Lifestyle
Updated: Dec. 9, 2023
Originally Published: Dec. 20, 2017
The first time a stranger told me to “leave the country,” I was in Paris, celebrating my 31st birthday. I snapped a selfie at the Arc de Triomphe, captioning it, “Oui, Paris suits me!” The Eiffel Tower loomed majestically in the background, even under the dull grey clouds. I was ecstatic to be there—my dream had finally come true.
Later that evening, still riding high from the Bordeaux I had at dinner, I scrolled through my Facebook likes (admit it; you do it too). Friends sent their well-wishes and travel tips, but then I stumbled upon a comment from a man I didn’t know. With white hair and a beard, he wrote, “If you like it so much, then move there!”
I was taken aback. Did he really just say that to a stranger? I blocked him and deleted his comment, but his words lingered in my mind, foreshadowing what lay ahead for me and my family—multi-ethnic families in America who thought they belonged but soon realized they were seen as outsiders.
In the months that followed, the political climate in the U.S. escalated alarmingly. The election of 2016 introduced a candidate whose blatant racism, xenophobia, and sexism were difficult to ignore. The most disheartening part? Some of his supporters were people I had considered friends and even family. It was a confusing and heartbreaking revelation.
Like many others, I took to social media to voice my frustrations. Each time I shared an article criticizing Donald Trump, I faced backlash from commenters saying, “If you don’t like it, then leave!” and “Go back to your country.” But where exactly was that? I was born in upstate New York to Italian and Polish immigrant parents, and I’m third generation—English was my first language.
I met my husband, Amir, at a college party, where he was the charming first-generation Iranian who brought a rich cultural background into our lives. Our daughters, ages 6 and 7, proudly embrace their Italian, Polish, Persian, and American identities. We enjoy everything from meatballs to hot dogs and celebrate both Iranian New Year and Christmas.
For a long time, I considered my family just as American as anyone else—a multicultural unit thriving in a diverse nation. But lately, it feels like we have to pick sides. This division has left us questioning our belonging in a country where we once felt at home. If we embrace our blended heritage, we are deemed unpatriotic; if we conform to the narrative of “white America,” we risk losing the essence of who we are.
Maya Angelou once said, “You are only free when you realize you belong no place—you belong everywhere—no place at all.” For me, the cost of belonging has been high. It’s been a painful journey filled with hate-filled messages like, “Get out of this country if you don’t like it.”
The “love it or leave it” mentality is a flawed argument, as it limits us to two choices—stay or go. Not everyone has the financial means to simply pack up and relocate. Deep down, I understand that these comments stem from misguided patriotism, but they still stung. They made me anxious for my family and shed tears for the future.
One month before the election, Amir and I sat on our patio, discussing the rising tides of racism and hatred. My daughters faced mockery and discrimination at school; it was an exhausting reality. “If Trump wins, we’re leaving,” I declared to Amir, and I truly meant it.
I wasn’t alone; many progressives echoed similar sentiments. The thought of escaping to Italy or Canada filled my mind. Amir, however, rolled his eyes, likely considering my musings as dramatic. We knew there were other ways to confront our frustrations—joining activist groups or supporting organizations that fight against injustice. But would that be enough for our children?
When Trump was elected, everything changed. Shortly after, Amir learned about a startup opportunity in India, which sounded both thrilling and overwhelming. Then, the travel ban was announced, targeting countries like Iran. My husband’s family was affected, leaving us all in a state of panic.
One day, my daughter came home from school terrified, telling me that Trump was going to lock up all Muslims. My heart sank. I realized then that we couldn’t stay in a place that made our family feel unsafe.
As months went by, we witnessed the erosion of reproductive rights, healthcare, and the deportation of undocumented families, all while the ugly specter of white supremacy loomed. Amir’s job prospects in India began to solidify, and we knew we needed to make the leap.
Eventually, I boarded a plane with my daughters for a long flight to New Delhi. As we arrived in the thick, smoggy air, I questioned whether we had made the right choice. The chaotic city, with its pollution-stained buildings, felt overwhelming.
When we returned to the U.S. a week later, I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. There was no transformative experience awaiting me in India. I began to ponder the nature of belonging. Is it better to be an outsider in a foreign land or to feel rejected in your own?
As I packed up our home in Atlanta, I found myself missing the simple comforts of American life—Target, reliable internet, and peaceful sidewalks. I’m not running from Trump or his rhetoric; I’m seeking to escape the daily disappointment. I want my children to find a place where they truly belong.
As Maya Angelou said, the cost of belonging everywhere and nowhere is steep. I recognize my privilege in being able to make this international move. It’s a privilege I hold dear, and I strive to be transparent about it. If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination, check out this valuable resource. Further insights on pregnancy and home insemination can be found at the Cleveland Clinic’s podcast.
In summary, my decision to move abroad was born out of a desire for my family to find a place where we can truly belong—a place that embraces our multicultural identity without the underlying fear of being marginalized.