Style: Narrative
Statement: In "My Cliché Immigration Story," I draw from my own experiences to illustrate the profound emotions and challenges faced by immigrants. The narrative captures the anxiety of being thrust into a new environment, where even a simple introduction feels monumental. I aim to challenge the stereotype of the “cliché immigration story” by highlighting the rich individuality and depth behind each experience. Ultimately, I hope to evoke empathy and understanding, showing that every story, no matter how familiar, has unique threads that deserve to be told.
“Hello, everybody,” I began, my voice faltering as my stiff tongue struggled to keep up with the foreign sounds tumbling awkwardly out of my mouth. “My—my name is Willis, and I come from Taiwan.”
I stole a nervous glance around the room, my racing heartbeat thudding in my ears as I surveyed the sea of curious, expectant faces. The walls, plastered with bright posters of motivational quotes, seemed almost too vivid, too eager in their contrast to the turmoil swirling inside me. The air was thick with a musty scent of old textbooks and unwashed socks, mingling with the faint chemical tang of classroom cleaning products that did little to mask the underlying stench.
Teacher leaned slightly forward, peering over the rims of her glasses with impatience. “What’s your name?” she demanded, her sharp voice slicing through the murmur of students shuffling papers and whispering to one another. “Speak up; I can barely hear you.” I shifted uncomfortably, my mind wrestling with the tangled jumble of unfamiliar vowels and consonants.
Speak up. Sure, I understood what “speak” and “up” meant separately, but together, it felt like trying to solve a riddle without a clue. Speak…up? Frustrated, Teacher waved her arms above her head, her fingers splayed and her palms facing outward as if trying to lift the sound of my voice with her gestures.
Up? I wondered. She wants me to talk while facing….
upwards? In a burst of awkward inspiration, I tilted my head back, staring
up at the classroom’s dingy fluorescent lights as though the words might somehow be easier to conjure from that angle. “Willis,” I repeated, my voice
trembling and barely reaching beyond the first row of desks. I couldn’t shake the sense that I was making an odd spectacle of myself. It turned out that I had taken the Teacher’s request far too literally.
A ripple of giggles spread through the room, quickly swelling into a chorus of full-out laughter. “Oh dear! My poor little child, let me help you,” Teacher offered, her voice softer but still laced with an edge of frustration. She walked over to me and, with a strained smile, knelt to my height. Enunciating each word with exaggerated clarity, she instructed, “Just say your name. Slowly. Like this: Will—is.”
I nodded as a wave of relief mingled with mortification washed over me. Teacher’s patience was a small comfort, but the eyes of my classmates still felt like twenty-nine tiny spotlights scrutinizing every movement I made. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves, and repeated, “Willis,” more confidently this time.
“Thank you, Willis. Please take a seat next to Sakura.” Teacher instructed, her voice carrying a dismissive edge as she shook her head with exasperation. As I sank into the hard, plastic chair, I could feel the awkwardness settle like a heavy cloak around me.
Teacher’s gaze lingered as she slumped into her chair, barely concealing her disdain. “Ugh, not another one this year,” she scoffed, her voice dripping scornfully. “They stumble in here, clueless and struggling with even saying their name like they expect us to spoon-feed them everything.” Though I couldn’t grasp every word she spoke, the tone of her judgment was unmistakable.
I was just another kid with the cliché immigration story. I mean, I fit perfectly into the “Asian mold.” Standing at a mere 4’9”, I was constantly craning my neck to make eye contact with my American classmates, my diminutive stature rendering me nearly invisible in a sea of
taller, better bodies. My hair, cut in a hasty trim from a $10 neighborhood barbershop, resembled a coarse broom, with bristles stubbornly jutting in every direction except the one I wanted. My skin was a deep, permanent shade of tan, far from the sun-kissed, golden bronze glow that my classmates flaunted after summer vacations at the beach. It marked me unmistakably as “Asian”. The clothes I wore didn’t help either. They were hand-me-downs from cousins who had already worn them to threads, consistently too large. The sleeves of my shirt swallowed my arms, billowing out like sails; the cuffs of my faded jeans dragged against the floor, frayed and worn at the edges from constant wear.
Yet, there is so much more to my cliché immigration story.
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