This essay was originally published by Central Desi here. You should definitely subscribe to their lovely newsletter about New Jersey’s fast-growing South Asian American community.
Coming back home after living abroad has come to mean one has failed: You wasted away months, and are now trapped in the same ghetto you worked tirelessly to leave behind. I understand those compulsions of thought, and to a certain extent, they resonate.
But sometimes, you assess your options. Would you want to relish the joys of a culturally free, walkable city, just a train ride away from Manhattan, where the air smacks in your face the unmistakable scent of countless possibilities with each stride? Or would you want to put your exorbitantly expensive journalism degree to good use?
For me, the choice was unsettling, as I was living my dream life in New Jersey with someone I’ve come to love. I was writing for an ambitious local news publication, hopping on the bus to new cities on weekends, dressing up, gobbling new cuisines, drinking fancy cocktails, singing at karaoke bars, dancing all night, meeting colorful folks, sitting on park benches, enjoying films in the theater, shopping, people-watching, walking funny on the street, kissing, dreaming, and basically rediscovering my light.
But I’m more reasonable than I’d like to admit, so in this economy, I eventually chose the privilege of being employed.
After graduating from Columbia with a master’s in investigative journalism, I freelanced and worked in New York on a post-study work visa. This document made my education worth it, as it opened doors that I could only have imagined as a college student: I produced videos for BBC News India, reported on New York’s mayoral race, helped build two media startups, and went on a sponsored trip to cover my first concert. But this freedom was short-lived, as the non-STEM OPT visa (the one I was on) lasts for just one year.
I then made an Excel sheet and started filling in the status of positions I applied for as if that were my full-time job. The sheet stretched for months, and after multiple rounds of interviews leading up to that one question about my sponsorship needs and their inability to provide it, I realized that my citizenship had become a professional barrier I couldn’t afford.
You see, being an immigrant brings with it a plethora of dilemmas. Questions of whether you would belong where you were born crop up in your mind before you book your return ticket. But the precariousness of survival under the current U.S. administration’s web of legal jargon and restrictions can force one to fly back home, albeit with a heavy heart.
Whether I think it’s a failure to have had to go right back where I came from is not the right question. Failing, I believe, is an individual’s act, and this was purely circumstantial. If today’s land of the free were more welcoming of young talent like myself, many established media houses would be willing to bet on my future in the U.S.
So, I finally decided to take my dream job in India at one of the most trusted and renowned newsrooms globally, a place I could easily grow to call my own. And I’m back to living in my parents’ house, working remotely from the room where my teenage obsession with the news world sprouted. It’s a relief not to constantly worry about my legal status, or visa documents, or currency conversion rates, or landlords.
But in the process of finding this stability, I also lost a moment of adventure, wonder, and freedom. Now, not a day goes by that I don’t yearn for the life I built independently in the greatest city I’ve known, which truly made me believe I could have it all.
I am, however, mad enough to cling to hope for the future: that, one day, my passport won’t dictate my life choices and that I will crawl out of the ghetto to dream again.
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