PERSONAL ESSAYS
Why America May Not Be The Promised Land for Your Family
A story about the uncertainty that surrounds most Immigrants in America
Once again the cacophony from noisy horns and screeching buses disturbed my sleep. Yes, it was 6 am, and this was my natural alarm. I was in the pollution capital of India- New Delhi. An attempt to open the window to let in some fresh air, quickly reminded me of this fact. The deceiving grayish layer that enveloped the atmosphere was actually smoke covered in soot emanating from the thousands of vehicles outside. This was a somewhat cooler day in December, and the reason why this two-bedroom pigeon hole didn’t feel like an oven. While the summer in this part of India can be quite unforgiving with a high of 113 degree Fahrenheit, the winter temperature at this time of day would rarely cross 60 degrees.
I slipped a record of Vivaldi’s Four seasons to step up the rhythm of my personal ongoing morning overture. The goal was to reach work on time with my kids. Yes, conveniently, I was a music teacher in their school, but with two not-so-helpful-hands and an overworked helpless husband, struggling to offer IT support to his client overseas, this was proving to be a regrettable decision. As I woke the kids for school and attempted to dress them up amid scampering to the kitchen to manage a not-so-charred packed lunch, my three-year old daughter rebelled. Poor papa had no choice but to muffle the mouthpiece in an attempt to keep the environment as official as possible. This was the only solution possible in a cramped-noisy indoor apartment and an even noisier outdoors.
My attempts to reach work on time proved futile every time. Firstly, the elevator which attempted to cater to around 50 families in this seven story society was to blame. The apartment complex had two elevators for use by residents, but the authorities had purposely kept only one operational owing to the frequent power cuts we experience in this area. The one elevator that did work, took around five minutes to make its way to the seventh floor, after several stops along the way. Going down was another story. Worst was, when almost after being seated and ready to go, one kid would yell, “Mom, I left my homework, or my water bottle”. This time I may as well do a little jig while slugging my way through the straw.
When all went well, an unprecedented rally, a non-working red light or an accidental uprising would cause the delay. There was at least one lucky day every week where I managed to reach bang on time. Today was one of them! A timely start to the day would definitely do some good to the 35 children who see me for music for about 45 minutes.
I used to be a journalist, but changed career paths and took up a school job to devote more time to my kids, who were having a hard time adjusting to this country. Not less than about 6 months ago, we had moved back to India after staying for about four years in three different places in the USA. My husband was offering software solution support to many clients within the US and was expected to move from place to place, on the bat of an eyelid. This uncertainty kept our minds occupied, and our houses unfurnished. This time we were waiting for a renewal of our work visa by the USCIS after a period of four years. Sadly, after thinking about the issue for almost one year, it rejected our case and gave us merely 15 days to move back to our home country- India.
My son Conan who had been exposed to the joy of pre-school in America was caught unawares. After being thrusted into nursery mid-session, he had to train his little fingers almost overnight to write cursive. Worse still, his lungs were not adjusting to this incessant pollution and he was on the inhaler every four hours. He was potty-trained but started having accidents in the daytime.
The greatest test came when one afternoon, he complained of a loud noise in his ear, which left him writhing in pain. What caused that loud noise, we did not know. Perhaps he put a sharp object while he was playing in the other room! To keep matters in check we went to the ENT, who sent him right back with no sign of injury. For the next three days, the poor guy had one hand cupped to his right ear, amid emitting muffled crying sounds through his mouth. Another visit to the doctor resulted in him being admitted to the hospital aka money-vending machine. We went from doctor to doctor who prescribed a new test each morning to extend Conan’s stay. Conan’s crying now was persistent, not only from the pain in his ear, but the constant hit and trial to find a vein to insert an unnecessary glucose drip. When injuries from constant poking carved a C on his inner elbow, we decided to take matters in our hands, and fought with the authorities to discharge Conan. They sent us to another ENT, who now claimed that Conan actually had no pain, but was faking it. He referred us to the top neurological hospital in town.
We got home and could not sleep a wink in the night amid Conan’s constant moaning and jerky eye movements. This new development brought our worst fears alive. Conan’s was not an easy birth. He was born a month and a half premature and extremely tiny. What if a worm went into his ear and was causing him this discomfort! At about 3 am in the night, we took him to VIMHANS, Delhi’s premier hospital of metal health, neuro and applied sciences. Here, they conducted a brain scan on my four-year old. He is now eight, but he remembers that they put him in an enclosure and took a picture of his brain. The reports were normal and the doctor told us that Conan had developed a phobia for hospitals and doctors due to the many unfortunate events he had to fathom. What it was that was troubling Conan’s ear, we could not make out, but, after about a month of coaxing and cajoling and low noise, the episode was thankfully forgotten.
My daughter Vallerie — the actual American citizen, was managing quite well. Both of them mentioned frequently a desire to camp outdoors, and cycle the Erie Canal, the way we did in New York. Their version of Erie Canal here was a drain that went around the apartment complex, with no bike bath but a very smelly sidewalk which led us to the very busy main street. The stench from the drain did not bother the kids and just to let them have their way, we did attempt to bike around it, until we almost rammed into a makeshift tent of witchcraft or a vendor selling coconut water. Since we were in the capital, any picturesque town was at least eight hours by road- a commute we would dread amid the lack of time, the growing traffic and nauseating and unkempt winding roads. Safety was another major concern. The only options available for entertainment were either the expensive movie theatres, or small overpriced indoor playgrounds. The overcrowded parks with broken or no swings failed to enthrall both my children.
The constant stress and lack of satisfaction was pushing us again and again to move to just any developed country with amenities like the kids was used to. In a hurry, we had also started the process for Canadian immigration with an attorney to speed up the process. But instead of speeding it up, he delayed our paperwork. While in India, we had no money to invest further in this process. My husband’s Indian firm too was trying to bag the H1-B, but we lost the lottery twice. After about two years of failed attempts, the third year President Trump came to power and limited the scope of H1-Bs. Our hopes of returning back to the USA were diminished but we were surely not feeling at home in our home country. Both of us had good jobs which paid well, but we were able to save nothing due to the standard of living and circumstances we had gotten the children used to. Additional expenditure was the rent for the house every month, and whatever was left was exhausted in medical bills. After seven years of moving, we, including the kids, longed to have a place we could call home.
Excitedly, the wait came to an end. In March 2017, my husband’s Indian company had managed to successfully secure a L1-A Managerial level visa for skilled workers. This was again a temporary visa offering him no options to work with another employer. If the project ended, or the visa not renewed after three years, we may have to move back. But for now, this was the best way to escape the stark reality of India. My husband travelled to Rochester, NY again, and this time bought a house instead of renting. The children and I followed in July after spending a good summer with my mom in Germany. We have been here since, and while we breathe cleaner air and enjoy our green backyard, the path has been downtrodden. At least twice in the past three years we have encountered a point when we might have had to go back if my husband’s company could not find a project in time. He has been asking the Indian firm to file his green card to make things certain, but they always find a way to avert this.
Dejected, we restarted the process for Canadian immigration. However, this time instead of the 504 points we had about a five years back, we had only 422. We did not realize this until now, when the attorney actually finalized our petition and sent it to the pool with other prospective skilled workers. After the age of 30, an applicant loses 5 points every year, and we had applied 5 years too late! Even though we had invested time and money into this process, prospects were better for young families with points above 450. Now, we had one year to try to increase our points to make it to the cut off, or two years within which a province from Canada could invite us to apply for Canadian residency. Neither option would defer the deadly deadline of February 2020, which is when our work visa in the USA would be put up for renewal again. Owing to President’s Trump’s changing moods and rules toward skilled-immigrants, we shudder to think of the outcome. If not renewed, we may have to return back to our home country, which due to the choices we made, is no longer home to our children.
Despite being law-abiding residents and paying all taxes honestly, it is heart-wrenching to learn that there is actually nothing a middle-class immigrant from a developing country can do to make USA his home. We exposed our two children to the land of milk and honey, so as to give them a better, secure future, with unlimited opportunities. Though our intentions were just, this seemed to be the wrong choice. If we as a family had not experienced the freedom in the land of the brave, the warmth of most fellow Americans and the purity of this air, India would still be our home, for generations to come. Most immigrants who made it big in the States escaped dire circumstances and came here. They claimed asylum or refugee status. But we cannot prove that we are oppressed back home. However, we constantly deal with oppression each day as we refuse the children their favorite pet or that backyard swing for the fear of moving again.
“Papa told us this was our forever home. We don’t want to move again”, they tell me.
Neither do I.
