An Invisible Immigrant Made Visible
Liminal spaces, hyphenated spaces, intercultural, (in)between-ness, transnational, global, multi-ethnic, multiracial, multicultural, third culture, Cross Cultural Kids. These are some terms that describe those of us who are not easily categorized cultural
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11. An invisible immigrant made visible
Abstract
Liminal spaces, hyphenated spaces, intercultural, (in)between-ness, transnational, global, multi-ethnic, multiracial, multicultural, third culture, Cross Cultural Kids. These are some terms that describe those of us who are not easily categorized culturally, showing the complexity of the situation for children who grow up (in) between and outside of just one culture. In this autoethnographic poem, the author explores these cultural interstitial spaces that mirror the physical and philosophical border crossings these children experience. She tries to make sense of growing up as a military child within the confines of the social, political, and cultural influences of the Cold War. She also attempts to write herself out of limbo (Bell-Villada, Sichel, Eidse, Orr, & Neil) into a space of greater knowing of Self and the context of the time. She uses writing as a “method of inquiry” and as a way of “knowing—a method of discovery and analysis” (Richardson, 1998), because the “ethnographic experience is not separable from the Self” (Richardson & St. Pierre, 2008). She also seeks to offer insight into the countless children who grow up in what can often be contradictory hyphenated or liminal cultural spaces. She frames her work within the context of critical pedagogy, which as Giroux (2011) argues, “[I]lluminates [the] struggle over assigned meaning, modes of expression, and directions of desire, particularly as these bear on the formation of the multiple and ever-contradictory versions of the ‘self’ and its relationship to the larger society (p. 4).” Kindergarten
A multicultural parade. Some children reach back Trying to connect to the past Grasping tenuous ties to the old world While others attempt to release their chains. I follow the leader, blissfully unaware, Never knowing how much I must follow. We circle the Quonset huts, Metallic, prefabricated shells of buildings
G. A. Tilley-Lubbs & S. B. Calva (Eds.), Re-Telling Our Stories, 151–161. © 2016 Sense Publishers. All rights reserved.
p. c. smart-smith
Dotting the military landscape, Holding the elementary school overflows. Pine trees towering over head. Fighter jet noise drowning out the teacher’s voice. Mama Dolores, My grandmother, Bought my shoes. Dark red with white polka dots. Clicking to the beat of my castanets. Head held high in a white with red polka dot flamenco dress. I am Spanish! An adult asks, “Do you know how to dance?” I show her my best flamenco moves. “¡Olé!” My accent flawless. My whiteness stands out. My blue eyes stand out. My Shirley Temple blonde curls Hang midway down my back. I know who I am. Or at least that’s what I told myself then. Duck and cover Your flimsy school desk will save you From the dropping radiation bombs. Better dead than red. There is no time for self-reflection “We’ve a common enemy to fight.” Home with my Mama Dolores. Eating her sopa de ajo. Just a little garlic soup to cure what ails us. She tells me stories about little pajaritos I no longer recall. The birds and t
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