When this year began, all I wanted was community.
I craved to have a friend by my side from which I could learn about this new world I was in, to hopefully be able to help them too. I dreamed of having once again a support system like the one I had on the island.
But as Covid-19 started to change our world and the way we live our lives, I understood the inevitable; those plans had to change. I entered limbo and a stage of continual confusion: I started to look at other options to survive, because waiting tables wasn’t possible anymore. I started to contact different organizations and nonprofits to help make their content accessible to a Spanish speaker audience.
No one responded.
I wondered why… and decided to try some things to see if I could get a response. After all, I had no choice: I needed the money to survive. So I changed my name, and every time I was asked, I’d say I was from Cleveland.
It worked. I started getting jobs and having recurrent clients. All I needed to do was play and pretend to be someone people could immediately relate to on some level, a familiar concept, not a weirdo whose first language isn’t English and would probably not know how to keep the American standards they so love and cherish.
But now, even when I do say with pride that I’m an islander, I must perform correctly to be given a seat at the table, to even being acknowledged as a fellow human. Until I moved to America, I had never dealt with racism in my everyday life, I had never feared for my life because of the color of my skin. I had never been through rough times where people purposefully isolate you… I had always been the weird one, but times like these would draw us together despite our differences.
Not in America it seems.
Now I’m left to perform for a world that doesn’t want me here, but I need it in order to survive. Not winning the birth lottery means that you must manage your emotions and control your actions better than the rest, or really bad things will happen.
Americans are conditioned to not show emotions, so I’m held to the same standard. I cannot be too happy and loud, or else I’m offending someone with the cheery energy. I cannot show my discontent or anger, or else I’m short tempered and possibly aggressive. I cannot be too Queer, or I might end up making someone feel uncomfortable. I doubt every time people ask me about home, because I would end up worried about how my life and experiences would be received. I need to research every reference, read every book and know about each show and topic Americans like or have among their common knowledge, otherwise I won’t be considered one of the group, and that for me is survival. I cannot make mistakes when I think and the words I use to say those thoughts, otherwise I would be made fun of, and others will come to the conclusion that I’m not to be trusted, nor am I at their same intellectual level. The system makes people not interested in you, your traditions and culture, so I cannot share those unless I’ve been specified to do so, so I end up having to suppress it, to quiet every part of what makes me who I really am, to be someone this society would accept. Because that means survival.
It’s been quite the challenge, and mistakes have filled me with fear and dread. I’ve been invited to a Thanksgiving dinner, but I’m so scared of making mistakes that I would rather stay tucked in bed, listening to classic Son from the golden days. I don’t want to perform, I don’t want to become a circus animal to be allowed among others.
Solo quiero mi hogar…
And for our LGBTQ+ community, the question ‘‘what does home mean to you?’’ has lots of different answers: for some, it’s a different country, for others, their chosen family and partners, for some others it is yet to be found as we discover ourselves. For me, home is wherever I feel safe and have my family around.
I want to be back with those people that go out of their way to make me happy in ways they don’t even realize. Those that share jokes just because they always want to. I want things to be simple, I want to be remembered, not just an afterthought. I want to be able to express joy in a way my body can feel it and makes sense to me. I want to share who I am without being afraid of the repercussions, I want to ask others how they’re doing, without it being snooping or intrusive. I want words to have the same meaning for all of us. I want someone to tell me “somos familia” and feel the warmth peace brings when you know you can count on someone, no matter what happens. I want to believe and trust when people say “we’re friends!” And know that I can help and protect my friends. I want to make silly mistakes that don’t feel like I must be punished. I want to say “story” instead of “history” without feeling that I have to do damage control. I want to hug my little sister and feel how much she has grown, and that she knows how much I love her. I want to cook for my family without feeling afraid to dance while I do it, I want to give mom my phone and know she will play “the good music”. I want to share with my family the experiences I have had in this new world that surrounds me, that I can be excited about things they’ll understand. That we can be thankful about the same things. I just want to feel I’m still normal, that I’m not just a puppet performing for a show…
A lot has happened this year for all of us. There’s no denying that.
But as migrants, seeing our family restores balance. It reminds us who we are and why we are here, why this – despite all the hardships – is still the right choice. We remember that, even in a land like this one, both full and empty, we have the best of both worlds. For migrants, being with family represents loosening the strings the puppet has to walk with on a daily basis, be worry free and just enjoy a moment that stays with us forever. To heal. We are thankful for every opportunity, and once we recharge that “amor de casa,” the fog lifts, and we are happy. The sun shines just for us, even through the rain and snow, six feet apart.
Jade J. an immigrant and member/volunteer with The Queer Detainee Empowerment Project (QDEP).
