Heart Split into Two Homes

"I see you everywhere. I miss you so much already, but I know you're happy and well, and I wish you all the best. You deserve it. That's what keeps me going. I love you so much." 

My grandma, Ivone, said these words when I called her before boarding for New York after spending a month with her in Brazil. And right before I got into that plane, I was sobbing again.

If you knew her, you'd understand how powerful these words are. She's not one to say "I love you" often. She never really initiated hugs, but always enjoyed it when I hugged her. And I'm also not one to embrace much. I always tell people that my heart belongs to her.

When my mom decided to immigrate to the U.S. in 1996, she asked Ivone if she would feel comfortable taking care of my sister and me; she responded that she'd "never leave our side, and couldn't imagine any other way." 

And up until I was 14, she didn't leave my side. But I left hers to live with my mom in NYC. While it was always part of the plan for me to move after elementary school, I felt so guilty in a way to leave her behind. And since 2009, every time I visit, the goodbyes don't seem to get easier. I spend less time with other friends and family members and more time with her.

After our most recent farewell, I kept thinking about other people like me: those who leave loved ones behind and stay with a heart split into two homes, two countries. Those who feel the unavoidable guilt of having better opportunities than their families, the yearning, and the feeling we need to take care of them. Especially if they had a tough upbringing, and even more so when they get older: you start seeing them become more and more fragile. When we spend time apart, you feel the shock of seeing them vs. if you were with them every day. 

I chatted with a few of my immigrant friends in similar situations, and most of them say the same thing: it always breaks our hearts, but we got to keep on moving on. 

We immigrants are never fully satisfied: when we're at the place we came from, there are moments we feel happy to have left for better opportunities. I end up missing my bed, routine, work, friends, and fiancé... But when you're with those from your childhood and say goodbye to them, you wonder if you made the right decision. 

What can we do to make this feeling go away? 

Well, I try to hold on to what my grandma told me right before I got into that plane. I'm doing well here, and I wouldn't be where I am—the good, the bad, and everything in between—without my life experiences, including leaving Brazil. I also hold on to the good memories, continue to care for my loved ones (like her) from afar, and dedicate my wins and success to this amazing woman who raised me. Finally, and most importantly: I try to enjoy every moment I can with those I care for here or when I'm in Brazil because we never know what tomorrow holds. 

Does that make it better? It does until I say goodbye to my grandma again.  

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The Power of Saying Someone's *Correct* Name 

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

People chuckle when they read my bio. I usually kick off written introductions explaining my name: Lívia – (liv + ee + uh), not Olivia, not Bolivia, just Lívia. I also emphasize my accent on the í. Like Beyoncé, or Salvador Dalí.

I have a last name that sounds like a first name: Paula. Some think it's easier to call me by my last name or just assume Lívia is short for Olivia, and so on. In the first few years of living in New York, I used to feel anxious about correcting others. I didn't want to sound arrogant (remember that immigrant guilt I wrote about in my last post? Something on those lines). So, I'd let the mistake happen a few times before I would say: "Hey! It's actually Lívia." To my surprise, people welcomed those corrections. And so did my confidence.

Dale Carnegie once said: "A person's name is to him or her the sweetest and most important sound in any language." That stuck with me, as I couldn't agree more. Yet, we still see immigrants or their children  and people whose unique names aren't commonly seen in the U.S. change their names to make it easier for others. And I am not here to judge anyone who chooses to do that: if they feel more comfortable with a different, easier to pronounce name, go ahead! But suppose the choice is to make others feel comfortable while belittling your identity. In that case, it's important to reflect and see if your surroundings and groups (personal and professional) are inclusive of who you are and where you come from. 

Actor Uzoamaka Aduba, most famous for her role as "Crazy Eyes" in Orange is The New Black, has a great story about her name and why she didn't change it when she first started acting. Aduba said at a Glamour Magazine event that she asked her mom to change her name to Zoe when she was in grade school because no one could pronounce Uzoamaka. Her mom's response was priceless. "If they can learn to say Tchaikovsky and Michelangelo and Dostoyevsky, they can learn to say Uzoamaka." Her name means "the road is good" in Nigerian, which makes it even more special. 

Using people's names (and most importantly, correct names) in conversation can help build trusting relationships and influence. For example, every time a person adds the accent to my name in an email, it makes me feel as if that person took the time to read and pay attention to the details. When people ask how to pronounce my name, it makes me feel like that person is making an effort. There are also tools now to improve that process. When I was at NYU, they added a tool where students could record their name pronunciations in the school portal, so professors could learn how to say their names before class started. That option is also now available on LinkedIn. If those tools are available to you: take advantage. If people don't have issues pronouncing your name, take advantage of those tools to learn how to pronounce others'.

Making people feel comfortable in their own identities is crucial, and names are huge when it comes to that. Whether it is pronouncing their unique names or using people's proper pronouns, here are a few tips that can help with the process:

  • When starting a new role or meeting new people, don't be shy when introducing yourself: it's an excellent opportunity to emphasize your unique name and how to pronounce it correctly. Whether it is the CEO or your new teammate, people will welcome the extra help. In order to foster a welcoming and collaborative environment, it's important to feel welcome and heard.

  • Take an extra minute to read email signatures and profile bios: while people have a short attention span, I suggest taking a minute to read someone's email signature or bios. It can help you notice that little accent, pronoun, or perhaps a pronunciation tip. It can show others you cared to learn, and trust me, it'll make them feel better. If you have a unique name, I recommend adding the pronunciation on bios, or anywhere you have your name.

  • Don't be afraid to ask people to pronounce their names: Getting that step out of the way early on can help the conversation run smoothly - and the relationship builds better that way! Some people are bad with remembering names in general, so being very clear and specific can make an impression and make it easier for others to remember your unique self. 

  • Your uniqueness is beautiful - not an inconvenience to others. Embrace it! 

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Immigrating with Papers

The privilege, expectations, and reality of immigrating with "papers."

On January 1st, 2009, I flew to New York City with my one-way ticket from my Brazilian hometown of Uberlândia, Minas Gerais. Talk about "new year, new me." So, as I celebrate 13 years since immigrating, I want to share a bit of my journey: the privilege, expectations, and misconceptions.

You see, I knew I would move to the U.S. at an early age. My mother, Cleusa, immigrated to NYC in 1996 when I was only two years old. I stayed back home with my sister and my grandmother. Upon arrival, she knew her goal and mission were to ensure the best for her family and bring her two daughters to live with her. After years of hard work, sacrifices, challenges, and saudade, she became an American Citizen. Shortly after that, Cleusa applied for her daughters’ Green Cards. And in 2003, my sister and I got the coveted document and began visiting our mom. I didn't move to NYC until after I graduated 8th grade to start High School. My sister came after two years in 2011, a year after receiving her bachelor's degree in accounting. 

We had what many consider the essential tools to a successful path and transition as an immigrant: the "papers," slang for Green Card or American Citizenship, used by other immigrants I know. The English skills, which I started studying when I was six years old. And family support: which was our mother. We acknowledge our privilege and thank her for all she did to bring us, since we wouldn't be where we are today without her strength. Of course, the resiliency and hard work we inherited from our mom helped us reach our goals and milestones.

However, a few misconceptions are associated with immigrants with "papers" or those who get their Green Card shortly after moving to the U.S. 

Don't get me wrong: this post is in no way undermining the privileged experience of being considered an immigrant with legal residency or naturalization status in the U.S. But for many years, I felt bad about feeling bad.

I forgot to mention that I didn't want to move to NYC when I did. My sister and my two best friends—also young Brazilians who immigrated with a Green Card—felt the same way. We came here because it was decided for us, and we had no choice. Or at least it felt that way at the time. We were told by family members and friends: "Be thankful! So many people would do anything to be in your position! You MUST succeed and do well!" 

While our family and support system had good intentions behind these statements (and we have succeeded and overcame challenges and stereotypes), they didn't realize that this pressure could turn into guilt, lack of self-confidence, and burnout. Here are some things I expected early on and the reality I encountered myself in. 

Regardless of your immigration status and English proficiency, the feeling of being an outsider will still be there. And that's ok. 

When I moved, I thought I wouldn't feel like an outsider because I knew English and had my documents. But as an immigrant, no matter how long you've lived in your new country, you will face situations in which people will find ways to remind you that you are not from there. Someone might tell you not to worry about it, work hard and improve your English skills, and you'll feel more like part of that society. That's the expectation. I once had a journalism professor tell me to "lose my accent" to be more “marketable”. I told him I didn't think it'd be a problem since I wanted to go for print journalism, but that stuck with me.

But even with good knowledge of the language and culture, I often felt that the stereotypes that accompanied my background would speak louder than my capabilities. That happened in high school, college, and even my master's program. The reality? That's their problem and ignorance, not yours. Confidence helped me get past that and understand that being an immigrant shouldn't make me feel uncomfortable: it's my superpower. It was confidence that helped me speak up against intolerance. It took years to build it, and I didn't expect it would be this hard. But here we are! 

Don't burn yourself out to overcompensate immigrant guilt. And don't lowball yourself, either. 

It's important to acknowledge the sacrifices made by others to get us to where we are today. However, acknowledging it isn't the same thing as letting it dictate how you live and feel. There's an expectation that children of immigrants, especially those with the "papers," need to break generational curses. I felt so bad anytime I wasn't happy in this country. I felt terrible when I couldn't do well in school, and that guilt of not doing well just made me do worst. It was a snowball effect. It followed me in my professional life, where even though I had the opportunity to work full-time and get paid a salary, I was afraid to ask for what I deserved and establish boundaries. 

Thoughts such as: "People would do anything to be in my shoes," or, "My mom had to sacrifice so much and worked so hard to get us here, I shouldn't complain," would consume me at times. The reality was that those feelings made it harder to move forward and clouded my judgment, and some of my friends felt the same way. 

Once I opened up and understood that my feelings were valid (thank you, therapy!), good things started to happen. It was then that I could negotiate salaries at jobs or better conditions in all relationships in my life (personal and professional). 

And lastly...  We're all in this together. 

Immigrants, regardless of legal status, are all in this growth process together. People shouldn't treat a group better based on their status, and every journey is worth it. There's nothing sadder than fellow immigrants putting others down based on their status or backgrounds: I witnessed that a lot in my years studying at an international High School, and after. To be seen and respected by everyone, we should start in our communities. 

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