"The Migrant Burden"

It was a term I had never heard used against me before. Whether or not the
maker knew that his words stung, I shall never know. It was said to me in
response to an off‐hand comment I made on a first date conversation with a man
whose ancestors hailed from the land of the potato famine (Ireland), before
stumbling across our great Southern land. “If I could have everything my own
way, I’d just drop everything and travel the world to work as a photographer,” I
had said. “Why don’t you?” He asked. “I just can’t leave.” I said, “My parents can’t
support me forever. It’s just not possible to leave everything behind. And, later
on, who will take care of them?” was my reply. “Ah,” he said. That’s when those
words reared their ominous presence. “The migrant burden.”

I could not summon a reply. He simply looked perceptively into the distance, as if
his words needed no further explanation. They just were. My silence he took as
tacit acquiescence. However, I was not able to shake the thought that somehow I
carried a burden suddenly imposed upon me by those words. Perhaps what was
more disconcerting was the sheer irritation that someone could assume that I
carried such a burden by the mere virtue of my migration. Either this is a burden
that I was ignorant of and have silently bourne since my arrival, or a burden that I
was acutely aware of but carried silently. Or perhaps this burden was something
I bore openly, proudly and resolutely into my migrant future, or perhaps he was
mistaken, and I bore no burden at all.

Let’s assume we migrants, carry such a burden. This burden precludes us from
pursuing romantic plans of biking around the world, climbing the Himalayas, and
dropping out of several university degrees to pursue our love of creative writing
and jazz piano. I’m assuming that this same burden also talks to us and compels
us to be conservative, to major in Accounting, live with our parents till we get
married, and ensure we are mortgaged to a decent enough dwelling. The logic
driving many of us: we didn’t grow up watching our parents struggle in difficult
or mediocre jobs, in complete knowledge that they had forgone their own
opportunities, to throw away our chances at a higher standard of living. While
each migrant parent faces his or her own unique parenting challenges, what is
certainly common amongst them is the desire to give their children a life they
could never have, a future they would not be able to give them in their homeland.
Perhaps it's only reasonable then, that having travelled in many cases, half‐way
across the globe to reach this place of ‘a fair‐go,’ that many migrants aren’t
compelled to stretch their wings and embark on illustrious adventures in exotic
lands, preferring instead to build foundations and stability.

This is not to say that migrants and their children don’t, or should not, pursue
their passions and dreams in their new found country of choice. On the flip side, I
would also not begrudge those courageous few who choose to throw all caution
to the wind and live a nomadic life in search of themselves, of the meaning of life,
or the fundamental truth. On some level, I envy them, and wonder if I’ll ever be
as brave. But the point to this, (yes, I’m trying to make a point) is that we should
not discount the desire of migrants to improve the lot for those whom they have
brought into the world, nor the desire of those who want to live to make sure
that they don’t take their ancestors’ leap of faith for granted. Nothing can be
accomplished without commitment, dedication, and sacrifice. Nations like our
own have been built on the backs of people who left what they knew and struck
out into the unknown. Don’t tell me that’s not brave.

But let us go back to the notion that the burdens of my predecessors preclude me
somehow from venturing into the vast unknown. I wholeheartedly disagree.
What my ‘migrant’ history has ingrained in me is a firm loyalty to my family, a
love of community, and an understanding that opportunity is often a privilege.
First generation migrants may be more acutely aware of what it took to be where
they are today. But no matter whether people have come to Australia ten years
ago, yesterday or with the early migrant settlers, what we all share is not a
‘migrant burden,’ but a proud history of perseverance and resilience. Our world
needs our mavericks. Those who sail with the tides of the sea or more recently,
those who land in the destination with the cheapest flights of the season. Their
adventures keep us creative, but if we were all nomads, there wouldn’t be a place
for the travellers to stay, or come home to. Who knows if I’ll float, or build
foundations, but I’m sure that no matter which current I choose to ride, my
migrant history will never be a burden.