When I look back at the pictures my family took when I was a child, I can remember everything about that exact time and what was happening the moment the camera clicked. My favorite one is a picture of my cousin Kenia and I, just sitting on the bus. When you look at it, you
She was an Indian-American growing up on a block in Bayside, Queens that resembled Sesame Street. Only instead of muppets, she had imaginary friends that kept her company while she played in the dark, cavernous basement of her family home. To the left of her house were the Ongs, who gifted her family a box
I was born in the former USSR, immigrating to San Francisco with my parents when I was seven. And although I spent the bulk of my growing up years in America, the fact was, having parents who were immigrants, speaking a different language at home, eating food no one had ever heard of (Cow tongue! Baked
The first new car my Dad ever purchased was a beige boat-on-wheels called a Pontiac Parisienne. You can see it in the background of countless family pictures: a gleaming metal grille and backend of Nicki Minaj-like proportions. It was an object of pride, a symbol of the new world we’d arrived in and our desire
Perhaps it’s the natural instinct of an immigrant to want to make the new country his home. Yet he continues to fail with every attempt because the birth country cannot truly be replaced. The definition of home becomes diffused, molded, and adjusted as time moves forward and the immigrant grows in his or her new
