I’ve spent a lot of time in the New York area over the years with my wife’s family, beyond my time with all the American day school people I’ve worked and learned with over the years. That’s a lot of face time with U.S. citizens. The cultures are different, but not that different. Yes, the health care thing here is weird, as well as having to remember to refer to ‘first grade’ rather than ‘grade 1’. I have a hard time forgiving American’s neglect of the letter ‘u’, and resent that I couldn’t port my cell phone number across the 49th parallel. Though I should note that, despite whatever I’ve seen in the movies, people in Brooklyn are really nice. At least in ‘my’ part of Brooklyn they are.
With those small differences, I recognize that I am perhaps the most privileged immigrant. I speak the same language as my new hosts; I share basically the same cultural values (minus a few notable details that I will not mention because it would turn this post into a political screed); I’ve entered the country with a well paying job, a house, and family support. And yet, there are these surprising moments when I’m incredibly conscious of being an immigrant, of not really fitting in. Like when the first mortgage broker told us we couldn’t buy a house because I didn’t have a credit score in the US (um, can’t you call Canada?); or when Verizon said I couldn’t get the free phone that really isn’t free because it comes as a credit to the line I got, and because it’s a credit I needed a credit rating which, as you know, I don’t have below the 49th; or when the credit card company rejected me because I don’t have a credit history, even though I make a good living and would have totally spent a lot on their card, as I’ve done on their Canadian credit card cousins. I’ve spent too much really, so perhaps just as good that they said no); or when the DMV needed multiple documents to prove that I was a legal immigrant when I thought one or two were enough; or when…but you get the point. At each point it’s like someone put up a sign that says, ‘Outsider’, and I keep wanting to say, “I’m really just one of you”. No, you’re not.
And let’s be clear – this entire process has been made incredibly easy for me because I have a lawyer helping me with immigration, and an HR person at work who walks me through everything at work benefits related, a well-paying job, and a wife who speaks American. I have the first-world version of immigration problems. This awareness led me to have so much more deep empathy for what someone goes through when they come from, well, just about anywhere else! For people who don’t have money, or family here, or a new mortgage broker who could get them a loan without a credit rating, or a wife who could get them on as a secondary cardholder on her credit card, or the language to figure out how it all works or have a network to find out. It’s been humbling even in my privilege.
Each year we’re asked to remember that we were strangers in Egypt, and so have empathy for the stranger. So even though I’m the smallest kind of stranger, the least strange stranger, I want to thank America for reminding me that I’m an outsider, and fostering empathy for those who really are. Thank you America for helping me understand the Torah a bit better. And…I’m ready for my credit card.