“Ladies and Gentleman, we will be approaching JFK from the north, so you should be able to see the NY skyline on the starboard side of the plane. That will be to your right. It is a bright sunny day, you should be able to see the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Tower, the Twin Towers, and if you squint, possibly even the Statue of Liberty in the NY harbor.”
The pilot’s voice on a plane is as close as one can get in life to God’s voice. No? You are stuck in a closed shell of existence, your fate entirely in the hands of an unknown, unseen entity, who only interacts with you through a one-way speaker system; the plane’s intercom, and whose calm voice is what you want to hear, especially any time there is turbulence in your journey. And whose commands you obey, or at least are meant to obey, unquestioningly!
As instructed by “The God Voice”, all the occupants of the plane turned their heads to the right, eager to look out their window at the aforementioned buildings. Some of those who had seats on the starboard side pointed to their windows. Someone exclaimed “I think I see her, I see the statue of liberty”. A wave of excitement went through the plane, and it felt as if the weight of the entire plane shifted to the right.
“Welcome to America, folks”, “The God Voice” boomed.
It was April 1st, 2000, the day I arrived in America. Yes, I arrived in the US on April Fool’s Day, which has given rise to much humor & many jokes in my circle of family & friends. In a way it is quite apropos; no matter which day you arrive in America; an immigrant’s life is in many way s a fool’s errand. Who but a fool leaves everything they know; their culture, their people, their way of life, their food, their own earth, and travels thousands of miles to arrive in an unknown land, their entire life-story packed into a suitcase or two and sometimes not even that much, their most precious belonging – “HOPE” – that the new land will give them refuge and be their land.
I didn’t get to see the Statue of Liberty that day. I was not on the starboard side of the plane! That happened exactly two weeks later on April 15th, when I found myself taking the train all the way to Battery Park. Unlike the day I had arrived, it was a cold April day, drizzling, damp. But I had to see her, that mighty woman with a torch and the flame; the mythical Lady Liberty.
The first time I saw her, tears wouldn’t stop flowing. I gazed at her across the NY harbor “Give me your tired, your poor, yearning to breathe free” – I heard her voice. I was not tired or poor – at least not in the traditional sense. But I was tired – of the years’ long fight I and my sister had endured against a brutally patriarchic Indian society, which used to decide & often still does, the fate of a girl the day she was born. Crushed by the unforgiving & unyielding oppression of the old world, and aching from the desire to have a voice, I too was yearning to breathe free. I had been mother-less for years, and here I was – face to face with the Mother of Exiles. I felt like Rose Dewitt Bukatur from the movie “Titanic” might have; determined to break the shackles of her old life, sailing into the unknown of the New World, daring to make a new start & a home for herself.
Immigrants – vilified, abused, adored, reviled, heroes in headlines, suspects in whispers; they make America great, they are not the right kind, they built the skyline, they steal our jobs, they are hardworking, they are changing our culture, dreamers and thieves, burdens and hopes, America has always had a love-hate relationship with its immigrants. And immigrants have always known it, and always made it – despite the doubts, the punishments, the doors that close, the goalposts that move, the silence after the promise, the whispers & the finger-pointing. They endure — WE endure – not necessarily because we’re always welcome, but because we’re determined. It takes grit to leave one’s country behind, and most of us burn our ships when we arrive in this land – of liberty and opportunity and yes, of immigrants. For better or worse, America has ended up in the modern era as the country whose promise is both believed & sustained by the immigrants – the ones who still arrive tired, poor and yearning to breathe free. Because let’s face it, a cushy life in any land doesn’t lead to the kind of fire in the belly that fuels a nation. And the mega-rich who are able to buy their way into America through a “Gold Card”, do not aspire to belong anywhere. The American dream is the dream of the “homeless, tempest-tost, exiled immigrant” who seeks to belong, who seeks asylum.
So this April fool’s day, this fool – celebrated her Silver Jubilee in America! When I look back at 25 years of life; successes & failures, accomplishments & setbacks, lessons & heartaches, I can think of no better word that has come to define my life in America but – Immigrant. My immigrant eyes assimilated the east and the west, the old and the new, the traditions behind, and the promises ahead. I learned to read between languages, between cultures, between ideas & ideologies. I learnt to speak to both, connect with both, respond to both.
And I still carry my story — my immigrant story – and all immigrants’ stories – not just in a suitcase, but in my voice, my work, my being — because I believe & hope like only an immigrant can, that I belong in this land, that this land is my land.
Swati Srivastava is an immigrant and a multi award-winning writer, director, and voiceover artist. A filmmaker & storyteller, Swati turns ideas into experience. She is also a trained facilitator for Crossing Party Lines moderating conversations that bring people together across their political divides. Swati is also an environmentalist and lives in a Net Zero Energy home with her husband. She can be reached via Linkedin and swati@TiredAndBeatup.com