My Immigrant Experience

Living in a foreign country broadens my perspective on relocation, moving, and being a guest in another culture.

I listen to brief snippets of the latest headlines either terrorizing or numbing the population of United States, and I am grateful to be in the bowels of what many believe to be the murderous country of Mexico.

There is bad news throughout this country, but since I don’t understand but three words of Spanish, I’m left unscathed by the headlines in Mexican newspapers, radio and television broadcasts, and Mexican social media postings.

And, too, I’m not Mexican, I’m a United States citizen. I don’t have feelings of ownership and commitment to this country that binds me to my country of origin. That last statement opens the question of what is my country of origin?

Yes, I was born in the USA, but my origin is from ancestors who immigrated from other countries, other kingdoms, other cultures. I haven’t done intensive research into where my family began, nor how they came to the U.S. I do know I do not have any discernible DNA that connects me to American Indian forebearers. Thus, I can’t claim my family’s origin was in NorthAmerica.

They crossed oceans of water, time and circumstances, looking for excitement, safety, peace, opportunity. They were desperate or adventurous or afraid or rash or hopeless. Whatever their motivations, how did they look at their new homeland?

Did they have to learn a new language? Did they change their names? Did they claim this new land as their own quickly, reluctantly, hesitantly? Perhaps some came to hide from authorities. Or maybe they were in fear of their lives from wars and violence.

I surmise their decisions to make the journey to a new home did not come easily. It took courage, determination, and commitment to endure the hardships of migrating.

They were not accepted readily into this new environment, but once here, most could not return, so they stayed, finding a way to live and work, struggling to survive.

In Mexico, we see the immigrates from Central and South America, daring to seek shelter and security in a land they hope will be better than what they have left. But the journey is not easy, quick, nor safe. And they have no assurance they will be welcomed.

As an expat, my views about immigration have become more personal. I didn’t come with my belongings in a plastic bag. I didn’t fall off a train as I made my way across miles of desolute landscape to find a new home. I wasn’t robbed or assaulted, and I didn’t miss meals or have to beg for food.

No, I was accepted, I was welcomed, I was admitted. I can only hope the immigrants heading north will be treated kindly and like my ancestors who migrated to the United States and found a place to live in welcoming peace.