Tag Archives: immigrant

Some Good Books, Spring 2018 Edition

Resistance takes many forms. Remember the whole “people from s**thole countries” moment in this low level of civil discourse we’ve been chafing against in this new American era? This edition of Some Good Books focuses on authors or descendants of people from some of those places. There’s been a lot said in the last year against immigrants. But the truth is, most of us are  descendants of immigrants, if not immigrants ourselves. Isn’t that the whole point of the United States? The fact is that immigration is what makes this country unique, and what continues to enrich and enliven American culture. This would be a good time to take a chance on an author with whom you might not be familiar. Some of the following authors are American born descendants of immigrants (ok, right, aren’t we all?), and some are immigrants themselves. Here are some suggestions.

Goodbye, Vitamin by Rachel Khong  ©©©
51gEMy2iQwLHong’s quietly beautiful first novel centers around a young woman, Ruth, who has come back to her parents’s house. Newly out of a relationship and unsure what to do with her life, she comes home to help her mother care for her father, a college professor with dementia. There is tenderness here, shot through with both sweetness and pain. Ruth cares for her father with compassion and humor, first trying valiantly to protect him from his new self, and then trying to figure out how they, and Ruth’s mother, can live with the truth of what is happening to this once sharp and admired man. Her mother moves in and out of the frame as she too tries to navigate what is happening to their family, but the heart of this novel is the relationship between Ruth and her father. There is no fairy tale ending, but Hong manages to gently push Ruth into a place where she can take charge of her life again.

3198vWxWV6LChemistryby Weike Wang  ©©

This quirky first novel by Wang draws on the author’s background in science to tell the story of a PhD student who finds herself unable to keep going forward. She has so far done all that her immigrant Chinese parents expected, and is on the way to becoming exactly the daughter they planned for. But her research in chemistry is leading nowhere, and when her scientist boyfriend proposes marriage, she realizes that she can’t keep living up to other people’s expectations. She steps out of her prescribed life, and into a world of questions as she begins to think about what it is she really wants, and who she wants to be. The writing feels both surgically precise and expertly indecisive, looping in and out of focus, beautifully capturing the tension within which the unnamed narrator is stuck as she tries to figure out how to become her own person. Though the style and voice are unique, there is much familiar ground here for anyone who has grappled with meeting the expectations of immigrant parents, or really, any parents.

What We Lose by Zinzi Clemmons ©©©

61Iad2oWn5LThis achingly gorgeous novel about losing one’s mother is Clemmons’s first. This novel is narrated by Thandi, the American-born daughter of a white American father and a black South African mother. She has spent her life feeling not quite this or that, not white but not black, not American but not foreign. With her mother’s illness and then death, the questions about her identity move into starker relief. This tale is a study in pain and grief, in which the writing itself stops and starts in bursts, sometimes just a single line, sometimes an outpouring of love and loss, punctuated with occasional graphs and images. We follow Thandi through the pain of her mother’s death and slowly into a new life of in which she will learn to love, trust herself, and become a mother as she  begins to connect the dots of her complex identity.

Home Fires, by Kamila Shamsie ©©

51XdRbTXoQLKamila Shamsie, from Karachi and now living in London, is not technically an immigrant to the United States. But she is an immigrant all the same, and since she went to both college (Hamilton College) and graduate school (UMass Amherst) in the US, I’m taking the liberty of including her in this round-up. Home Fires, long listed for the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction (formerly the Orange Prize), reads like a movie. It is fast-paced, full of filmic imagery, and centers around many of the complicated issues of our day. Having raised her younger twin siblings after the separate deaths of their parents, Isma is finally able to get on with her own life. Though scared about coming to America as a muslim woman whose father was a jihadist, she accepts an invitation to leave London and study in the United States. She reluctantly leaves her sister Aneeka alone in London while Aneeka’s twin brother Parvaiz secretly follows their father’s footsteps on an uncertain and dangerous path. At a cafe in Northampton, Isma meets Eamon, also a son of Pakistani immigrants to Britain, and the futures of all the siblings quickly get wrapped up together with Eamon and his family. Privilege, class, or the right papers cannot protect any of these children of immigrants from the inevitable disaster which early on is clearly bound to happen by the end of the book. This is very much a novel of the early 21st century, a story of mistrust of muslim immigrants, a clash of east versus west, and the ways in which surveillance and security not only provide safety but also feed into our worst fears and cause terrible, and irreversible, harm .

Everybody’s Sonby Thrity Umrigar  ©

51dlPO8zjtLAnton is the adopted son of a white family, a black boy and then a man growing up with all the trappings of white privilege. But what he believes to be the truth about his origins, and the mother who didn’t want him and couldn’t care for him, isn’t the whole story. His past and his future begin to unravel as he uncovers pieces of the story that have been hidden away, and has to rethink the foundations of his carefully constructed identity. This isn’t the strongest of Umrigar’s novels, but it is a challenging and timely story about class, privilege, the bonds of family, and about the crimes committed in the name of love.

And here are reviews of two additional and exceptionally good books that fit into this category, from older blogs.

Exit West by Mohsin Hamid

Stay With Me, by Ayobami Adebay0

Rating System

©©© – Amazing Book, dazzling, blew me away

©© – Great Book, deeply satisfying

© – Good Book, but I wanted it to be even better

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Wanderings and Arrivals: After the Exodus

A page from the ship's manifest with my grandfather's name and arrival information.

A page from the ship’s manifest with my grandfather’s name and arrival information.

My cousin pointed out the other day it was the 100th anniversary of our grandfather’s arrival to United States, according the ship manifest that he was able to unearth.  One hundred years since “our” arrival to this country, at least via that branch of the family tree.

Passover reminds us of the epic journey of leaving a place of suffering in the hopes of finding a better future.  “My father was a wandering Aramean,” the haggadah teaches, compelling us to feel as if we ourselves were personally part of the story of leaving and arriving. Jewish history is full of repeated journeys from one place to another, always hoping that things will improve.  Mishaneh makom, mishaneh mazal, we’re taught – change your place, and your luck will change.  And so they did, over and over.

My grandfather, Louis (Leizer) Person arrived here from Russia, purportedly having escaped the Tzar’s army like so many other Jewish men of his era.  He died before I was born and the little I know about him is from snatches of memories from my parents and older cousins.  The details of his story are unknown to me but what I do know is that Russia was not a place he wanted to be. It was not a place where he saw a viable future, and he came here to make a fresh start, a modern day Moses. Like so many of his landsmen, he arrived in New York and stayed, eking out a living as a watchmaker.  

What I do know is that he and my grandmother, also an immigrant from Russia, had five living children, the youngest of whom was my father.  Those children went on to have a total of eleven children, and there are now two more generations after that.  From those two immigrants, there are now many descendants spread across the United States.  

My grandfather was lucky because he had a place to go, a way to get there, and a route to citizenship once here.  He was able to become an American.  Though his life, from what I have heard, was difficult, it was nothing compared to what he would have faced if he had stayed in Russia.  Because he chose to leave, his children, and then his grandchildren, and all the subsequent generations have opportunities, freedom of religion and ideas, and the chance for a future.

For all the reasons that complicated families have (and whose family isn’t complicated?), I don’t know all of the descendants of my grandparents.  But I do know a lot of them.  There are still a lot of Persons out there, regardless of the last name they carry.

One hundred years later, who are we? It’s hard to know what my grandparents would have expected or hoped for in their descendants.  But what I do know is how very American we have become.

Collectively, we live, I think, in different parts of the United States, with a small concentration in the greater New York area and a large concentration in Florida.  We work in a huge range of different professions.  As a group, we are Democrats and Republicans and those who choose not to vote. Some of us are fervently for gun control and others are gun owners.  Some of us support women’s reproductive rights and some vote for those who don’t.  Among us are those who  care about animal rights and the legalization of marijuana and the problem of sexual assault on college campuses and the censorship of books and the abuse of children and the right to bear arms.

We are light skinned and dark, our eyes are blue and green and hazel and brown. We are tall and short, slim and athletic, buff from working out, agile from yoga, and always struggling with our weight. We speak, at minimum, English and Spanish and Hebrew with a smattering of Yiddish phrases. Our children’s names are sourced from Yiddish, or modern Hebrew, or the Bible, or Spanish, or English. Some of us have photos on our Facebook pages posed in front of Christmas trees, and others are lighting menorahs or showing off the Seder table, and some have both. Some of us spend Friday nights or Saturdays at synagogue, and some of us spend Sunday mornings in church.  Our children go to public schools, private schools, Jewish day school, hebrew schools, and are homeschooled. Some of us have tattoos, some of us have beards, some us shave our heads, some of us don’t shave our legs, some of us shave our chests.  We are accountants, long distance truck drivers, artists, grant writers, computer programmers, boat salesmen, antique dealers, a rabbi, retired from the military, homemakers, activists, community organizers, and all kinds of other things. We are gay and straight, married, divorced, and single. We are just about everything Americans can be.

Louis Person c. 1959

Louis Person c. 1959

My grandfather was a wandering Aramean. One hundred years ago a young Jewish man left the world he knew, got on a boat, and sailed to New York.  He left his family behind, as well as the reality of oppression and violence.  He set out on his way, choosing to become a stranger in a strange land.  Whatever lay in front of him had to be better than what he was leaving behind.  And with him, a new world began, a world that would include my father and his siblings, and all their generations.

Passover reminds us of the obligation of loving the stranger.  We were strangers in the Land of Egypt, the Torah teaches.  We know what it’s like to be the stranger, to escape hardship and have to start all over again.  And if we are lucky, and if we find a welcome and a path to belonging, things may be better – if not for us, then for our children.

During this week of Passover, as we remember having left Egypt, I think about my grandfather’s personal exodus out of Russia. Of my grandfather’s many descendants, no one among us is world famous or has changed history – yet.  We are a motley crew (written with great affection and love) whose lives represent a large range of choices and perspectives.

Yet despite our dissimilarities and our different choices about how to live, we are all testaments to survival, and inheritors of a dream.  We are Americans because this country opened its doors to our grandfather, and to so many like him.  We know what it’s like to be strangers.  We owe an enormous debt to our immigrant ancestors that we must pay forward by working toward immigration reform in memory of all the grandparents and great-grandparents and generations back who risked everything and set off into the unknown so that we, their descendants, could have freedom and the right to make choices. 

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