It’s a fucking template by now.
The story of the immigrant child. Who was born in another country than their parents. Who lives and grows up with white people but isn’t white. And who, for no apparent reason, tries to write a book about it.
Google about novels written by non-white people. More often than not, you’ll run into this story. About someone who always felt weird as a child and had a horrible time in school. About someone who was bullied because of their hair/their food/their accent. Of course, they had to be the best and get straight A’s.
Oh, and add in a romance angle to it. Make sure the immigrant child falls in love with a white person. Now you have the family drama of rejection. We go through heartbreak, turmoil and other two-dollar words. Finally, it all ends happily ever after.
Whoop-ti-fucking-do.
This is the only story that ever gets told. Why? Because it’s the story that’ll sell. The only story they’ll ever buy.
Because they don’t want to read about you. They want to read about themselves. They want to learn about how good they are, how noble, how accepting of diversity.
And you’ll play into their hands. You won’t rebel because you haven’t got the guts. Or the brains. You’ll write what they want and like it.
Because you cannot accept the fact that we’re mere labels for each other. The world will put you into a category, and you will like it. But, you are an individual. A unique human being. Not like the unwashed masses. You deserve respect because your parents fucked in a different geographical region than where their parents fucked.
And this story will bring you that respect. You’ll tell your account, and it’ll make you famous. Yes, sure, it’s as generic as it can be, but it’s your story. And how can it not be generic? You were bullied. You were left out into the dirt. You fought hard to be accepted.
And of course, it’s an achievement that you found acceptance. A special kind at that. Acceptance by white people. That’s what matters.
As if no one goes through the same struggle, immigrant or not. As if there aren’t people in the world today who would kill to be in your shoes. As if there aren’t people grinding themselves to death for whom, getting picked on for their accents would be a welcome change. Those details don’t matter.
But, you’ll keep telling your story. You’ll keep crying at lit fests about how you’ve always lived in two worlds. Mindless sheep will clap at your readings. Maybe, you’ll even write some poetry. And you’ll speak at TED.
Here’s to the stories of the immigrant kids. Let’s applaud their bravery and their courage of being born and raised in safe, suburban neighborhoods. About having millions of opportunities to choose from. About having more than everyone and yet never having enough. About their struggle of finding something to struggle for.
They’re so fucking amazing, aren’t they?
