Our Immigration Stories

An Ongoing HSLC Series

Rachel Gooneratne

The last time I was in a church building for worship was at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta where Pastor Warnock gave a sermon titled, "We're in This Thing Together." "You arrived on streets you didn't pave," he said. That phrase resonated deeply with me for many reasons but mainly because it is how I tend to view my immigration story. 

When I was five years old, my mother and I stood hand in hand watching a Boeing jet pulling away from the terminal. We were in Chennai, India, and my father was on board that plane on his way to England and then to America. It was a big happening - the first time I remember him going away - and it all felt more than a little unsettling. While we didn't realize it at the time, his trip was the catalyst that started the long process in my family's immigration journey. 

While he was gone, my father sent us postcards with pictures of queens - Victoria and Elizabeth II - in their palaces on one side, and "thinking of you" and "love" written in his slanted cursive on the other. When he returned home, he brought with him bits of the U.S. which I found fascinating - tiny, white, plastic spoons with an oddly arched M on the ends; a View-Master with reels showing captioned pictures of faithful geysers and magical kingdoms; big, brightly colored lollipops which no child could possibly enjoy in one sitting; a red velvet must-not-be-played-in dress with a white collar and puffy sleeves.

Those weren't my only introductions to what would eventually be our new home, of course. I attended a Christian English language school and learned about the rest of the world from my textbooks. One history lesson I've never forgotten is the story of Marian Anderson. I read about her musical talent, her being denied the chance to share her gifts in segregated spaces, her determination in the face of well-founded fears, and her famous performance in front of the Lincoln Memorial. I remember frequently rereading her story and studying every detail of the black and white photograph which captured that historic moment. 

Almost five years after my father's big trip, my parents, my sister, and I boarded a flight together with $100 and eight suitcases filled with everything my parents felt we would need.  This was a trip with no return tickets so they had also packed pieces of home - family photos, old letters, gifts from family and friends. We said difficult goodbyes to our loved ones. Other goodbyes remained unspoken because we didn't know then everything we were leaving behind. 

That 20-some hour trek is a clear demarcation in our collective history. Before the flight are our last days; after, our early days. Now, 37 years later, we have these days. These days when we talk about the anxiety of our last days and the difficulties of our early days, we are better able to articulate our feelings about our experiences. 

I've had the gift of time to understand the depth and weight of my story. I have the language to name things I couldn’t before - apprehension, excitement, bravado, frustration, pain, grief, healing. I have the language to fearlessly (okay, with a little fear) to tell my own story and to tell it accurately. I have the language to contextualize my history. I have the language to tell my story in a way our child can understand so that he knows how he came to be where he is.  

I also have the language to put into words what captivated me about Marian Anderson many years ago. Prior to those pages in my textbook, I had neither heard nor read any stories of note, historical or fictional, about anyone in the U.S. who was not white. The other reason the story stayed with me is because it exists in sharp contrast to the narrative that emerged from the souvenirs and gifts I had received - one of creativity, beauty, and joy. Instead, this was a story of attempts to stifle those parts of someone's soul and the battle to retain one's humanity.

Over the years, I've learned that the spaces I occupy in the U.S. and the freedom with which I live in those spaces would not exist if not for the hard labor of those who went before me. Countless stories like Ms. Anderson's activism make up the civil rights movement which gave many of us rights we didn't have to fight for. Creative and intellectual contributions, knowledge shared from lived experiences, and stories of deep faith from Black, Indigenous, and other People of Color are central to how I view my place in the world. 

Most people I meet in the U.S. think that I'm a Christian as a result of immigration. My family's Christian faith stories, however, are at least four generations old, thanks to colonization and missionaries including German Lutherans. And as good Lutherans do, my parents baptized me as an infant in a Lutheran church in Chennai. They took me to church regularly and I was taught all the same stories my child now hears. My faith lies in a God who rescued Hagar and Ishmael, liberated the Israelites, gave immigrant Ruth a new home, set Rahab in Jesus's lineage, and placed Jesus with a couple in Palestine who had relatives in Egypt. 

Jesus who freed people from legions, flipped tables, and spent time with those who had little power tells me to love my neighbor. For me, that includes honoring the continuing history of African descendants. And as I write my own history, it also means laying bare the uncomfortable chapters - my unearned privileges, the myth of model minorities, the South Asian community's anti-blackness, my silence and complicity in the face of racism, wrestling with speaking out when speaking out doesn't fit the dominant narrative. 

World history is a long story of migration and my piece is just one very small part of it. It’s often overwhelming to question norms and do work that aims to flip the narrative. In moments of doubt, I speak to my parents and through their stories, I remember that they and my ancestors have nourished me with everything I need and that I am most certainly traveling on streets already paved for me.