My Immigrant Mother’s America
Today, my parents went with my brother to get his passport renewed. My brother came back annoyed and ready to vent. My mother has an accent and occasionally speaks in “broken” English as a result of being an immigrant to America in adulthood. My brother told us that while they were at the appointment, my mother asked an employee a question. Instead of answering my mom, the worker turned to my brother and asked, “Who here speaks the best English?” and motioned between him, my mom, and my dad.
My brother started to say himself, because that more or less is the truth: my brothers and I were all given the privilege of growing up in the American school system, and speak English fluently. Instead, he stopped himself and stated, “We all speak English.”
My brother was understandably bothered by the encounter, but, like their reaction to most microaggressions, my parents were unfazed and didn’t think it was a big deal.
Immediately after the appointment, my mom made my dad drive around our small suburban town as she recorded on her new phone and narrated in Arabic to send in her family group chat of herself and her 8 siblings. As she pointed out the different landmarks: Starbucks, the library, the recreation center, the man crossing the street, she laughed infectiously and poked fun at my father’s driving. She decided it was always her America.
