Parenting
Being the Child of Immigrants
by Mira Sutton
Updated: Oct. 19, 2023
Originally Published: Oct. 19, 2023
As I entered the Secretary of State’s office to renew my driver’s license, the atmosphere was thick with discontent. The waiting area was crowded, and I grabbed a number before settling into the nearest vacant chair. Frustration filled the air, particularly from an elderly couple seated two rows ahead of me. Their loud grievances about the “lazy” and “incompetent” staff behind the counter grew increasingly grating. I attempted to immerse myself in a book, but soon found myself glancing up to observe them. The man was leaning over, voicing his complaints to a woman in a wheelchair, presumably his wife.
In that moment, I couldn’t help but recall my own parents—not because of their complaints, but due to their postures. My father had a habit of leaning in close to speak softly to my mother during her own struggles with a wheelchair. The lengthy waits at medical appointments had been exhausting for her.
A wave of sympathy washed over me for the older couple. I had no pressing engagements; my husband was at home with our young children, and this solitary time felt like a brief escape. I approached the couple, offering my place in line to them. They didn’t express gratitude; instead, the man snatched the ticket from my hand and carelessly tossed his own ticket back at me. As I returned to my seat, their complaints persisted, echoing in my ears.
That’s when I overheard the woman’s voice: “How many of them do you think are immigrants?” The man glanced at the five employees behind the counter. “Two,” he replied.
The woman shook her head, “No, the one in front of us is just black.” She then gestured toward a woman with dark hair and olive skin. “What about that one?” she asked, her tone dripped with disdain. “She looks foreign.”
“Yeah,” the man snorted. “She probably doesn’t even speak English.”
“That’s why the line is so slow. She can’t help anyone,” the woman said, her disgust palpable. “She’s incompetent.”
The man sneered, “Why do they keep hiring these lazy immigrants? They should get someone who can speak English.”
A woman sitting across the aisle from me exchanged horrified glances with me. The couple continued their tirade, seemingly unaware of the discomfort radiating from the diverse faces around them. As I thought about my own immigrant parents, I felt a surge of anger.
No way was I going to let this slide.
I recalled my father’s lonely journey as a young foreigner in a new country. On good days, he had a can of soup to eat; on bad days, he went hungry. He juggled assembly line work and table-bussing to fund his education. Eventually, he earned three degrees and became a career counselor, guiding students toward successful futures.
I thought of my mother, who left everything familiar to her in India to start anew in America. Her welcoming to New York City was marred by the cruel words of an angry stranger who called her an “ugly foreigner.” Balancing her roles as a parent, student, and employee was challenging, yet she persevered, ultimately becoming a clinical psychologist dedicated to helping those in need.
The memories of our cramped 900-square-foot townhouse in a low-income neighborhood flooded back. I wore hand-sewn clothes instead of the trendy outfits my friends flaunted. My parents sacrificed for our education, saving for years to move to a better school district. After a decade of hard work, we finally succeeded.
I recalled summer days spent studying while my peers played outside. My father crafted math problems that pushed me ahead of my classmates. When I complained, he emphasized that education was my path to a brighter future. I graduated with a degree in chemical engineering and later pursued a master’s in mechanical engineering and an MBA. My sister also thrived, earning two engineering degrees and finding success in the automotive industry.
Remembering the struggles my parents endured for the sake of their U.S.-born children ignited a fire within me. I stood up and approached the couple. The man paused his complaints, looking at me with surprise. I locked eyes with him, my heart racing with anger. The nearby patrons were silent, their attention on me. I wanted to unleash my frustration, but all I managed to say was, “I’m the daughter of immigrants, and I just tried to help you.” I snatched the ticket from his hand and added, “Maybe you’ll think twice before disparaging immigrants next time.”
I returned to my seat, my heart pounding. The couple fell silent, and as I was called to the counter, a friendly employee smiled at me. “Your license fee is waived today,” she said, a generous gesture that brightened my mood.
This powerful reminder of the resilience found in immigrant stories resonates today more than ever.
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Summary:
This article explores the emotional impact of witnessing racism directed toward immigrants while reflecting on the struggles and triumphs of the author’s own immigrant parents. The narrative emphasizes the importance of empathy and understanding, especially in a diverse society.