What's missing from the American immigrant narrative

Hi everyone, my name is Elizabeth

and I work on the trading floor.

But I'm still pretty new to it.

I graduated from college
about a year and a half ago,

and to be quite honest,

I'm still recovering
from the recruiting process

I had to go through to get here.

(Laughter)

Now I don't know about you,

but this is the most ridiculous thing

that I still remember
about the whole process,

was asking insecure college students
what their biggest passion was.

Like, do you expect me
to have an answer for that?

(Laughter)

Of course I did.

And to be quite honest,

I really showed those recruiters
just how passionate I was,

by telling them all about
my early interest in the global economy,

which, conveniently,
stemmed from the conversations

that I would overhear
my immigrant parents having

about money and the fluctuating value
of the Mexican peso.

They love a good personal story.

But you know what?

I lied.

(Laughter)

And not because
the things I said weren't true,

I mean, my parents were talking
about this stuff.

But that's not really why
I decided to jump into finance.

I just really wanted to pay my rent.

(Laughter)

And here's the thing.

The reality of having to pay my rent

and do real adult things

is something that we're rarely
willing to admit to employers,

to others and even to ourselves.

I know I wasn't
about to tell my recruiters

that I was there for the money.

And that's because for the most part,

we want to see ourselves as idealists,

and as people who do what they believe in

and pursue the things
that they find the most exciting.

But the reality is,

very few of us actually
have the privilege to do that.

Now, I can't speak for everyone,

but this is especially true for young
immigrant professionals like me.

And the reason this is true

has something to do with the narratives

that society has kept [unclear] us with,

in the news, in the workplace

and even by those annoyingly
self-critical voices in our heads.

So what narratives am I referring to?

Well there’s two that come to mind
when it comes to immigrants.

The first is the idea
of the immigrant worker.

You know, people that come to the US
in search of jobs as laborers,

or field workers, dish washers.

You know, things that we might
consider low-wage jobs,

but the immigrants?

That's a good opportunity.

The news nowadays has convoluted
that whole thing quite a bit.

You could say that it's made America's
relationship with immigrants complicated.

And as immigrant expert
George Borjas would have put it,

it's kind of like America wanted workers,

but then they got confused
when we got people instead.

(Laughter)

I mean it's natural
that people want to strive

to put a roof over their heads
and live a normal life, right?

So for obvious reasons,

this narrative has been driving me
a little bit crazy.

But it's not the only one.

The other narrative
that I'm going to talk about

is the idea of the super immigrant.

In America, we love
to idolize super immigrants

as the ideal symbols of American success.

I grew up admiring super immigrants

because their existence fueled my dreams

and it gave me hope.

The problem with this narrative
is that it also seems to cast a shadow

on those that don't succeed

or that don't make it
in that way, as less than.

And for years, I got caught up in the ways

in which it seemed to celebrate
one type of immigrant

while villainizing the other.

I mean, were my parents'
sacrifices not enough?

Was the fact that my dad came home
from the metal factory

covered in corrosive dust,

was that not super?

Don't get me wrong.

I've internalized both
of these narratives to some degree

and in many ways,

seeing my heroes succeed,
it has pushed me to do the same.

But both of these narratives
are flawed in the ways

in which they dehumanize people

if they don't fit within a certain mold

or succeed in a certain way.

And this really affected my self-image,

because I started to question these ideas
for who my parents were,

and who I was,

and I started to wonder,

am I doing enough to protect
my family and my community

form the injustices
that we felt every day.

So why did I choose to "sell out"

while watching tragedies unfold
right in front of me?

Now it took me a long time

to come to terms with my decisions.

And I really have to thank the people

running the Hispanic
Scholarship Fund, or HSF,

for validating this process early on.

And the way that HSF,

an organization that strives to help
students achieve higher education

through mentorship and scholarships,

the way that they helped calm my anxiety,

it was by telling me
something super familiar.

Something that you all
probably have heard before

in the first few minutes
after boarding a flight.

In case of an emergency,

put your oxygen mask on first

before helping those around you.

Now I understand that this means
different things to different people.

But for me it meant
that immigrants couldn't

and would never be able to fit
into any one narrative

because most of us are actually
just traveling along a spectrum,

trying to survive.

And although there may be people
that are further along in life

with their oxygen mask on
and secured in place,

there are undoubtedly going to be others

that are still struggling to put theirs on

before they can even think
about helping those around them.

Now this lesson really hit home for me,

because my parents,

while they wanted us to be able
to take advantage of opportunities

in a way that we wouldn't have been able
to do so anywhere else,

I mean, we were in America,

and so as a child, this made me
have these crazy ambitions

and elaborate dreams
for what my future could look like.

But the ways in which
the world sees immigrants,

it affects more than just
the narratives in which they live.

It also impacts the ways
laws ans systems can affect communities,

families and individuals.

I know this firsthand,

because these laws and systems,
well, they broke up my family,

and they led my parents
to return to Mexico.

And at 15,

my eight-year-old brother and I,

we found ourselves alone
and without the guidance

that our parents
had always provided us with.

Despite being American citizens,

we both felt defeated

by what we had always known to be
the land of opportunity.

Now in the weeks that followed
my parents' return to Mexico,

when it became clear
that they wouldn't be able to come back,

I had to watch
as my eight-year-old brother

was pulled out of school
to be with his family.

And during this same time,

I wondered if going back

would be validating
my parents' sacrifices.

And so I somehow convinced
my parents to let me stay,

without being able to guarantee them
that I'd find somewhere to live

or that I'd be OK.

But to this day, I will never
forget how hard it was

having to say goodbye.

And I will never forget how hard it was

watching my little brother
crumble in their arms

as I waved goodbye
from the other side of [unclear].

Now it would be naïve to credit grit

as the sole reason for why
I've been able to take advantage

of so many opportunities since that day.

I mean, I was really lucky,
and I want you to know that.

Because statistically speaking,

students that are homeless
or that have unstable living conditions,

well they rarely complete high school.

But I do think

that it was because my parents
had the trust in letting me go

that I somehow found
the courage and strength

to take on opportunities,

even when I felt unsure or unqualified.

Now, there's no denying
that there is a cost

to living the American dream.

You do not have to be

an immigrant or the child
of immigrants to know that.

But I do know that now, today,

I am living something close
to what my parents saw

as their American dream.

Because as soon
as I graduated from college,

I flew my younger brother
to the United States to live with me,

so that he too could pursue his education.

Still, I knew that it would be hard
flying my little brother back.

I knew that it would be hard

having to balance the demands
and professionalism

required of an entry-level job

while being responsible for a child
with dreams and ambitions of his own.

But you can imagine how fun it is
to be 24 years old,

at the peak of my youth,
living in New York,

with an angsty teenage roommate
who hates doing the dishes.

(Laughter)

The worst.

(Laughter)

But when I see my brother
learning how to advocate for himself,

and when I see him get excited
about his classes and school,

I do not doubt anything.

Because I know that this bizarre,

beautiful and privileged life
that I now live

is the true reason for why
I decided to pursue a career

that would help me and my family
find financial stability.

I did not know it back then,

but during those eight years
that I lived without my family,

I had my oxygen mask on
and I focused on survival.

And during those same eight years,

I had to watch helplessly
the pain and hurt

that it caused my family to be apart.

What airlines don't tell you
is that putting your oxygen mask on first

while seeing those around you struggle,

it takes a lot of courage.

But being able to have that self-control

is sometimes the only way

that we are able to help those around us.

Now I'm super lucky to be in a place

where I can be there for my little brother

so that he feels confident and prepared

to take on whatever he chooses to do next.

But I also know

that because I am
in this position of privilege

I also have the responsibility

to make sure that my community
finds spaces where they can find guidance,

access and support.

I can't claim to know
where each and every one of you are

on your journey through life.

But I do know that our world is one

that flourishes when different
voices come together.

My hope is that you will find the courage

to put your oxygen mask on
when you need to.

And that you will find the strength

to help those around you when you can.

Thank you.

(Applause)