And this is my story.
Over two decades ago, my parents aimed to come to America from Egypt. They applied and went through the arduous process of America’s diversity lottery.
Yes, “lottery,” as there aren’t many visas handed out and a pool of 50,000 are handed out each year. Several million apply every year and it’s now above 12,000,000 applicants annually.
By end of March of 1995, and a couple of weeks after my sixth birthday, we were granted the visas and were well on our way to coming to America. This was the chance of a lifetime.
About two weeks later, my father passed away from a heart attack. I was the only one with him when it happened and I will forever remember that day. Now a widow with a six-year-old and an 11-month-old, my mother was faced with a mountain of decisions to make and several unknowns on how to raise two boys alone.
When August of 1995 rolled around and the visas were set to expire for travel, she made the decision to go through with the immigration anyway. It wasn’t easy; my father’s six remaining siblings and their families resisted her actions and tried to do what they could to keep us, the children of their brother, with them. She persevered and brought us to America.
“We were at a disadvantage against our native counterparts and, despite it, continued to succeed.”
Growing up with a single parent in a foreign country with different traditions and a largely alien culture was strenuous at times and enlightening in others. English was my second language and it took years to adopt a native-speaker’s accent so I wouldn’t stand out; I caught up to many of my classmates and excelled past some academically.
Meanwhile, my mother worked tirelessly during the day and often took various courses in the evenings to excel in her career. We were at a disadvantage against our native counterparts and, despite it, continued to succeed.
I first learned how to build webpages at age 11, had my first job at 16, finished high school a year earlier than my peers, got my first professional technical position developing websites at 18, worked at least one job all throughout college, and am now at my 15th job in my career at the age of 27.
However, because of the broken immigration process, I only received my citizenship less than two years ago — at age 25. Up until then, I was taxed without representation. It was an abundantly cheerful day when I got that little plastic flag and said the pledge of allegiance among a crowd of fellow immigrants. I am American.
Saying that used to instill an immeasurable amount of pride in me. It’s now becoming a badge of shame. When I hear the portion of the sonnet of Lady Liberty: “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” I feel as though that is a forgotten America. It is an America so alien to our own that we would probably ridicule it; some actually do.
America should embrace immigration, not fear it. I want to help people put a face to what immigrants look like, and I encourage you to tell your story or that of your parents.
I AM AN IMMIGRANT. And that was my story.
A.A.
Reprinted with permission.
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