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~~!!!;
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i
i
I
BHARATI
MUKHERJEE
Two Ways
to
Belong
in
America
Born in 1940 and raised in Calcutta, India, Bharati Mukherjee immi-
grated to the United States in 1961 and earned an
M.F.A.
and a
Ph.D.
in
literature. Mukherjee is the author
of
several novels, including Tiger's
Daughter
(1972) and
Jasmine
(1989), and short story col/ections, such
as
The
Middleman
and
Other
Stories (1988). She teaches literature
and fiction writing at the University
of
California, Berkeley.
"Two
Ways to Belong in America" first appeared in the New York
Times. It waS written
to
address a movement in Congress to take away
government benefits from resident aliens. Like her fiction, though, it
is
also about the issues that confront all immigrants in America.
This
is
a tale
of
two
sisters
from
Calcutta,
Mira
and
Bharati,
who
have
lived
in
the
United
States
for
some
35 years,
but
who
find
themselves
on
different
sides
in
the
current
debate
over
the
status
of
immigrants.
I
am
an
American
citizen
and
she
is
not.
I
am
moved
that
thousands
of
long-term
residents
are
finally
taking
the
oath
of
citizenship.
She
is
not.
Mira
arrived
in
Detroit
in
1960
to
study
child
psychology
and
pre-school
education.
I followed
her
a
year
later
to
study
creative
writing
at
the
University
of
Iowa.
When
we
left
India,
we
were
almost
identical
in
appearance
and
attitude.
We
dressed
alike,
in
saris;
we
expressed
identical
views
on
politics,
social
issues,
love,
and
marriage
in
the
same
Calcutta
convent-school
accent.
We
would endure our two years in America, secure our degrees, then
return
to
India
to
marry
the
grooms
of
our
father's
choosing.
Instead,
Mira
married
an
Indian
student
in
1962
who
was
get-
ting
his
business
administration
degree
at
Wayne
State
Univer-
sity.
They
soon
acquired
the
labor
certifications
necessary
for
the
green
card
of
hassle-free
residence
and
employment.
Mira
still lives
in
Detroit,
works
in
the
Southfield, Mich.,
school
272
TWO
WAYS
TO
BELONG
IN
AMERICA
273
system,
and
has
become
nationally
recognized
for
her
contribu-
tions
in
the
fields
of
pre-school
education
and
parent-teacher
relationships.
After 36
years
as
a legal
immigrant
in
this
country,
she
clings
passionately
to
her
Indian
citizenship
and
hopes
to
go
home
to
India
when
she
retires.
In
Iowa
City
in
1963, I
married
a fellow
student,
an
American
5
of
Canadian
parentage.
Because
of
the
accident
of
his
North
Dakota
birth,
I
bypassed
labor-certification
requirements
and
the
race-related
"quota"
system
that
favored
the
applicant's
country
of
origin
over
his
or
her
merit.
I
was
prepared
for
(and
even
wel-
comed)
the
emotional
strain
that
came
with
marrying
outside
my
ethnic
community.
In
33
years
of
marriage,
we
have
lived
in
every
part
of
North
America.
By
choosing
a
husband
who
was
not
my
father's
selection,
I
was
opting
for
fluidity,
self-invention,
blue
jeans,
and
T-shirts,
and
renouncing
3,000
years
(at
least)
of
caste-
observant,
"pure
culture"
marriage
in
the
Mukherjee
family.
My
books
have
often
been
read
as
unapologetic
(and
in
some
quar-
ters
overenthusiastic)
texts
for
cultural
and
psychological
"mon-
grelization." It's a
word
I celebrate.
Mira
and
I
have
stayed
sisterly
close
by
phone.
In
our
regular
Sunday
morning
conversations,
we
are
unguardedly
affectionate.
I
am
her
only
blood
relative
on
this
continent.
We
expect
to
see
each
other
through
the
looming
crises
of
aging
and
ill
health
without
being
asked.
Long
before
Vice
President
Gore's "Citizen-
ship
U.S.A." drive,
we'd
had
our
polite
arguments
over
the
ethics
of
retaining
an
overseas
citizenship
while
expecting
the
perma-
nent
protection
and
economic
benefits
that
come
with
living
and
working
in
America.
Like well-raised sisters,
we
never
said
what
was
really
on
our
minds,
but
we
probably
pitied
one
another.
She,
for
the
lack
of
shucture
in
my
life,
the
erasure
of
Indianness,
the
absence
of
an
unvarying
daily
core. I,
for
the
narrowness
of
her
perspective,
her
uninvolvement
with
the
mythic
depths
or
the
superficial
pop
cul-
ture
of
this
society.
But,
now,
with
the
scapegoatings
of
"aliens"
(documented
or
illegal)
on
the
increase,
and
the
targeting
of
long-
term
legal
immigrants
like
Mira
for
new
scrutiny
and
new
self-
consciousness,
she
and
I find
ourselves
unable
to
maintain
the
same
polite
discretion.
We
were
always
unacknowledged
adver-
saries, and
we
are now,
more
than
ever, sisters.
"I feel
used,"
Mira
raged
on
the
phone
the
other
night.
"I feel
