Where Do I Belong?

Where do I belong?

This question has been a quiet ache in me for many years.
At times, I do not even feel like I belong to this world at all.
Becoming an immigrant intensified that feeling.

Coming to America was never a dream I carried.
It was never something I planned or worked toward.
It happened by chance.

Someone from America came to India and asked for my hand in marriage.
I was deeply in love.
I never paused to think about what it would mean for my life.

I was young and naive.
It was all emotion and very little understanding of reality.

I knew almost nothing about America at that time.
Whatever little I knew came from English movies that I barely understood.
My in laws had migrated to America with their eight month old son even before I was born.

I still do not know how my path crossed his.
I do not know why it happened at that moment.
I do not know why he chose me.
I only know that everything unfolded suddenly.

I got married and came to this country.
A country that has now become my home.

I was scared and awed at the same time.
Scared because I left behind my family and friends.
For the first time in my life, I faced true unfamiliarity.

I was awed by many things.
Not just by the richness and comfort of a first world country.
But by how safe it made me feel.

I could walk alone at night without fear.
Strangers were friendly.
People were respectful and kind to a young girl who did not know the language or the ways of the world.

I was given opportunities to work despite my broken English.
My efforts were noticed.
My work was appreciated.

I still remember the day someone complimented me generously.
It was the first time in my life I felt confident.
For the first time, I felt worthy on my own.

When I received my first paycheck, I felt something new.
Independence.

I was surrounded by love in India.
I would have lived a comfortable life there.
But I do not think I would have discovered my own strength or individuality.

America gave me that.
Or rather, Americans did.

They did not hold me back because of my color or my accent.
They saw my eagerness to learn and my hard work.
They kept opening doors for me.

Because of this country, I became daring.
I became strong.

And yet, I was lonely at times.
I missed my family deeply.

Every visit to India ended with months of heartache when I returned.
But something else confused me.
After a week there, I would begin longing to come back to America.

I wrestled with these emotions for years.
I felt stuck between two places.
I felt like I belonged neither here nor there.

That began to change after I had my children.
Slowly, my sense of family shifted.
First to my children and me.
My parents and siblings remained, but no longer at the center.

Somewhere along the way, I learned to belong to both places.

Now, that sense of belonging feels fragile.
I am afraid that the America I grew to love is slipping away.

I know the kind people who shaped me are still present.
But the country I once felt safe in seems to be shifting.
I see it in the media.
I see it in politics.

This no longer feels like the place where I once walked alone at midnight,
the place where I proudly recalled Gandhi’s words:
“A nation is free when a woman can walk alone at midnight.”

America was that country for me.

Today, I am not feeling positive about where things are going.
My heart aches when I see what is happening.

I fear being seen through a lens that notices my color before my humanity.
I am afraid for my children, even though they were born here.

I fear that my hard-won sense of belonging could be shattered if someone decides I don’t belong here.

And once again, the question returns.
Quiet, persistent, unresolved.

Where do I belong?

Where do I belong?