The "Melting Pot" Paradox
We often hear of "America: the melting pot," followed by all the perceived reasons this should be aspirational. As someone living the immigrant experience, melting has never been a desired experience.
I typically see two schools of thought regarding immigration. There is the melting pot theory, that denotes everyone’s contribution is taken in and all disparate pieces become one. The second is that of the salad bowl, where we are all together and have united to become a larger thing but we all maintain ownership of our individual characteristics — all of which adding necessary layers to the overall tapestry. The latter is the preferred mindset, it’s the scenario best describes the lives and migration patterns of peoples that have had to start over. We follow definitive migration roadmaps; flocking to locales that our friends, family members and ancestors first traversed. The Salad Bowl analogy best highlights this, America (and most other migratory ports) now boast several “Chinatowns” and “Little [insert country here]s.” When leaving everything you know, it’s best to stick to the places where folks you know have already started setting down roots. Jamaicans have largely settled in New York, South Florida, and Connecticut, when it was my turn to make my American pilgrimage I had uncles living in each state, I was fortunate enough to be able to pick my destination.
While we aspire to the Salad Bowl (in this context only) it’s been sobering to discover how much of you melts away here. You make the leap and what’s never discussed is how life will undoubtedly continue to move on without you. A lot is made of the surveying of your prospects, packing your life into two suitcases and a parcel of hand luggage, the adventure you’re about to partake in, creating a new life in a foreign land… we don’t typically discuss what you’re leaving and how easily that move can become permanent. The people, places and things you’ll probably never see again. You can’t exist in two separate realities, once you’ve committed to one, you’ve forfeited the other. I’ve never regretted moving, as a fifteen year old flown into a new existence, I didn’t have the wherewithal to maintain connections with those I’d left. Today, I have no tangible friendships in the country of my birth. I’m cool with a few of my brother’s friends, but did not mind to my own.
I don’t know if you feel yourself melting away from home in the moment, but for me however, it was a random burst of reality. Akin to life with a father who’d passed when I was too young to build long standing memories — so I don’t have them. In both scenarios, I woke up one day and realized a gaping hole. I’ve melted, and have lost huge parts of myself in the American pot.
My immigration story is laden with privilege and sacrifices that are not my own, I’ve often cited the Walter Lipman quote in telling it, “we sit in the shade of trees others have planted.” This reality is two-fold; I’m intimately aware that my status as “documented” is as random as those who share the distinction of being “undocumented.” The benefits I’m afforded are arbitrary — to me at least, they were hard fought, but again, I didn’t do the fighting. Which is why I’ve long maligned the argument that either existence carries any greater moral value, people are a sum of their experiences. At four, due to the maneuvering of my grandmother, I was afforded the ability to travel throughout the States frequently. My immediate family was granted Resident Alien Cards (commonly referred to as “Green Cards” and renewable every ten years). The card is shockingly akin to “Freedom Papers” issued to former Captive Africans who’d gained liberation from Antebellum America, in the way it allowed the cardholder to move from the state to state mostly unencumbered. Up to September, 2020 Immigrants in “Sanctuary Cities” were being advised to walk with their documentation in the midst of nationwide Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raids. In both scenarios, being caught sans “Freedom Papers” or “Green Card” spelled certain detainment, at the very least.
The original goal of my August, 1999 trip to Hartford, CT was to renew said “Green Card.” However, in a meeting with my then principal, we’d largely left with the feeling that continuing at that school wasn’t an option. I’d transferred to that school only a year prior and while I thought things were going well, my grades reflected an entirely different reality, so with two days left before the flight, a new plan was drawn up. There was another conversation and I was asked to pick the uncle I wanted to live with. With love to all involved, at the time, Connecticut seemed less volatile. My brother just started his Freshman year at Wesleyan University, I’m positive this factored into the decision as well.
I’m not sure if this is still the common practice, as several immigration policies have shifted since the September 11th Terrorist Attack (2001) and the founding of the US Department of Homeland Security (2002), however, in the process of renewing my Green Card, I was instructed to surrender the expiring documentation and wait for the new one to be mailed. Somewhere in that transitional period it became clear that my documentation was lost in America’s care. The next thirteen years were filled with speculation, accusations, trips to the Hartford Immigration Office, paperwork that didn’t always feel official (as an example, I’ve once traveled with a passport picture stapled to postcard sized piece of construction paper), and pointless interviews in airport interrogation rooms. Even after I’d successfully renewed again in 2009, the accusation levied on most flights back into the country was that I’d somewhat created this new card. Being completely candid, my application for citizenship wasn’t filled in out of any sense of fidelity to America, on the contrary, I just wanted the interrogations to stop.
One would think that these experiences would have led to a life amplifying the voices of immigrants who haven’t been as fortunate, not gifted with the ability to move through America relatively unbothered (again, relative — I’m still Black). Honestly, until the last few years my advocacy has centered youth development and Blackness. There’s privilege to not having to think about your immigration status and a significant part of the melting of said responsibility occurred when my ties to this country (speaking solely from an immigration perspective) were no longer in question. I am one of the many who were apathetic, but shocked into action through the words and actions of Donald Trump; seeing the narrative around us being shaped with malcontent, hearing the “shit-hole countries’’ commentary, the aforementioned I.C.E. raids. One day it was clear to me that, while I’ve always carried and displayed a strong sense of pride in my Jamaican’ness, I’d never seen that identity as a tool for change, or even connection. Like most of us, we’d become entrenched in othering of another kind. I was still being adversely affected by public policy, being profiled, pulled over and harassed, etc, the only difference was that no one asked for my Green Card anymore.
These past years were the first in which I’ve actively spent time working to use my story, and that of others, to take back the narrative around immigration. To honor the bravery of the many who’ve had to start over, to walk a path they’d only heard about, the ones who heard that streets were lined with gold only to learn that redlining kept us out of those neighborhoods. The ones who are tasked to prove their love constantly; my grandmother has uttered this quote consistently “sometime you [have to] kiss ass before you can kick it.” Watching people start from scratch and weather the storms that always come; the doctor who’s certification doesn’t matter here who can only provide by driving a cab, Master Electricians who are now driving trucks. The rebrand that is essentially a rite of passage. The melting they are required to do to belong here.
I rarely consider how much we’ve all melted but these thoughts have built a fortress in the front of my mind. How the years continue to tick off, and the home you knew intimately is now a place you visit — infrequently. How the distinction of being an immigrant means less with each passing year. How you’ve created an entire life in another place at the expense of all you once knew. The emphasis of the last couple years has been regaining parts of my identity I’d so effortlessly traded for convenience. Considering key moments in my American story; How easily I took on an American accent in high school because I was tired of repeating myself. I remember “Buju,” another Jamaican in my high school who donned the confidence to be himself in a country that aggressively seeks to break you. Confidence has always been an Achilles heel, but watching him exhibit that level of freedom was inspiring. Sadly that revelation hit me when it was too late to thank him. I’m writing this in part because I’d spent the last few decades working to be the person I needed growing up. I was introduced to a Middle School student who recently emigrated from Jamaica, the introduction was made because this was also a part of my story. I’d spent so much time working to create equitable educational experiences that at times I’ve lost sight of what led me to it.
I’ve lost sight of parts of me, and the goal now is reconnecting.
This was an excellent read. Thank you.