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The Children of Immigrants
March 26, 2008 - 12:57pm — Lenelle Moïse
When I am a toddler, a child, a tween, a teen and ayoung adult, I am called an ancestral soul, a "ti granmoun," a little old person. Adults study me and decidethat I am wise beyond my years, mature for my age, emotionally ripe. I am told it is unusual to meet afive-, 10-, 15-year-old girl who does not slouchor mumble or speak in monosyllables. When I do the things that come naturally to me — when I hold my spineup erect, when I wait my turn to speak, when I speak having listened carefully, when I enunciate, when Ilook grown-ups in the eye — I am told I must have "been here before."
"How do you know?" one college professor asks me aftershe has seen a psychologically violent play I have written at age 19. "How do you already know?"
In high school, I charm my teachers. They encourage meto write speeches about feminism that I recite for International Women's Day at City Hall or deliver aspart of conference panels at local universities. They tell me, if I was older, we would probably be friends. One of them regularly flirts with me. Among my peers I exist somewhere between amicably mysterious and irrevocably dorky. The popular kids greet me in the hallways, but they do not invite me to parties. Even if I was invited, I would not be allowed to attend these casual festivities where beer and Spin-the-Bottle and Seven Minutes in Heaven are served. My mother tells me she is protecting me from boys, but the truth is that, after I do my homework, she wants me to type up anotherfamily-friend's resume or resignation letter. At home, I am a bridge, a cultural interpreter, a spokesperson, a trusted ally, an American who is Haitian too, but also definitely American.
The children of immigrants don't get to be children. We lose our innocence watching our parents' backs bend, break. I am an old soul because when I am young, I watch my parents' spirits get slaughtered.
In Haiti, they were middle-class. Respected teachers. Home owners. They supervised live-in servants. They donated clothes to the poor. They gave up everything they knew to inherit American dreams. And here, they join factory lines, wipe shit from mean old whitemen's behinds and scrub five-star hotel toilets fordimes above minimum wage. Here, they shuck and jive and step and fetch and play chauffeur to people who aren't as smart as they are, people who do not speak as many languages as they do. In the 1980s, they are barred from giving blood because newscasters and politicians say that AIDS comes from where they comefrom: Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, a black magic island that spawns boat people and chaos, a place of illiterate zombies,orphan beggars and brazen political corruption.
When I am a child, my childhood is a luxury my family cannot afford. Their dignity is not spared, and so my innocence is also not spared. They are humiliated and traumatized daily, so I become a nurse to their trauma.I am told too much, so I know too much, so I am wisebeyond my years.
When I am six, my mother tells me that when she found out she was pregnant with me at age 19, she"tried to kill the baby." She says "the baby," as if iti sn't me she's talking about; as if I am not the expensive, scandalous daughter who forced my way into her world despite the abortion-inducing herbal teas she drank and her frantic leaps off of small buildings.
When I am 16, my father calls me on the phone and inevitably weeps. He says, "Living in this country, I have learned not to hope for things. Only you are my hope. Only you."
This is too much pressure for a little girl, so I grow up fast.
"How do you know?" one college professor asks me aftershe has seen a psychologically violent play I have written at age 19. "How do you already know?"
In high school, I charm my teachers. They encourage meto write speeches about feminism that I recite for International Women's Day at City Hall or deliver aspart of conference panels at local universities. They tell me, if I was older, we would probably be friends. One of them regularly flirts with me. Among my peers I exist somewhere between amicably mysterious and irrevocably dorky. The popular kids greet me in the hallways, but they do not invite me to parties. Even if I was invited, I would not be allowed to attend these casual festivities where beer and Spin-the-Bottle and Seven Minutes in Heaven are served. My mother tells me she is protecting me from boys, but the truth is that, after I do my homework, she wants me to type up anotherfamily-friend's resume or resignation letter. At home, I am a bridge, a cultural interpreter, a spokesperson, a trusted ally, an American who is Haitian too, but also definitely American.
The children of immigrants don't get to be children. We lose our innocence watching our parents' backs bend, break. I am an old soul because when I am young, I watch my parents' spirits get slaughtered.
In Haiti, they were middle-class. Respected teachers. Home owners. They supervised live-in servants. They donated clothes to the poor. They gave up everything they knew to inherit American dreams. And here, they join factory lines, wipe shit from mean old whitemen's behinds and scrub five-star hotel toilets fordimes above minimum wage. Here, they shuck and jive and step and fetch and play chauffeur to people who aren't as smart as they are, people who do not speak as many languages as they do. In the 1980s, they are barred from giving blood because newscasters and politicians say that AIDS comes from where they comefrom: Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, a black magic island that spawns boat people and chaos, a place of illiterate zombies,orphan beggars and brazen political corruption.
When I am a child, my childhood is a luxury my family cannot afford. Their dignity is not spared, and so my innocence is also not spared. They are humiliated and traumatized daily, so I become a nurse to their trauma.I am told too much, so I know too much, so I am wisebeyond my years.
When I am six, my mother tells me that when she found out she was pregnant with me at age 19, she"tried to kill the baby." She says "the baby," as if iti sn't me she's talking about; as if I am not the expensive, scandalous daughter who forced my way into her world despite the abortion-inducing herbal teas she drank and her frantic leaps off of small buildings.
When I am 16, my father calls me on the phone and inevitably weeps. He says, "Living in this country, I have learned not to hope for things. Only you are my hope. Only you."
This is too much pressure for a little girl, so I grow up fast.
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18 Comments
Wow!!
I just discovered your blog and I am here to stay, love your style of writing not too writers are left out that can actually draw you in emotionally like you do. You write beautifully... as an African female (Student) in the US, I can almost identify with this particular topic. You are a true inspiration to me...Thank You
your light
Did someone say David Rudder? one of trinidad's finest artist/musicians/poets...
Lenelle, your writing is powerful, you are powerful. thank you for sharing your light.
Thank you
I can't even describe how moving this blog was.
your work is...
simply amazing. I'm also a first-generation "American" and had to grow up beyond my years. You have described (the collective) our experience so eloquently. Thanks. I agree with everyone else that your words are moving!
Absolutely poignant
As someone said before I will read everything you write.
A different kind of old soul....
I always got the same thing growing up. Teachers trusted and respected me, my peers didn't always understand me, my mother confided in me....
I didn't have the experience of an immigrant's daughter, (although I'm currently an immigrant in France and understand some of the frustration) but I did have the experience of the elder child of a single mother. A woman who learned the hard way that a two-year associate degree and a two-year photography degree do not equal a four-year bachelor's degree. A mother who quit her job to raise her children. A mother who had the courage to leave her husband for her own good as well as the good of her children. A mother who returned to the working world, but gave up a shot at an amazing photography career that would require a great deal of travel, and became a secretary so she could skip lunch and leave work early to attend a school function. A mother who lied about having a big lunch at work so there was enough food for her children. A mother who always put her children before herself. A mother who has fought breast cancer and won. A mother who has always supported me, even when she doesn't understand where I'm coming from....
I too was the child whose mother cried on her shoulder. I was her best friend and confidante. I was the one she talked to when there was barely enough money. It's not easy for a child, but it certainly prepares for the real world, which is nothing like fairy tales that we're told as children.
Your posts are always my favorite. They are articulate and moving and unapologetic about confronting harsh realities. Thank you for the continued inspiration.
If you deny any affinity with another person or kind of person, if you declare them to be wholly different from yourself, you have, in fact, alienated yourself...~Le Guin
...Onward Towards Excellence! But How Does the Soul?
And when all is said and done, the children of immigrants like your parents and mine succumb to the all consuming pressure to succeed because "mama and dada have given up everything for you".
Yes we can switch from native dialects to portuguese to french and english without batting an eyelid at the same time explaining Einstein's Theory of Relativity. But after the mind and body have been fed and clothed and housed, who teaches us and where do we find and use the tools to feed and respond to the soul when she says "I need you"?
What a wonderful gift you have. Your words always move and provoke...
"Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself"
The Prophet - Kahlil Gibran
You are simply elegant and
You are simply elegant and your insight is right on the mark every time. If only LWord had a Lenelle instead of a Jenny Shecter...
I can relate.
I am a first gen. Nigerian-American. Thank you for sharing.
I totally understand....
I was born in the Philippines and lived there for 8 years. From the time I was a baby until I was 8 years old, I lived with different relatives, moved 4 times, and was so spoiled. After my mom gave birth to me, she and my father left me with relatives and went off to Saudi Arabia to work. They worked hard and sent money home to me and those who cared for me. I went to the best schools they can send me...schools for the children of diplomats and high-ranking government officials. I had a driver, a nanny that followed me everywhere, and every toy I ever wanted. I lived a high life and I had the attitude of a spoiled rich bitch, I was only so young. My parents worked their way from Saudi Arabia to Canada and then to the US. They lived in California with my uncle and then they moved all the way to Virginia. My mother worked two jobs, my father worked in the morning and went to trade school to be a mechanical engineer at night. When I was 8, they finally managed to petition me to come to the US where I met my 3 year old brother for the first time. I had such a hard time adjusting. Here, I have no maid, I have no driver, and I couldn't get everything I want....not to mention that now, I have a little brother that got more attention than I did. This did not settle with me at all. My parents and I fought a lot and then cried a lot. There was a lot of humbling on both sides. I think it was when I was around 10 or 11 when I finally realized how hard life really was and I think I grew up, a lot. I felt so bad for my parents and so I began to do things to please them as a sign of thanks for what they have done. I think from then on, all their hopes and dreams rested on me. As the oldest child, they expected me to have the highest grades, to go to the best college, to be who they wanted me to be.
It is just so much pressure...it just forced me to grow up, be independent, make my own decisions, say what I had to say.
It is unfortunate, for my parents anyway, that they did not get the me that they want. In their world, there was no room for me to be anything else than what they expected but here I am gay, a history major instead of the nursing major they wanted, and living on my own. They had so much hope for me to succeed that there was just no room for anything else....they just couldn't get past the idea of me being gay.
I know it hurt them so much because I know that they had all this hope for me....but it hurt me too because I wanted to make them proud of me. However, all this made me grow up even more....the situation made me face the world, the reality and the life of a real adult....the life full of up to 10 hour work days, bills, and money problems and worries. I'm only 19 years old, I should be in college partying, enjoying my time with friends, focusing on school but here I am again...being all grown up. If my parents can only see me now, maybe they will understand that I am still trying to make them proud.
Thank you for sharing your
Thank you for sharing your life experiences. More Americans in this country need to hear your truth. We need to be reminded of what it is really like for an immigrant family coming into this country facing so many challenges and carrying so much hope for a better life. It seems like all we hear or read is the negative, twisted version of Haiti's history. We are blessed to have your old wise soul here with us opening our hearts and minds.
Tiffany
I'm so moved I don't even
I'm so moved I don't even know how to respond, but wanted to let you know I was here. I'll come back.
Lenelle,
I will read anything you write.
I can hear in your words,
I can hear in your words, and almost feel, the old-soul in you that so many others refer to. Bless you for being brave enough to face what this world throws at you every day.
"Haiti, the poorest country
"Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, a black magic island that spawns boat people and chaos, a place of illiterate zombies,orphan beggars and brazen political corruption."
Haiti... the country that fought for freedom when no one really knew what freedom was. The headstrong, the brave. If it wasn't for Haiti, I wouldn't be free. Lenelle, ever heard a song called "Haiti I'm Sorry" by David Rudder? Listen to it.
Freedom-loving Black Folks
Yes! I wish more people knew about (and celebrated) Haiti's fierce and glorious beginnings. There would have been no American Emancipation Proclamation in 1862 if Haiti had not first defeated its French slave captors back in 1804. That little island full of freedom-loving black folks was an example to the world.
Thank you all for these delicious, supportive comments.
Open Heart, Lenelle.
P.S. LOVE that David Rudder song. LOVE!
you write
such poignant pieces. i never respond because i'm so moved. i was thinking last night of sending you a pm to say that your blogs move me and leave me speechless, but i think i got drunk and hit on katie liederman instead? maybe that was last week? i can't begin to imagine anything you've written happening to me or how it would affect me. maybe the one time my mom told me if she'd known how hard it would be [emotionally] to have children she wouldn't have done it, but i still think that pales in comparison to the things you've experienced.
so if i never write again because your words have nailed me and rendered me typeless - always know i'm deeply affected by your writings - they are vivid and painful.
Growing up too soon
Lenelle, that is a lot to carry for a young girl. Even old souls need comfort and nurture. Thank you for sharing your story of being a daughter of immigrants and the truth of your family's life.