No Post-Brexit Agenda, I Promise

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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