Scribbled musings: On my guilt of being an immigrant

“Sir, please step aside. An officer will take you to another room to review your documents.”

I gathered my passport, COVID-19 test results and boarding pass from the countertop, thanked the U.S. Customs and Border Protection officer, walked a few steps and waited behind the booth. Although I was connected to the free wi-fi at JFK airport, I couldn’t be bothered to dive into the messages on WhatsApp and Instagram that had piled up over the past thirteen hours of my flight. I knew I had nothing to worry about – I had the right visa to enter the country, a negative result on my COVID-19 test endorsed by an accredited medical institution, a copy of my brother’s tenancy agreement, and the details of my flight out of New York. A few moments later, I took out two copies of my business card and a reference letter confirming my employment in Singapore. All of my documents were valid and updated. I was fully prepared. And yet, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that I had done something wrong.

I looked at the officers walking along the stretch of the immigration counters. Some looked stoic, some pleased and springy, and others agitated. I tried to suppress the anxious, searching look in my eye, occasionally scrolling through my feed on a social media app (but not really being able to process or register anything). There was another South Asian man who had been asked to wait. He was on the phone with someone else, speaking a language I couldn’t quite understand, nervousness dripping from every word. I walked a few feet away.

“Sirs – please follow me.”

We followed the officer down the hall into another room. There were around ten people seated on blue chairs, scattered across the room – all of them brown, all of them tired, all of them waiting intently. I felt angry. Why was I being viewed as the rest of them? I had all my documents in place. They probably didn’t. For a brief moment I thought about the unshakeable permanence of my brownness – regardless of how much I earn or how diligently I follow the law, I will never be seen for more than the colour of my skin.

When the immigration officer called out my name, I took a deep breath, and walked up.

“Sir, we have your name here because our system says that you took, or were supposed to take the Emirates flight via Athens. We just wanted to confirm that you didn’t transit in Greece.”

Phew.

“Yes that’s right. I was supposed to be on that flight, but because of the travel restrictions, Emirates put me on a direct flight from Dubai to JFK.”

“So no transits or stopovers?”

“No transits or stopovers from Dubai.”

“Thank you sir. I’ll stamp this and you’re free to go.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Also, what is the purpose of your visit?”

“I’m here to visit my family. That’s all.”

“Okay sir, you have a great day.”

“Thank you, and you too.”

I picked up my bags, filled with a sense of relief and vindication, and headed to the conveyor belt to collect my suitcase. I walked out of JFK airport, welcomed by the July sun and a cacophony of voices, and headed to my Uber. This was America. The land of the free. A melting pot of cultures. The greatest nation on Earth. My frustration with the ordeal I had gone through was soon – and surprisingly – replaced by a feeling of pride. Strangely, I felt grateful.

When I look back at those hours in JFK airport now, it’s not gratitude that I feel. If I had a valid visa to enter the country, why did it feel like a privilege to do so? What is the purpose of your visit; I’ve been asked this question at JFK, Heathrow, Sydney and Hong Kong. And every time I’m asked this standard, procedural question – even when it’s posed perfunctorily – I feel like a cold dagger is placed on my throat, ready to make me trip on my answer and stammer something suspicious. All this question requires is a response. Why did I feel the need to provide a justification? Is it because the only thing uniting all of us in that waiting room in JFK was our skin colour? Do white people feel the same way?

Immigration has generally been good for the American economy. (I recognize there are different types of immigration, and there are different ways of measuring the strength of an economy. I do not plan to investigate, explore and explain these nuances. I’m fairly certain my blog is not going to form the academic basis of any political manifesto). Immigrants inject their entrepreneurship, enterprise, and educational talent into the country. Immigrants on the top end of the socioeconomic spectrum create jobs for a community, and those at the bottom end tend to take up jobs others in the US won’t. They create startups, serve as doctors, clean toilets and wash dishes. The best minds from around the world come to American universities – often by making very hefty financial sacrifices – to push the boundaries of research and academia. And while several chapters of America’s immigration story are tainted and tragic, the foods, festivals, customs, costumes, literature and languages of the nation are unquestionably the product of people entering, experiencing and enriching the country over hundreds of years.

Why then did I feel guilty? As if my presence was an encroachment on what is quintessentially American (what is quintessentially American anyway?). Why did I feel the same thing – in London and in Sydney? When I’d visit shops and restaurants in Hong Kong and stand out for my lack of knowledge of Cantonese? And when I’d squeeze myself into a crowded train during peak hours in Singapore? It probably stems from the idea that immigrants should consider themselves lucky to be in another country. It’s not your natural right to be here. You were picked from the pack and allowed to be here. And if you want to make a better life for yourself and your family in this country, or get to enjoy the privileges of living here, you – and yes, especially you, since you don’t have the right skin tone or the right passport or the right language – need to shut up and make yourself invisible. You know you’re seen as a burden. Now don’t rub it in our faces. And always, always, be grateful.

Maybe this is attributable to the wave of anti-globalist nativism sweeping across the world. Or to the effects of structural unemployment in different societies, coupled with a narrative that holds people like me responsible for people’s social and economic woes. Or to a virus that managed to achieve its most transmissible mutation (thus far) in India. The funny thing is that nobody has ever made me feel unworthy. Or inferior. Or unwelcome. And yet, even though I have never been made to feel any of these things because of my pigmentation or papers, I can’t help but see myself through a lens I keep imagining others see me through – that of a job-stealing, position-usurping, public health-endangering foreigner. It’s not something I can rationalize. It could possibly be a legacy of the Trump years. Coupled with my selective focus on anti-<insert minority group here> comments on social media. To be honest though, of all the non-white racial or ethnic groups in the world, Indians aren’t the most vilified. Maybe all of this is just a manifestation of my victim complex and a penchant for over-catastrophizing.

Over the years, I have taken steps – some conscious, most inadvertent – to distance myself from who I originally am and morph into another undefined but (in my mind) socially palatable identity. Hence my slightly accented English. My constant attempts to not only emphasize my years spent outside of India but also portray my childhood years in the country in as anglicized and ethnically nebulous a way as possible. My need to pepper my conversations with references from the west. My tendency to stay quiet in buses and trains and make sure that I don’t occupy too much space. I’m not proud to admit any of this. As someone in perennial need of validation, I’ve always tried to suppress the facets of me that make me stand out, not acknowledging that it’s a futile endeavour. My dogged pursuit to become the model minority – whatever that may be – only makes me conscious of the myriad ways I can never be one.

Twelve of my twenty eight years have been spent as a foreigner in another country. Through this time, I have often struggled with defining – and coming to terms with – my identity. I have always considered myself Indian. I can’t see myself any other way. At the same time, I’m engaged in an active effort to squash my “Indianisms” when I’m with my non-Indian friends and colleagues, presenting myself as an amorphous product of my experiences within and outside of India. Both of these identities are true. And yet, I’m not fully either.

I’m fairly certain I’ll continue to be questioned at international airports (I don’t have any grand expectations that society will correct or move past institutionalized forms of racism). But I do hope I’ll be able to grow to a point where I feel less obsequious, and more at ease. Where I no longer feel grateful or guilty, but secure and assured. Where I’m confident enough to take my space, assert my presence, and believe – intrinsically and wholly – that I belong.