Immigrant Dreams - Desis Everywhere Searching For Identity

V. dragged me out to eat last night. I say dragged because it was--no joke--about ten degrees. I just wasn't built for this kind of weather. Getting me to move beyond the boundaries of our living room has been a task since November.

Regardless, we ended up at Gandhi, a modest Indian restaurant in downtown Albany. After an (eastern European?) party-of-two left, it was just V. and me in the dining room. Well, us and the wait-staff.

"What language is that," V. wanted to know. We were *eavesdropping* on the two waiters; as much as you can be considered to be eavesdropping, when you don't understand what is being said. I've been a Hindi student since... forEVER (but am sadly still very, VERY weak in my speaking, reading skills) and so, I tensed up and offered my guess of "Bengali."

"Excuse me, gentlemen, what language is that you're speaking?"

"Oh, sorry, sorry miss."

"No! No need to be sorry. We were just wondering."

Brief pause, followed by: "Bengali. What language are you speaking?"

They gravitated towards us and before we knew it, chairs were pushed back, hands were being shaken, and names exchanged. Ultimately, V. and I walked out of there with more than a container of leftover channa saag. We left having made two new friends. On the car-ride home, we talked about the men, and I couldn't help but feel saddened by their choice of emigration.

I know that Indian immigrants (specifically) in this country have the highest median household income in the nation ($63,669, or 1.5 times the national average). But I also know this figure is misleading--as about one-fourth of Indian Americans gets by on less than $25,000 a year. This means the gap between the Indian immigrant haves and have-nots is startling and wide. While there are some high-profile, wealthy members of the community, there are many, many more who are struggling to make ends meet--most of them, like the men at Gandhi, have arrived within the last decade.

It's cliched to talk about the sacrifices the first generation--in a line of immigrants--must make, so as to carve out a *better life* for those that follow. Still, it is incredibly sad, being so far from everyone you love, being an indentured servant of sorts, being denied the simple pleasures of your motherland and childhood.

At one point last night, when Naseem (one of the waiters) was talking animatedly with V. about the upcoming World Cup, (soccer?) I caught myself staring at him. Here he was, this confident, 20-something guy, full of life, surely full of ambitions--or at least, dreams--stuck in this dimly-lit Indian restaurant with nothing much to look forward to. It just seemed so tragic. I felt my heart sink.

Last year, while teaching at Penn, I dedicated one class-session to the taxi cab drivers of New York City. Filmmaker Vivek Bald has put together a solid documentary about their lives/circumstances (it's called Taxi-Vala). Through it, I learned that nearly half of The City's cab drivers are South Asian. I learned that many are actually college graduates. Most live in cramped, sub-par quarters, as they struggle to eek out a living (bringing home about $40 per shift. Abysmal!).

Perhaps I wouldn't have written about Naseem and others with similar circumstances, had I not woken up to a string of listserv e-mails. In the mails, a collective of desi bloggers tries to decide which group is more *confused*--those American-born, or their immigrant-equivalents. It was very frustrating to see so much energy and thought being put into these conversations. I wish folks would stop being so interested in passing judgment about one another and just recognize that, ultimately, minorities of color in this country--foreign-born or not-- are peas in pretty much the same pod. I wish we would acknowledge, then embrace the similarities that link us all, and use those common experiences/sensibilities to form communities of strength.