Us, immigrant girls...

There are times in life when our emotions get the best of us and the grasp of our own humanly bodies is nonexistent. In high school, I had a friend, let’s call her Dia. Even though we are no longer in contact, I will never forget an incident that I experienced with Dia. It was junior year of high school and like me, all my friends had packed schedules and felt like they were carrying the world in their shoulders. Having nine classes, and at least three of them being Advanced Placement really tired out a person. One day Dia and I were in the library, pretending to do work but mostly taking this rare free time to talk to each other.

“Yeah I have so much homework to do," Dia shook her head in annoyance. "But I also have to take my grandmother to the doctor’s tomorrow so -”

“Oh, is she okay?”

“She has very weak joints and she’s developing Alzheimer’s as well, so we been taking her to the doctors a lot” she explained. I was touched at her honestly in sharing this with me, but I also didn’t know how to respond other than saying:

“I’m so sorry about that.”

“So,” she continued, “I’m gonna have to miss the first two periods tomorrow because the appointment is in the morning and I have to be there to translate.” There was a quick silence. “I hate having to always be the one talking. And I hate making calls because of my anxiety. Like I start stuttering and shit. But there is nobody else in the house that speaks English well enough, you know?”

“Yeah I know,” I replied. I opened my mouth to tell her that I'm in the exact situation. That next week, I have to accompany my mother to court as she files for a divorce and a restraining order. Before I could say anything though, I noticed how red Dia’s eyes had become.

“Hey, are you okay?” I touched her hand.

“Yeah” she laughed as her eyes turned into waterfalls. “This is so stupid why am I crying?” she said as she wiped her tears with the sleeves of her thick gray hoodie.

“It’s okay, you can cry,” I wanted to comfort her because I understood how she felt. How burdening it is when you are the translator of the house. How you want to help your parents because you know they are trying their best to provide you with a good life, but that anxiety is a bitch. That no matter how much you want to help, the minute you need to talk, your tongue sinks into your mouth like a rock. How your hands get sweaty and shaky as you try to talk to government officials as a twelve-year-old and try to explain all of these big, fancy words to your mom. How it feels when you hear people say “This is America. Why doesn’t your mom learn English?” and all you want to do is yell at the ignorant. How at the age of twelve you already know how to pay bills and write checks for rent. How you miss school because you have to take your dad to his appointment. How you are forced to grow so quickly in a world full of adults who grasp onto your childhood and refuse to let it go.

“This is so embarrassing,” Dia continued, “I didn’t want to cry in front of you," I tell her it’s okay and this would just stay between us. Us, immigrant girls, who share many secrets.

Every year on my birthday, Dia sends me a message to congratulate me. Every year I think of that day in high school, in the quiet library, Dia’s tears bursting out of her body as if they could no longer stay inside. She, telling me she’s “embarrassed”. Why should we be embarrassed to feel? To express emotions that have been eating at us. Every year I hope she is well and doing better mentally, but I never say it. I do not want to embarrass her again after years of the incident. I always keep her in my thoughts because we are one and the same. Us, immigrant girls.