Thoughts of an immigrant

Thoughts of an immigrant

Denisa Dobrin (2 Febr. 2008)

It just happened. Like a leaf carried by the wind of life, I landed in America.

When I first got here, this amazing country was probably at its pick. Then, September 11 happened. I, once again, witnessed history in the making. First the fall of the communism in my own country; now the decline of a superpower. I see the rage and the recession scary roar of a falling wounded lion and all I can do is hope that what the gun only carried a tranquilizer…

All these people coming to America … They come here for the dream. But what happens when you fight so hard for a better life and still end up with leftovers?

The other day I saw a Chinese man washing tables at McDonalds. He must’ve been at least 60. There was so much… humility in his eyes. I couldn’t stop but wonder: was that his life long dream? I don’t know if he was happy. But he seemed so at peace with himself. Was that just resignation or was it accomplishment because his children probably have the chance to build up their fortunes in an American fashion?

I tried so hard to “integrate” and blend in this mega culture. Truth is I’ve only managed to become myself.

You can always tell an immigrant from a native, for some reason or another. Maybe it’s their accent, or the way they dress; the way they react in various circumstances; the way they cook and eat; their style of work and the reverence or despise of the others…

I never tried to become an American for fear of what others might say if I didn’t do it. It just seemed the right thing to do, since I was the one who chose to live here. In my attempt to mingle the ancestry in my genes with the new customs I’ve managed to create a new culture. It’s definitely not entirely American and it’s most certainly not Romanian.

In fact, every time I return home to Romania, I take a step back. I’m scared, horrified and astonished by what’s happening. World Empires have a way of indirectly dominating by imposing their culture or simply unintentionally slipping their influence in other nation’s traditions. The will to become more like that superpower brings about changes that can have both brilliant and tragic consequences. I see the wealth built overnight, the fast rising huge malls, the pretty cars and empty mansions waiting for the return of the dweller who paid for them to be built and than left to chase another dream… I see the beauty and the sadness of a new wave. But what happens to tradition?

Caught between America and Europe, Romania, a country that always managed to have its own space in history, is once again creating its own way. Caught in the battle between the euro and the dollar.

As American as I’ve become, I need to go back to my roots every year because I crave that dose of reality and of “being HOME”. And each time I return there I can’t stop but wonder: am I the last of the real Romanians just because Romania still is in my heart what it was when I initially left it? I don’t know. But I think that in my search for more than one home I’ve become a woman with no home. I’ve become a citizen of the new world. The world without borders that Earth seems to be shaping up to become.

What is America? What is my old home becoming? Who am I really and what am I to be? It looks like that’s the dilemma of every immigrant and every soul; cause fighting for what you want to be tomorrow, you can’t help but ignore who you were yesterday and who you will actually be in two weeks.

All we are is hope and dreams. Until reality hits us.