Last weekend, I had lunch with my mom during her last campus visit before the final two weeks of class. She asked me the typical questions you ask a college kid: How are your classes? How are your friends? Have you found your people yet? This question of finding “my people” always puzzled me. Are we expected to have one set community, and if so, what would that look like?
Belonging has been a persistent theme in my family’s history. Both of my parents immigrated from Lebanon in 2001 after being accepted into residency programs in Michigan. To them, coming to America was one step closer to achieving their American dream: becoming doctors. This year marks 25 years in the States. They have officially spent more time in America than in Lebanon. In 2001, this was a milestone they strived for. Being Arab in post-Sept. 11 America, all they could hope for was time to make them more American. Back then, this milestone symbolized total assimilation and finally belonging. In reality, this milestone brings alienation and isolation.
Everyone has an understanding of “home.” Growing up, we realized home wasn’t just a safe place to sleep, but people. We were at home playing hide and seek on our elementary school playgrounds. We were at home on little league baseball teams or on the stage of our community theater. Most importantly, we understand what it means to long for home. We have all felt alienated, betrayed or isolated. The reality for immigrants like my mom, who have been far from home for so long, is that they lose their home. My mom has spent 25 years watching Lebanon evolve without her. Every visit back “home” is a reminder that she is now an outsider. Neighbors have moved away. Children have grown up. Every visit comes with an uneasy realization that “home” isn’t what it used to be. Moreover, as Lebanon becomes more unstable as a result of war, economic collapse and an ineffective government, family members start to resent my mom for getting out. She possesses a privilege they lack: the power to leave. But what is she leaving Lebanon for, if America is not home?
America has been a land of opportunity for my mother. It was the only place in the world where the daughter of farmers in rural Lebanon could become a doctor and secure an administrative role at one of the country’s biggest medical schools. America is home to her daughters. But it is not home to her.
Despite being a citizen for nearly 10 years, she is constantly reminded that she is not really American. The reminders come in otherwise insignificant interactions: a colleague telling her that her accent has disappeared over time; a mentor telling her she’ll never be qualified for an upper-level administrative position because she didn’t graduate from an American university; her friends’ silence when she reaches out for support as war rages in Lebanon. Experiencing microaggressions a year after immigrating is painful; experiencing them after 25 years —after becoming a citizen and dedicating decades of her life to providing healthcare to children across the Midwest — is a deeply specific kind of betrayal.
Immigration has been a hot topic this past year as protests against mass deportations raged across the country. Pro-immigrant protestors often highlight America’s dependence on immigrant workers to industrialize, modernize and create the great American economy. What they fail to acknowledge is the emotional cost of immigration. Immigrants give up the hope of “home” to come to a country they know they will never fit into. The American dream is sold as a transaction; work hard, and this country becomes yours. Yet many immigrants fulfill their end of the bargain only to face continued racism and microaggressions. America continues to move the goalpost for belonging, and many immigrants will spend their lives chasing something they were never meant to achieve.
When I look at my mother, I feel immeasurable gratitude. She sees what society has identified as her shortcomings and ensures I won’t have them. She didn’t graduate from an American university. I will. She speaks accented English. I don’t. She moved across the globe to provide a better life for her future children. I hope I won’t have to do the same.
As I close, I want to offer a brief thank you. Because this is the last column I will be publishing this school year, I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to read my articles. It has been my dream to write for a collegiate newspaper, and I’m so grateful Notre Dame has given me the opportunity to do so. To everyone who emailed to share their thoughts, your emails have brought a smile to my face. It’s always reassuring to know someone is on the other side of my articles. That’s all from me … for now. See you next year!
Thea Bendaly is a freshman from Carmel, Ind. living in McGlinn Hall. She studies political science and romance languages and is a member of the Glynn Family Honors Program. In her free time, you will find Thea crocheting in her dorm, singing with Halftime A Cappella or hanging around with friends. Please feel free to contact Thea at tbendaly@nd.edu as she looks forward to hearing your thoughts (good or bad) about the column.
