The Story of An
Immigrant
We always think of achievement as
a quantified or certified experience. We try our level best to measure every
inch of an individual’s experience: the distance you swam, the height you
jumped or the notes you faltered. When I was asked to talk about what I
considered my greatest achievement, I sighed… and then sighed some more.
I had never been overly
enthusiastic about the world of extra-curricular; for most of my formative
years, my only after school activity had been to go home. So, when I was asked
to present this topic-which-everyone-surely-has-something-to-talk-about-r, I
spent a good portion of the preparation time regretting those afternoons where
I waltzed right out of school, and directly into my cosy home. When I searched
through my past school certificates I realised that I didn’t recognise any of
them and barely remembered the events. I was mentally preparing to bullshit
through some made-up, vaguely-believable story as the ultimate option.
But the penultimate option was to
alter my very definition of “achievement”. I may not have a rectangular piece
of sturdy paper with my name inked in bold calligraphic lettering to make it
official, but my passport is plenty proof regarding my achievement of adapting to
a new country: with a new landscape, a new weather pattern and a whole new set
of people.
It all began when I was 11. Through
the house walls, I heard whispers and conversation snippets of “job transfer”
and “UK”. I ignored them. My parents had not approached me, so the matter
obviously wasn’t legitimate. To be frank, I was having a grand old time with my
friends at school, where every day I’d come back from school wanting to tell my
mother about a new joke or funny situation I had witnessed. The stories never
held my mother’s interest because I couldn’t explain them clearly in between
fresh bouts of laughter.
Ignorance may have been bliss at
the time, but knowledge is always better in the long run. When my parents
confirmed their plans to move to London I didn’t throw a tantrum, but instead,
maintained a subtle air of denial about me. Presently, it was June and the
flight in November felt ages and ages away, plenty of time to soak up the banter,
the memories of which keep me warm and nostalgic to this day.
I had the support of only one
friend; the rest of my class was adamant about holding me responsible for my
father’s company’s decision. Most of the time, however, it was forgotten issue.
We carried on just as we always had, but now I remember that during that time I
had laughed louder than before. I think the most bizarre part was getting to
know and cherish people who I had not previously even glanced at throughout the
school day.
A small secret: moving abroad is
not a glamourous affair. By the time we had started to pack, our home was
devoid of anything that made it feel like a home. No TV, no furniture. As an
unemotional child, my last school day lacked that finality, that definitive
“goodbye” feel. When I read Life of Pi a few years later, the most valuable lesson
I took from it, was about the necessity of proper closure; dull finality is a
hundred times better than optimistic denial.
I arrived in London bundled up in
my warmest clothes (which, for November, was nowhere NEAR warm enough) with my
mother at my side. With hearts in my eyes and a pair of metaphorical rose-tinted
shades on, I looked at the semi-detached houses, imagined myself walking down
eerily empty roads and through the post-Halloween/pre-Christmas lull.
The most basic, yet difficult
part of adapting is the level of culture absorption. At what point, did I
become ‘British’ (in virtue, if not governmental paperwork)? Have I reached
that point? Is there a point (pun
intended)? Those questions are worth pondering, but teenage immigrants like
me feel them on a different level altogether. The simple reason: We only want
to stand out in all the right ways. This is not a cue for adults to scoff at
teenagers, it’s a cue for them to understand the differences in our
experiences. At the risk of making this sound like a researched essay, the
sheer variety of migrants will invalidate much of what I say. I came from a
privileged part of society in my native country and landed in a still
privileged part of the host society. The scale of adjustment is minor compared
to several others. Immigrant is such an
umbrella term.
All I know is that this is one
journey that has no destination. That might sound obvious to some, pretentious
to others and meaningless to many more. But, it’s been my bone-deep feeling
throughout the 5 years (and counting) I’ve spent outside my ‘homeland’. The
journey won’t end if/when I get citizenship, and I don’t think it’ll end when
I’ve attained a great age either. It can’t be confined in such arbitrary
milestones.
When I hear Theresa May dismiss
the notion of a ‘global citizen’, I am truly stunned. I find it slightly boring
that, one way or the other, the colour of my passport will matter more than the
accumulation of my experiences and that it should be an instruction manual, rather than a limitless diary.
Yesterday, I lived in India. Today, I am a UK resident. Tomorrow, I hope it won't matter.
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