I came to the US in the 80’s, as an immigrant via India, Hong Kong and Africa, and landed in Astoria, a gritty Greek neighborhood in Queens. I fell in love with the prosaic neighborhood with its heart of gold, and it was here that I discovered my own private America.The part which never fails to amaze me is that when I take the N subway from Manhattan to Astoria – glancing at my fellow passengers I see a virtual United Nations – Latinos, Chinese, South Asians, Blacks, whites all wedged together, sitting side by side on the Great American Journey. If Lady Liberty was to see them, she would definitely shed a tear – because this is exactly what America is all about. And on this day after the Fourth of July, with the firecrackers still ringing in our ears – we can say amen to that.
Browsing: Indian immigrant
‘Growing Up Smith’ will surely hit a sweet spot – almost every Indian immigrant child has a memory of being the only brown-skinned student in the class, the one with the unpronounceable name and a lunch box from which emanated curry smells. ‘Growing Up Smith’ is a love poem to all those little kids who struggled to become ‘American’ and tried to straddle two cultures.
Manning the cash register at a 711 or a gas station is no laughing matter – especially at night when the crazies and the desparadoes come out. Many an immigrant tale of striving and dreams has ended in a hail of gunshots. Here is one fiercely brave Indian immigrant who changed the outcome – but was she foolhardy or just plain lucky?