Inside the Immigrant’s Head: Reflecting on western-wombed children
Inspired by a conversation I had with my dad earlier.
He doesn’t work for passion.
Frankly, he couldn’t care less whether the company he works for collapses. He’ll simply just find another job. Labelling himself an “economic migrant” he constantly reminds me of the privilege I have to be passionate for literally anything. Whether it’s my passion for creating, which led to a short-term obsession with knitting. Or my passion for debate which led me to pursue a degree in the social sciences. Our fathers and forefathers who immigrated to Western countries in pursuit of better lives didn’t have the privilege to discover and cultivate a “passion.” And now their western-wombed children suddenly want to pursue photography, music and art over nursing, engineering, and law. The priority has been and always should be putting food on the table, not the enjoyment of the process of putting food on the table. We must eat to survive, no? But us western-wombed children are weak, concerned about every which way except the way the food will end up on the table. Gay rights, race rights, gender rights, it seems our parents left their countries just for us to be preoccupied with the rights of everyone else. And now you come home talking of rights, rights, rights. And whilst we wouldn’t dare tell our parents “they have no right to…” we slowly push the boundaries – we get those locs, tattoo our bodies and pierce whatever because punishment will always be favoured over repression. At the end of the day though, I’ll always come back to eat the food at my parents’ table. I will bring the passion of being a western-wombed child to my parents’ home.
