Beyond Our Skin and Gender: A Story of Immigration

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure my father said to us and laughed while my mother disinfected the glass coffee table my father dragged in from the street. It was a cliche thing to say but appropriate under the circumstances. My family had immigrated to America a few months prior from the Soviet Union with only two thousand dollars and a few suitcases filled with memories and clothes.

“It was a cliche thing to say but appropriate under the circumstances.”

We would scavenge the street for anything that would make life more comfortable in our new home. This was not the first coffee table my father struggled to bring home. A few months prior he found a coffee table so pretty he couldn’t believe someone actually threw it out onto the street. His excitement in discovering this treasure of a coffee table let him forget how tired he felt after having worked fourteen hours on his feet washing dishes. The joy this coffee table would bring to our family gave my father the strength he needed to carry it home. My heart always sinks when he describes the moment the glass fell out and shattered steps from where we lived. I can only imagine what this coffee table meant to him. To this day, my father tells this story of the coffee table as a reminder of how things were when we first came to America. Things are different now. My parents worked day and night to achieve the American Dream. A house, cars, a college education for my brother and I. My brother and I are lucky to have such parents.

“To this day, my father tells this story of the coffee table as a reminder of how things were when we first came to America.”

My childhood is nothing to complain about. Despite our circumstances I had it pretty good. Thanks to how I grew up I’m capable of seeing the world with eyes open. My first two summers in America were spent with my grandparents who had immigrated with us. They lived in low-income housing in a different part of Boston. I don’t know a lot of people who can say they spent their summers in the projects then again that’s not something most people would want others to know. Maybe that’s why nothing shocks me. I feel like I’ve seen it all. For the last six years I’ve been living in various parts of Brooklyn, mostly up and coming areas. These places are a gentle reminder of things I had seen growing up.

I do find myself surprised catching the occasional glimpse of graffiti “Keep Flatbush Black” but it usually vanishes as quickly and quietly as it shows up. There was also that random guy driving a creepy, white van who yelled out “You’re in the wrong neighborhood”. A man happened to be beside me on a bicycle at that moment turned to me shaking his head and blurting out “Idiot” referring to the driver of the van. I should mention the man on the bicycle was black. I hate it when people make everything about race. It’s true the first things we see about a person are their gender and the color of their skin but why do we allow ourselves to assume we know something about someone based on their appearance.

“It’s true the first things we see about a person are their gender and the color of their skin but why do we allow ourselves to assume we know something about someone based on their appearance.”

I wish I could tell them I’m an immigrant, a former refugee. Would they still hate me for the color of my skin? I still remember the day we abandoned our home in the Soviet Union. An army General showed up with men in uniform carrying guns. They glared as we walked out carrying suitcases leaving life familiar behind. We made our way to Austria and after a few months we were given permission to head to Italy. We spent a year in Italy waiting for the American government to finally take us in.

Don’t look at me and assume I don’t understand about prejudice and struggle. I might be different from you but I’ve experienced human nature at its worst first hand. My grandmother survived not one but two concentration camps, so I’m lucky to have been born. My grandfather was shot through the jaw while protecting the world from the evil taking over in the forties. I’m not looking for pity or apologies. I’m just looking for a place to call home.

If you would like to read another story written by me please feel free to read Saving Fred’s Life was My Choice to Make

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