Foreign Words: How Immigration Inspired My Writing Journey

The importance of storytelling is to connect us together.  

It is one of the building blocks of civilization.  

Everything important to us as species  

has been contained in stories. 

—LeVar Burton   

In 2007, my parents finalized their divorce after 33 years of marriage, and mami immigrated to the United States shortly after. During the two years leading up to immigrating to the United States, I experienced a great deal of growth along with bittersweet pockets of reflection. While trying to acclimate to a household without both parents, I also had to come to terms with leaving everything I knew behind. I felt powerless and scared for the journey to come. Too young to fully understand the decision, my mind became inundated with questions: Why can’t I stay home? Will I make friends? What if I can’t learn the language? When will I be able to come back?

The days and events that followed still linger in my mind’s attic. I remember telling my friends at school that I was leaving permanently. I chose one of my favorite volleyball shirts—that now reminds me how fragile and small I was—and had them all sign it with goodbye messages during recess. I remember despairing expressions plastered on my teachers' faces, as if they wished they could flee too. Or perhaps it was I who was fearful of the change and looking for similar sadness. 

The entire process of detaching from my everyday life felt like healing from severe emotional burns. Although I am grateful for the opportunities afforded to me, they came at a cost that I am still learning to heal from, to talk about, and to learn from. All I could think of was, "When will I come back?" "Will my friends forget about me and the memories we created?" "Am I going to miss all my family’s birthdays?" "Will I be able to play volleyball again?" "Will people be welcoming to me and to us?"

These pending life-changing events created a more profound affinity for the written word—as if writing about my pain would change reality.

On June 27th, 2009, I was on a plane to meet my mother in Pennsylvania. I embarked on a journey to the unknown, leaving behind my family, friends, language, and culture, but there was still hope of carrying a part of them with us.

The first couple of months felt like a rubber band was being stretched to the max, snapping with a direct aim at my heart—quick, painful, inevitable. I missed the familiar faces, the island’s warmth, the rooster’s wake-up call, the ocean breeze, and the family dinners. Everything reminded me that I didn’t belong—especially the language and the difference in culture. For example, on the first day of high school, I was terrified of anyone speaking to me because I was not going to comprehend a word. I sat in the first seat on the bus and placed my backpack next to me, hoping no one would bother sitting in the front. When I arrived, I couldn't read the class schedule, which instructed all first-year students to report to the auditorium before heading to their first class (I was overwhelmed by the differences in the school environment, the fast pace, and the memories of my friends not being there to welcome me with a smile like others were greeting their friends). And so, due to not knowing how to ask for help, I went straight to my first class, Spanish 3. When I walked in, I was greeted by confused looks and giggles—my facial expression said it all: afraid, embarrassed, and helpless. Then the teacher spoke in English, but I responded in Spanish, expressing my lack of understanding. She kindly responded in Spanish, then helped me translate my schedule. As I walked out of the classroom towards the auditorium, I immediately broke into tears. At that moment, I was reminded of how difficult the journey was going to be, and the level of courage I would need to move forward.

As much as mami tried to make things feel like home during that time—by making Habichuela con Dulce during Easter, finding community at church, and making Sancocho as a surprising dish because she knows how much I love it—I could sense the fear of failure seeping through her, the ache to be back home, and her trying her best not to cry in front of me.

Unfortunately, just like her, I couldn’t hide my emotions, refrain from the tears trying to run away, or ease the knot in my throat. I grieved, leaving papi and my brothers behind. I missed countless special moments in their lives due to distance, immigration laws, and financial situations. I couldn’t bring myself to discuss all of my emotions with my mother—not the ugly ones, the angry ones—because somehow, I felt as though it would make me ungrateful for the sacrifices they made. I kept all those emotions inside—the frustration of feeling alone, away from home, always in survival mode, trying to catch up with everyone else because I was at a disadvantage. Only within the pages of my journal could these feelings be unraveled. 

Unlike me, mami didn't have an outlet to release her emotions. She didn't speak English or drive; traveling, attending events, or even applying for a better job took a lot of work for her. I was full of anger and rage because I wanted to help her achieve and overcome these circumstances, but there was only so much I could do as a teen; I could only offer my presence and undivided attention, and I did.

That time in my life marked a profound internal transformation— the little girl had to grow up too fast and the bond between mother and daughter merged into one. I became my mami's pillar of emotional support, as she lacked anyone else to confide in and express her feelings. Instinctively, I offered her the solace she sought, even if it meant suppressing my own emotions. It was during this period that writing became my salvation, my safety net to express the emotions I was unable to discuss with her.

Pain was my teacher, writing was the antidote.  

After seven months of living in the United States, I bought a new journal. It was Turkish-blue with tan pages, gold writing lines, a small flower on the top left of each page, and a quote on the lower heading that reads, "Always remember, you’re even better than you think." I waited about a week before writing a single word because I knew that the surge of words would solidify my story, struggles, sadness, happiness, and dreams once I started.

The first entry was on January 1st, 2010, in which I wrote: 

“Cuando uno se da valor así mismo, comenzamos a entender lo valiosa que es la  vida; el pasar tiempo con familia, amigos, y más aún, con Dios.”  

“When one gives oneself courage, we begin to understand how valuable life is; to spend time with family, friends, and even more, with God.”  

I held on to all I knew, as if learning a new language meant I would no longer be me. When I tried writing in English, it felt like a conflict of identity, an inner battle—the mind against the heart, a new version of myself fighting against the old. My heart has never lied when it comes to the ink pouring, the words becoming alive, and the memories embedded on the pages of my life. My broken English was a vivid representation of two languages trying to intertwine as the words made their way through my vocal cords to give birth to the voice of the diaspora.

During high school, I encountered challenges that, once again, reminded me of how much harder I had to work and how different I still was from others. I hated attending English class; although I was getting solid grades, being ashamed of my accent birthed an unshakable fear of public speaking. I wished people would stop laughing whenever the words spilled from my mouth with high potency. Those were the times when I submerged myself into the blank pages and allowed foreign words to flow freely, without judgment—without barriers. 

After a year and a half, I was speaking English fluently (I must give credit to my brothers for introducing me to artists like Tupac, Nas, Will Smith, Eminem, Alicia Keys, Michael Jackson, Mariah Carey, and Aaliyah; I knew all the words to their songs but not what they meant).

The years 2018 to 2022 are recorded in my journal as quotes, poems, prose, prayers, dreams, and affirmations. As the days, months, and years went by, my relationship with writing—especially with the Turkish-blue with tan pages journal—became a mirror of my immigration journey and my teenage years. Each page is stained with a part of my life, representing the lowest and highest: the climax and resolution. I confronted and found myself through writing.

Writing about these moments wasn’t without its challenges; a writer’s relationship with releasing the weight of emotions is agonizing. Not many people talk about the horror of staring at the page, knowing that you must write, but once you do, there is no evading the reason. It feels like diving into a dark, turbulent ocean as the waves fearlessly pull you in. But as you embrace the process, writing becomes the lifeboat in that turbulent ocean that provides you with a sense of security amidst the chaos.

I wish to read the entire journal but haven’t dared to. If I read through it, I might be reminded of how that girl overcame things she thought impossible, welcoming growth and gentleness into herself. I might run into the version of myself that didn’t know how to love herself, hid her voice from the world, and didn’t feel her life had a purpose.

Hello, Old Friend  

January 2nd, 2021—An excerpt 

 “It has been a while since I journaled. Lately, I have been doubting my creativity, potential, and passion for writing. I ask myself if I am doing it for others or myself. I don’t know, but I am very grateful for everything. I have been through hell, and my heart still knows the meaning of love. I have been respecting myself and my boundaries. I will not forget the beauty inside me.”

In 2021, I had to face myself and stop running. It was a year of uncomfortable growth. It was mid-January, the start of the spring semester, and I was eager to be closer to graduating with a Masters in Human Resources. I had registered for the last two classes before the capstone. I knew the semester was going to be tough, but I was determined. Prior to the beginning of the class, I came across some issues with my FAFSA form, and the Financial Aid Department reached out to inform me that I would have to resubmit the form. The news triggered my anxiety, and I kept thinking, "Only if I had the funds to pay for my classes, I wouldn't have to deal with this." Without hesitation, I resubmitted the form and then reached out to the school to ensure I would not be dropped from my classes. The office assured me that it wouldn't be the case since we still had time. However, like a crazy plot twist, after being in class for two weeks, the financial office informed me that a delay had occurred with the form and I would be removed from my classes. This changed everything.

I struggled with my identity—who was I without my accomplishments, titles, and goals? Maybe I tried to make my parents proud and show them through all I was accomplishing that their sacrifices were not in vain; but in the midst of it all, I disconnected from myself. The solitude of my thoughts threatened me with a level of clarity I was too afraid to face. This was around the same time COVID was at its peak. There was nowhere to run but inside—back into the root of it all. The shadow work whispered in my ears every night, telling me it was time to create a home within myself. As I embraced the discomfort of the unknown, I also started to create an even deeper relationship with my writing. This phase of stillness forced me to fall back, to trust, to love, and to forgive myself wholeheartedly. 

***

I could feel the material wearing off my journal; the gloss had lost its shine, and the tape I placed on the spine so the pages wouldn't fall had lost its tan color from rubbing inside my bag. As I opened it, I realized that it only had five pages left and that I had been neglecting to use it for a long time because I was scared of what it meant once it was filled. I was afraid of leaving behind that little girl who had moved to the U.S. without knowing what awaited her in that new world. 

This journal—a reflection of my experience—holds the thoughts of a young Dhayana learning to navigate the waves of emotions, the challenges of a new language, and the heartache of falling in and out of love. Every time I hold the journal, I somehow hold her—telling her that her story is safe, that she has been so brave, and that her words are not in vain.

Whether I fill the last couple of pages or not, I am wholeheartedly grateful for the companionship writing has given my inner child—she is proud, happy, and eager to continue to live life in the most authentic and vulnerable ways. And although I’ve outgrown that girl, the words plastered on those pages are a reminder of how powerful it is to not evade my feelings but wholeheartedly embrace them. 

An excerpt from my journal in dedication to young girls still navigating their adolescent years, their own transitions and vulnerabilities, and discovering that words are the magic that will result in truth and growth.

“It took me months to realize what I was going to use this notebook for; I’ve finally realized what it is meant for. I want to pass this along to my children or someone special. This notebook will be filled with my thoughts, favorite quotes, bible verses, lyrics, and other quotes papi and their loved ones have ever given me. Life lessons can majorly affect how you live your life,  see life, and how you would like to change aspects of your life for the better. I hope this notebook helps anyone who ever carries it. I hope anything written here can help you feel stronger, encourage you, and make you feel like you can do better and deserve better.  I know that many quotes and sayings in this notebook have changed me. There will be times when you will be down, falling apart, or unhappy. I want you to know that God never gives you more than you can handle. I am very young right now, but I can say that God has given me so much in life. Beautiful family, friends, and loved ones. Everything you go through is meant to teach you  a lesson.” – November, 2010. 

Despite all I have been through, writing continues to be one of the most beautiful spiritual gifts in this lifetime—a transformative power able to change our perspectives, provide wisdom, and help us heal. 

Writing means having words dance on my tongue, chanting protection spells—

urging me to trust, feel, and let my story be a testament of life itself.