it is. You will understand what I mean after you have read it... (And if you don't like curse words then I suggest you move along, as Henna loves to curse and there is no way I am editing her writing because it shoots straight from the fucking heart).

Before I dive into the topic of immigration, my story, and my father, I want to remind everyone that in the end of our lives we do not take this body with us, so to fear someone based on their appearance, their religion, or sexual orientation is just plain fucking stupid. People I want to remind you that when we die all this shit stays behind. Your hair, your eyes, your art, and the trees that surround you. They are all fucking staying here when you die. Oh God I sound dark again. Quite frankly, I’m just trying to make a point. I shit rainbows I swear. I also take pictures of pretty flowers all the time. Anyways, my point is that we are not immortal, so do you want to spend this life fearing and hating what you don't know or do you want to dive into it and grow from it?

There is a lot of fear and hate that surrounds the topic of immigration. Hate’s mother is fear. Fears births hate. It’s really that simple.

The Mexicans are taking my jobs.

There are too many black people.

The Indians are taking over IT.

The Asians are taking over our neighborhood.

I don’t like her hijab.

She sounds like a redneck.

I bet they have small dicks.

Why are they here?

These are all sentences with an undertone of fear or hate. You wanna know what my response is to these motherfuckers?

GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK. IF YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING THEN FUCKING DO IT. STOP BLAMING OTHER PEOPLE FOR YOUR LACK OF SUCCESS. WORK FUCKING HARDER. STOP COMPLAINING. WHY ARE YOU ALLOWING HATE TO HAVE A PLACE IN YOUR LIFE? LOVE BABY LOVE!! THIS IS YOUR LIFE. FILL YOUR SPIRIT WITH ALL THAT IS AMAZING IN THIS WORLD.  STOP FOCUSING ON OTHERS. WHY DO YOUR CARE SO MUCH ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE? IS IT HARMING YOU? WHAT? YOU JUST DON’T LIKE? BABY YOU’RE WASTING PRECIOUS MOMENTS OF YOUR LIFE HATING THINGS FOR NO REASON. LIVE THIS LIFE AND FUCK IT LIKE YOU WOULD THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE. IF YOU DON’T HAVE ONE THEN PRETEND. I LOVE HUMANITY AND THEREFORE I LOVE YOU TOO. YEAH I DON’T KNOW YOU, BUT WE’RE HERE IN THIS WORLD TOGETHER, SO LETS JUST ENJOY AND LEARN TOGETHER.

BESOS, AMIGOS.

… OK maybe I wouldn't say the besos part, but everything else I would. Yeah I’m being blunt. Maybe I just wrote a really long rant, but my intentions are for the love of humanity.

Oh fuck, right my story!! Sorry readers. I’m a little scatter brained. I also confuse my left and rights all the time. Last night I took a cab from Manhattan to Brooklyn and I kept messing up my left and rights. As you can imagine my driver wanted to murder me. Is there a term for people who fuck up their left and rights all the time? Oh fuck. I did it again.

Ok Immigration. My story. Let’s get into that. I’m an American Citizen. I don't have a crazy immigration story. Actually you know what? Let’s talk about me in another blog post. This shit is getting long. I've got mad emotions and opinions and stories people.

I want to talk about my father right now. Let me tell you about him. My daddy is an immigration lawyer and is one of the most inspiring, charismatic, and giving people I know. My father came to this country after marrying my mother. So mom put a marriage advertisement in the Indian newspaper and after all the men who responded my father was the one who stole her heart. I’m going to be honest with you. My mother was vain as fuck. She thought he was the best looking guy after all the guys she met. I mean she did mention that he also came off as good person too, but I know my mommy. She thought he was hot. Great for baby making.

Dad went to law school. Passed the bar exam on his first try and then opened up his own practice within 5 years of just being in America. Dad did it. He made it in America. Then he got famous. Dad had commercials for his law firm playing constantly on ZeeTV (An Indian television channel). Man, when dad would come on TV I would light up. I was 7, but I was proud to be his daughter. The commercials aren't there today, but he still has an advertisement in the Indian newspaper. He has for over 20 years now. If I mention my father’s name to any cab driver of Indian descent they know immediately who he is. My father has given people the opportunity to freedom and a better life. He is a man who came from poverty and has never forgotten his roots. This man never makes a trip to India without giving back to his people. He sends money for his relatives to give to people on the streets of India. If one poverty stricken child wants ice cream then he’ll buy everyone ice cream. If another girl says I don't want ice cream I want flour, so I can make roti, then he’s going to buy over 30 bags of flour for the beggars on the street. By the way this is a true fucking story.

I could talk about my father for hours and tell you all the amazing things this immigrant has done, but it’s time for me to conclude. Freedom is everyone’s right. Everyone should have an opportunity for love, family, and even all the fuck-ups that come with life because not everything bad is bad and not everything good is good. In the end we learn from the good and bad. Who are we to deny anyone of these good and bad experiences?

The definition of humanitarian is:

1. Having concern for or helping to improve the welfare and happiness of people

2. Pertaining to the saving of human lives or to the alleviation of suffering

3. A person actively engaged in promoting human welfare and social reforms

If we all had the heart of a humanitarian then immigration wouldn't be so scary.

Immigration Series: Serial Immigrant

This week's story is my own mother's... We have lived thousands and thousands of miles away from each other for many years, but now all live together in sunny California. 

Serial Immigrant

I am an immigrant. I have been an immigrant, and an émigré, for much of my adult life: not because of dire need, or suffering, but from a desire to travel, to experience the world, and to provide a good life for my family. I’d always dreamed of travelling; as a child it was to Canada and France, or exploring the South Pole, as a teen I wanted to work on a kibbutz or travel the desert on the back of a camel; as an adult, to visit the ancient sites of Greece and Turkey and Jerusalem and Egypt and Japan. (I’ve been lucky enough to be able to do all of those, except Greece the South Pole, and while a visit to the Galapagos is still on the bucket list, I’m a little more wary of the cold these days.)

It all began when I was offered a short-term contract in the Netherlands when I was looking for full-time employment in Thatcher’s UK. The idea of spending a few months outside of what had become a depressed and gloomy Britain under Thatcher’s iron rule, in the country of windmills and clogs and Edam, was exciting and liberating. We packed a very few belongings into a mini-bus and took the ferry from Harwich to Hook of Holland, and never looked back. The children went to Dutch schools and my daughters were fluent in the language within a very few months. The short-term contract became three years, we experienced life as Europeans, and then a new job offer came along, from an American multinational with a large site in France.

Nine years in France, a country full of culture and life and history and strong friendships, and then, once again, I’m offered another job—with the same company, but this time, in the mothership—in the USA. Moving between European countries, pre-Brexit, was one thing. Across the world was another. It was a major decision: three children, divorced parents, oldest child already in university in France… but it was another adventure, it felt right, and it was an opportunity to experience yet-another way of life.

I entered the USA on an L-1 visa. That’s a visa specifically for “management transfers”: companies can bring in their managerial staff and workers with specialized knowledge, transferring them from overseas locations to a (new) location in the USA.

My employer provided help with the visa. They also provided legal help to make sure that the green card I applied for, for myself and children, were expedited, because my second child would celebrate their twenty-first birthday a few months after our arrival in the USA. Wait. Why is that important??? Because after 21, a child is considered “just another relative”, and you have to petition for them to join you, and wait years. But what about my eldest child, who is already over 21, yet still in full-time education and supported by me? Oh tough. They’ve “aged out”. No green card. You have to petition for them to join you, once you have a green card yourself, and then wait. And wait. And wait. At least seven or ten or more years.

My eldest was denied a visa to visit the USA for a few months, on the grounds that, “All your family is in the USA and you might be tempted stay.” Well duh… yes, all close family was in the USA. So you deny a child the right to stay with their only surviving parent???”

We found a work-around. My eldest was able to claim Canadian citizenship due to her father’s own citizenship, and then work in the USA on an annual TN visa, which wasn’t without stress. We waited and waited for her green card to be approved. We paid all the fees. Eventually, after several years, the green card was approved… but there would be another seven or more years before “the number would come up”, and the card would be issued. I learned that if I became a US citizen—by this time I was eligible, having held a green card for five years—then the wait for my daughter’s green card would be cut to just a few months.

So I paid all the fees, studied for the exam, and became a US Citizen. I now hold two passports, British and USA. My daughter has a green card, issued a few months after I became a citizen, and can live and work in the USA. The family is together. But am I a proud US citizen? Do I feel this glowing patriotism, and the need to put hand-on-heart when the Stars and Stripes are played? The belief in the right to bear arms? Not for one second… Do I feel somewhat compromised, and coerced into embracing a nationality, just to enable my family to be together? Some days, indeed I do. Resentful? No… I’m happy with the life we have, though I miss the history, the discussions, the cultural richness that is outside the USA. I don’t understand the American money-based mentality that drives everything and blinds people to the fact that there are better ways to manage health care and social welfare and ensure that everyone – EVERYONE – is taken care of. I don’t understand the shoot first mentality. And I really, really don’t want to live in the USA that Trump is proposing. I’m disturbed by the way the world is turning, whether it’s insulting click-bait political lies here in the USA, Brexit votes in the UK that will deny future generations the freedom of movement we enjoyed, and the rise in fear and hatred and intolerance around the globe… Maybe once you’ve seen more of different cultures and languages, you ask more questions, and are more frustrated by a brick wall of ignorance. I don’t know.

Those people who talk about immigration “done the right way”, obviously have no clue about how broken the “right way” is, how it can divide families, how much stress and anguish it can cause, how many years of wondering if your child will be allowed safely through the airport “this time”, or if they will be deported, or worse… and yes, that’s doing immigration “the right way”.

#iamanimmigrant. But I’m one of the lucky ones who had a choice, and tried to make the right decision. Was it? Ask my kids. I think you’ll get mixed answers.

In addition to being a wonderful parent and all-around great person, my mother (Alison Toon) is also a fantastic photographer and you can check out her work on her website, Facebook page and Instagram.

Immigration Series: The Ten Year Wait (Part 2)

If you missed the first half of this story you can find it right HERE.

One Friday afternoon in March of 2005 I received a call from a foreign number. I let it go to voicemail, left the office under the guise of needing a smoke break and listened to an American woman tell me that they had received my resume and were wondering if I would be interested in talking about a project management position within a large translation company in NYC. She also followed up with an email with a little more information. Since 2002 my only concern had been California, I had never even considered another part of the US. Unlike many people in the world, I had never dreamed of going to, let alone living in, NYC. NYC was that place in many TV shows and movies and the place of a tragedy that was forever etched in my brain, but never a place that I wanted to consider my home. But then again, NYC was also a hell of a lot closer to Sacramento than London was. Ever since I had become determined to move to the US my mother had sent my resume out to different contacts in the translation industry and one ended up in the right hands at the right time.

After several phone interviews, language tests, back and forths and a job offer based on the fact that I would receive a TN visa on landing (specialty visa offered to Canadian and Mexican citizens to perform jobs that no qualified American can perform), I handed my notice in and flew off into the unknown at the end of May 2005. Everything was a big risk really, for both myself and the company, but I had a one year visa, a shitty starting salary that was a tiny bit more than the pittance I was earning in London, and a possibility that I may transfer to California one day if things worked out. But then, the moment I saw the Manhattan skyline I knew I had come home. If you have ever traveled a lot, wondered where your roots are or were and wandered the soil of this earth trying to find a place to call home, then you know that feeling, a peace within your soul, a sigh of relief, of knowing that this is it. Home.

The gamble paid off. I worked extremely hard, and for quite a few years I played extremely hard, but for the first five years it still felt like I was on borrowed time. I was reluctant to get too close to people in case I would have to leave suddenly. My visa got rejected the first time I tried to renew it, and I had to do a mad rush to Toronto to try again. Every time I had to renew my visa I felt anxious, at the mercy of some immigration official who could stamp my passport for another year or see through all of the lies and deny me entrance. The company grew and merged and HR began to realize that I wasn’t going to last much longer on a temporary visa and finally gave it one last chance before they would make a more permanent gesture. I suppose everything worked out for them right then because the TN visa was extended to three years instead of one. But by then I was done. I was overworked and completely burnt out, I felt trapped but I also had no real interest in leaving the country.  I continued working in a job I had begun to resent because it was the only way I could legally stay in the country and benefit from things like health insurance.

Leaving and entering the country on a TN visa is always touch and go, even if you still have time remaining on it. The best time was the one where the official checked through my papers and waved me on through. The worst was the time I went to Mexico and we flew back through Arizona. Unfortunately my Canadian passport renewal had been held up and was still stuck in Canada so I traveled on my British passport. As my visa was associated with my Canadian citizenship and not my British I assumed that I would get a slap on my hands, but I didn’t assume that I would be threatened with deportation, told that I was an idiot for traveling on the “wrong” passport, and then after all that fined $800 for not having the right “paperwork” on me (I actually DID have all of the paperwork, including my old passport and my valid British passport)- thankfully I had the money on my credit card, because if I hadn’t been able to pay I would have been detained. They also told me that I was “lucky” because the main immigration dude wanted to send me before the immigration court, but in the end they decided to just fine me. And all I could think about after I ran across the terminal to make my connecting flight that was leaving in five minutes was: I’m very, very lucky. I can’t even imagine how they would have treated me if I had been of a different skin colour and/or nationality. I learnt two important lessons that day: never move to Arizona and never put yourself in a situation where you feel frightened of an official again. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and for over an hour they made me feel like I was a piece of scum on the carpet. Of course, part of that issue WAS my own fault, but at the same time there was no need to treat me like a criminal. It really reinforced my opinion that it doesn’t matter if you have a visa or not, you are still going to be treated like a lesser individual until you have either a green card or a US passport.

My mother checked my green card status in 2010 and we were years and years off, so she filed for citizenship and became a US citizen about 6 months later. About 6 months after that, in the middle of 2011, I suddenly received an appointment to get my fingerprints and photographs done, as well as a request to get a full physical with a USCIS-approved doctor. It was also around that time that I was functioning on auto-pilot at work, depressed, barely able to drag my feet through the door every day. I was messing up left, right and centre, and all I wanted to do was release myself of the chains that I had tied around my ankles, and soar high, find myself and my real desires again. Over the weekend of Hurricane Irene I walked out and never looked back, and by doing so I became an undocumented immigrant, part of the huge underground network in this country. I was done. I didn’t care anymore, after years and years of waiting, of doing the right thing, of watching friends marry other friends and get their statuses adjusted, of convincing myself that I didn’t need to do that, I gave up. I would find work and I would be OK.

I did both. I also began to breathe again. And yes, I paid taxes. I didn’t claim any type of state health insurance, because that isn’t possible, despite what you hear. I used the social security number I had been given with my temporary visa, the same one I still use today, and I continued to live my life, hoping that my good health would hold up and that I wouldn’t get sick, ever. And then, at the end of 2011 I received a letter from the USCIS with an interview appointment. THE interview that I had been waiting for, for so many years (TEN to be exact). I arrived there with snacks and a book and my journal, prepared to be waiting for hours, but instead I was called in within five minutes, my interview lasted 30 minutes, and I was told I would receive their decision in the mail within six weeks.

A week later, to the day, I received my green card in the mail.

I still remember the river of emotions that flew through my body, not being able to breathe, running upstairs to my apartment so that I could burst into tears, of happiness, of sadness, of pure relief. That little piece of ID opened up so many doors again, I could work wherever I wanted, I could study again if I wanted to, and most importantly, I could leave the country and come back, as many times as I wanted. A few months later my beloved Nana passed away, and I was able to go to the funeral and read the eulogy that I had written for her. I was able to hop on a plane in NYC and pop over to Sacramento without worrying about someone demanding to see my visa or immigration ID. All of a sudden I had the exact thing that I had been waiting for since 2001.

It did come with a certain price though, because the only reason that I am not still waiting for my green card today is because my mother became a citizen. Yes, there are perks with being a citizen like the right to vote against men like Trump, but there is also the fact that for the rest of her life my mother will have to pay US taxes, wherever she lives in the world. Something to think about if you ever have to make that decision. And I haven’t even touched upon the money that my mother spent on the USCIS (previously INS) over the years, sometimes even double price because they provided conflicting information on what we needed to pay and where (non-refundable of course). She didn’t have to give up her British citizenship, I doubt she would have become a US citizen if she had to, but there are some countries that require you do.

So, my story is one of many, many years of waiting. There is no grey area when it comes to immigration here, no possibility of talking to people face to face and coming to some sort of agreement. You either choose to be part of the system and become a number, waiting year after year for yours to advance one or two steps, or you do it your own way. If I am asked what I would change if I had to do it all over again I say everything. I used to say that I would only get married if I were madly in love, nowadays marriage is only a piece of paper, and if that piece of paper helps moves things along a little faster, then why not. And before you flame me for saying that, just put yourself in my, or someone else’s shoes for a year, and see what it is like. Telling a 21 year old that she cannot come back to visit her family for a year is pretty despicable in my opinion. And I had it easy. Some of the stories that will be featured in this series are a million times more difficult to digest than mine are. Mine is just unfair, and in the end it all kind of worked out.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t spent all of those years waiting and waiting because I didn’t live life as fully as I should have. But at the same time I don’t have any regrets because I now have my own family, my own family of immigrants. My children were born here which makes them US citizens, but there will always be that worry at the back of my mind that one day they will be forced to live without me, just because my and their father’s immigration status could technically be revoked at any time. And that is a story for another day and another time…

Next week on Monday I will be posting someone else's story. If you would like to be featured in this series please feel free to contact me!

Immigration Series: The Ten Year Wait (Part 1)

Kicking off this guest post series with the first part of my own US immigration story. Over the next few weeks there will be all kinds of immigration stories appearing on this blog, and if you would like to see your own featured don't hesitate to contact me. This series is in no shape or form limited to the US, I am interested in featuring all types of stories from anywhere in the world.

When I hear people discussing immigration in the US I often hear terms like “the right way” and “the wrong way” being thrown around. Or that someone came here to steal someone else’s job, or on the contrary came to find a better life. It seems that everything is black or white and that there is nothing in between: either you are a “good” immigrant or a “bad” immigrant. So I’m going to tell you a little story about someone who didn’t come here for a better life, who didn’t come here because she was particularly enamoured by the country, and who didn’t come here to steal someone else’s job. Actually this person just ended up here and just stayed here for a lot longer than she had planned to. This story is my story and I feel that it is a perfect example of how everyone’s immigration story is different, how no one’s story is “good” or “bad” and how there is no right or wrong way. Instead of looking at all of the blacks and whites let us look at the greys and pinks and blues and yellows and reds.

I wasn’t the easiest teen, but then again who was? I dropped out of school at the age of 16 because I couldn’t stand being there anymore, but by the age of 18 I realised I actually wanted to be one of the first people in my family to earn a degree. So I sat my Baccalauréat, passed, and went to university. I loved university. French universities have an element of freedom to them and you are treated like an adult, not like an annoying child. Since you are treated like an adult it is also assumed that you will act like an adult (for the most part anyway), so I went to the classes I found interesting, winged my way through my first year exams and passed with flying colours. My second year was a lot more interesting, and the third year, my BA year, even more so. That was also the year that my mother decided to take her company’s job opportunity up in California. It was the year 2000, and while I was super happy for her to go, there was no question about the fact that I would be staying put. My life was mainly in France, a little in England my country of birth, but mainly in France. I had lived there for so many years, going through school and adolescence and everything you go through and more when you are growing up.

I had never even been to the States, let alone move there. I had a couple of close friends in California, but they had their own lives and friends, and I had no intention of starting over somewhere else. France, Grenoble, was my home. I flew over to California with my mother to look for a house before her big move, liked the area, saw NIN in concert, and came home, with no desire to move anywhere except into my new apartment by the train station in Grenoble.

I hadn’t considered how my fourth year, my MA year, at university would affect me mentally, how depressed I would get after 9/11, and also how spending holidays and birthdays far away from my family would take its toll. When I read through my journals from that period I can see how I withdrew myself bit by bit from my usual life, preferring to hole myself up at home, writing about Sylvia Plath for my thesis and listening to Bob Dylan and Tim Buckley on repeat. Something had to give and I decided that I wanted to move. All of a sudden I needed to see something different, not for the first time in my life and definitely not for the last. So, on the spur of the moment I decided I was moving to the US. I spent my last summer in France with my friends, signed my half of the lease over to someone else, packed up my stuff and sent it over to my mother’s, and got on a flight with my cat.

It was September 2002 and I was 24 years old.

You become an adult in the US on your 21st birthday. If you immigrate to the US with your parents and you are under the age of 21 you will automatically fall under their immigration plan/set-up/visa etc. My mother’s work visa was fast-tracked into a green card, and her immigration lawyer made sure that my sister’s was pushed through fast too, so that it came through before she turned 21 (this was before 9/11, a lot changed after that, understandably so). My brother was 16 when he moved over to the US and got his green card pretty much immediately too. I, as an adult child of an alien, had to apply for my own green card with no idea when or if I would ever receive it.

So there I was, in the US, with no ability to work or to get a student visa/pay for tuition (and my tuition in France had been free anyway) and no idea if I would ever be able to live with my family again. Even if I had decided to move with my mother in 2000 it wouldn’t have changed a thing as I was over 21.

I went back and forth using the visa waiver program a few times, applied for a 6 month tourist visa in London and got rejected immediately because I “had too many family ties in the US and there was no guarantee I wouldn’t overstay my visa or coerce someone into giving me a job”.  I flew back to the US right after that and was immediately sent to the second room (if you have ever been there before you know what I mean, I’ve been there too many times to remember). I was yelled at, told that I was obviously working in the US if I kept coming back (I wasn’t, my mother was actually supporting me at that point), and that I was stupid to keep coming back. Then, after leaving me in a freezing cold room for 30 minutes, the official stamped my passport and told me that I could stay another three months, and after that if I came back within a year I would immediately be deported.

To be honest, I really don’t want to know how many “comments” I have on my immigration file. That wasn’t the last time I was threatened with deportation. It also wasn’t the last time I was sent to that “second” room.

I was totally and utterly depressed. I missed my life in France and I wanted to start a new life in the US, but instead I was stuck in limbo, with no real direction anywhere. I spent three months feeling lethargic and anti-social, forcing myself to leave the house, preferring to stay holed up inside with my cat, my books, my music and the internet. The end of the three months loomed in front of me and I kept pushing any kind of decision-making until the next day. Then my aunt, a world traveler who had settled in Israel, converted to Judaism and started a family there on a moshav in the desert, invited me to come over and help her with her two little children. At the same time my mother pushed me to send off my Canadian citizenship paperwork. My father was born in Canada, and while he was back in Britain before he could walk, he retained dual citizenship until he died. At the time if you had a Canadian parent, dead or alive, you were eligible for citizenship, even if you had never been to the country. It was a long shot and we were told could take a year or so, but there was no harm in trying.

I ended up living in Israel for well over a year, a life-changing experience, and came back to the US with more drive, focus and plans up my sleeve, and my Canadian citizenship was waiting for me on arrival. My original plan was to stay in California for three months, go to London and work there for a while and wait for the person I had fallen in love with to join me. The latter part never happened, and for the best as he proved to be as flighty as I always knew he was, but I did move to London and spent ten months there waiting to see where I would go next.

London was both home and away. I had my first “real” job after university (“real” meaning I worked in an office and was doing something that resembled what I had studied to do), I lived in a lovely house with really wonderful people, and I was able to spend time with my family in England whenever I wanted to. It was away because while England is the country of my birth it isn’t the country I grew up in. Familiar and foreign, and London was so expensive and big and hard to actually live in. I had kind of given up on moving to the States at that point and was just treading water in London until I could figure out my next steps (and once I had given up on waiting for the boy to make his way over to England I started to think about my future in a little more depth too). 

To be continued... Part 2 will be featured at the same time, same day next week!