3: Bad Immigrant
The world is collectively holding its breath for the outcome of the 2020 US election, Trump or Biden? Will people finally awaken to Trump’s bigotry, his ruthless disregard for people’s health during this pandemic, his corrupt divisiveness? I call my dad the day before the potential apocalypse — my fail-safe person to talk politics with (in addition to North American news, he consumes Iranian, British, and Russian news the way most gobble crispy bacon slices). I absentmindedly ask if relative so-and-so in the US has voted yet, and he definitively answers, “I didn’t ask them. They’re voting for Trump.” My mind snaps to attention in shock. I know our extended family’s politics vary, but I didn’t expect any of them to support the dark side, especially after four years of ample evidence of what he has to offer. “They support the wall,” my father explains, “to keep Mexican immigrants from coming into the country.”
“But Dad,” I respond, my voice rising. I feel a hot flash coming on. “They are immigrants! What’s the difference?”
“I asked that,” he responds.
“And?” I demand, the court judge ready to grant these distant relatives instant reprieve or punishment.
“They said we’re the good kind of immigrant.”
I sit there gobsmacked, my brain obsessing over the question, What is a good immigrant? And of course, good is usually measured against its opposite, so the more interesting question is, What does it mean to be a bad immigrant? And which one am I?
There’s this story we tell ourselves (especially here in multicultural Canada) that, “hallelujah, we’re one of the richest and most open-minded nations on earth, anyone would be lucky to move here!” Compared to most other countries, this is true. We have a high quality of life marked by free health care, one of our major political party leaders wears a turban, and people can be Canadian and something else. We make room for hyphenated identities — Iranian-Canadian, Pakistani-Canadian, Jamaican-Canadian, etc.— rather than force people to choose their future over their past. Yet the forced adherence to this as the only story can become oppressive. So many people I met after publishing my book, a story documenting the lifelong double whammy of forced departure (exile) from Iran and subsequent social rejection (racism) here in Canada, surprised me by their insistence: “But aren’t you glad you moved here?”; “Isn’t Canada the best place to be?”; “Look what you have been able to accomplish!” I started to wonder who people were trying to make feel better, themselves or me?
I wonder how many people know the other stories of those who immigrate from faraway lands — how hard it is to transplant a foreigner into the host country and hope the system doesn’t reject them. Even less chance of acceptance if they come from a non-white part of the world. Dad, who was the Auditor General of Iran under the Shah’s monarchy, came here to work for the Auditor General’s office in the Government of Alberta. He left after five years. The reason cited: racial discrimination. I know this only because I found a file in his office drawer more than a decade later. He goes by Jim in public, Jamsheed in private; speaks English with clients and Farsi at home; learned how to swallow casual racism while being the only accountant that many of his rich white clients trust.
The experience of forced immigration as a Brown or Black person, where you look like everyone else in your native country but arrive in a new one where no one in charge looks like you, is a major shock. You gamble everything to scale down to almost nothing and have little control over anything. The collateral damage is an accumulation of invisible dents and punctures to the very shape of self. You find your spirit starting to leak out. You hope you can Frankenstein yourself by grafting on a pronunciation here or adding a cultural mannerism there, but ultimately it’s never enough. People sniff out the foreign in you and remain wary. Depending on what part of the world you’re coming from, whether you’re fluent in English and how much money you have, the experience is either bearable or much worse. An upper-class white Brazilian has a fundamentally different immigration experience than a bearded working-class Pakistani in exile.
No, in order to have any hope of fitting in, you have to be a good immigrant, to be grateful, and to express this gratitude at every opportunity. To be a non-white immigrant from a non-European country requires a super-sized dose of gratitude: gratitude to be here, gratitude for a better life, gratitude toward the benevolent politeness of strangers who exclude while smiling, who are able to hold on to the illusion of their inclusive politics while standing in front of the closed door to belonging. Immigrants are expected to be outwardly grateful while dealing with the anger at what they have lost and what they are facing, in private. Smile in public, rage in secret. And if you rock the boat and show any kind of anger — toward a boss or teacher, an institution or government — for expecting the same meal deal as those around you for the same amount of effort, you should just go back where you came from.
Here are the unstated rules of being the good kind of immigrant:
I worry that I am the bad kind of immigrant.