My wife, Gina, and I moved to New York from
Puerto Rico 13 years ago. Most people would say that it has been a while now, but somehow the stigma of being a perpetual foreigner is close to impossible to evade. Everyday, we fight for the rights of immigrants from all over. And everyday, we hope it would only get better. But with the support of relatives and genuine friends, we manage to get by.
Not long ago, my boss gave me this book written by Marcelo and Carola Suarez-Orozco entitled "Children of Immigration (The Developing Child)." It's central theme evolved around a statistic that 20% of our kids who still attend school are children of immigrants. Even though things may seem tough now, it relays the possibility of a brighter future for our children. That with the wide spectrum of personality and identity, acceptance is actually possible. This alone gives me much hope.
Yesterday, my youngest son, Michael, asked me if it was okay to invite a couple of his classmates for a sleep-over on Saturday (of course, these weren't his exact words. I'm pretty sure there was mention of "a tent," a brand of cereal that his friend really liked, and a peculiar request for ants). I told him it was perfectly fine. When I was young I enjoyed camping out at the backyard as much as the other kids. But what troubled me wasn't the sleep-over. It was actually something Michael said that I didn't really expect to hear from a 10-year-old. He goes, "Dad, could you call Curt's mom or something? She said we really aren't from around here and that it would be a bad idea if she let Curt stay at a house like ours." A "
house like ours"; four simple, unpretentious words to the naked eye, but sounds like one hell of an insult to someone like me. My son was looking at me with leery eyes, waiting for some kind of response. Right then and there, I decided I should be the grown up and not let it get to me. I talked to my wife about it and she called Curt's mother that night. She invited her son to our home for the weekend. She also invited her to join us for lunch on Sunday. Curt's mom wasn't too thrilled about lunch but she did say she'd allow Curt to the sleep-over. I went to bed that night thinking to myself, "at least it's a start."
