Last evening, my wife, whom I’ve been married to for over three decades, entered the living room where I was preparing for a discussion on American literature, specifically focusing on Henry James’s “The Art of Fiction.” This was to be a conversation about the democratic ideals and authenticity that novels, and by extension, life itself, can offer.
“I need you to listen carefully and not panic,” my wife initiated. “My mother was the same age I am now when she and my father left everything behind to come to this country. I heard that in New Zealand, you can hike anywhere without the fear of snakes or other dangerous creatures.”
While she knows that snakes aren’t typically classified as predators, it’s the threats she perceives here—like the derogatory comments she has faced—that she wishes to escape. This is the peril known all too well by a woman whose family fled an oppressive regime. The painful awareness of the suffering that befell some of her loved ones at the hands of a government that could have imprisoned or killed them—just as it did to so many others—has etched itself into her consciousness.
My wife hails from Iran, having received her green card in the mid-1980s, followed by full citizenship a few years later. Our children were born in the United States; however, the day after Donald J. Trump’s election, our youngest daughter reached out, anxious to understand what this new reality meant for “Mommy and her Persian family.”
I attempted to reassure her that no one would be ostracized from the country; that our government wouldn’t dare treat its citizens that way. I wanted so desperately to be correct in my assertion.
To obtain her green card, my wife and I made the journey from Knoxville to Memphis. We had to retake her ID photo, ensuring her ear was visible. We testified in front of a portrait of then-President Reagan, the very leader who had brokered a deal with the regime my wife escaped from.
In the naturalization office, many individuals were waiting, yet one man, looking directly at me as my wife was called, remarked, “We all have it tough here, but no one has it as tough as these poor Iranians.”
Soon after, I entered the interrogation room with her. I wanted to hold her hand, but it felt inappropriate. The stern INS agent scrutinized me for a moment before asking, “So, you live with these people? What’s your role around the house?” His tone implied that I might be taking advantage of my in-laws or that perhaps I was a burden.
“I cut the grass,” I replied. “Sometimes I cook and do the dishes. Most of my time is spent preparing for my doctoral exams and working on my dissertation.”
He showed little interest in my studies, simply nodding and saying, “You’ll hear from us soon.”
However, “soon” turned into a six-month waiting period, during which my wife was unable to accept employment. We had moved into our own apartment, relying on my meager $480 monthly stipend while enduring a winter in a poorly heated Victorian house. When the long-awaited verdict arrived, it wasn’t the closure we hoped for: “We need more time to investigate your case,” the letter stated.
In response, I exercised my right as an American: “Please, come to our home and investigate.”
Two weeks later, her green card arrived—no apology, no welcome, just a piece of paper.
That was over 30 years ago. Since then, my wife has earned a master’s degree in counseling psychology, assisting countless individuals in navigating their own displacements. Her work has ranged from helping teens facing eating disorders to counseling couples in crisis. She is a well-respected member of our community, contributing significantly to society.
Yet, now she finds herself grappling with fear about the trajectory of her adopted homeland. After our conversation last night—”I could continue my counseling in New Zealand; they primarily speak English, right?”—we watched Chris Hayes interview an Iranian-American law professor from the University of Georgia. This woman, once taught to shout “Death to America” as a child, now thrives in one of the largest law schools in the nation, her smile radiant, reminiscent of both my wife’s and my daughter’s.
I yearn for my daughter to be free from fear, to embrace her identity without shame. Last winter, she spent her spring break on a college trip to Turkey. “Maybe it’s as close as I’ll ever get to Iran,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
I wonder if, in a year or five, we will still find joy in such thoughts, or if we’ll have to keep our hopes and dreams hidden away.
In the context of family planning, if you’re interested in exploring your fertility journey, consider reading more about at-home insemination options that can support your path. Resources like this article provide valuable insights. Additionally, for those seeking guidance on pregnancy, Healthline’s resource is an excellent reference.
In summary, navigating the challenges of identity and belonging is a struggle for many, particularly for those with immigrant backgrounds. As families seek to create a sense of home and stability, it is essential to address fears and uncertainties while also embracing opportunities for growth and connection.
Keyphrase: Addressing immigrant fears
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