Happy National Immigrants Day!
As an immigrant, I may be somewhat biased in my praise of immigrants, but in today’s political climate, I think it’s especially important to highlight the courage, adaptability, and perseverance it takes to build a life in a new country. I want to share a glimpse into my own journey—and my father’s—as a way of reflecting on how our stories, though separated by generations, are deeply connected.
I was born to Punjabi parents in Edmonton, Alberta, and lived there until I was 21. When it came time for graduate school, I wanted both academic growth and independence, so I applied broadly and eventually found myself in Chicago. What I didn’t realize then was just how complex and humbling this journey would be.
My first shock was how much I missed home—small things like not finding an Oh Henry bar at 7/11, or the absence of ketchup chips in grocery stores. I never imagined I’d miss Superstore, yet there I was, navigating culture shock and bureaucratic hurdles I hadn’t anticipated. I still remember sitting in my first apartment trying to figure out how to file for a Social Security number, wondering, How did my parents do this? When I finally went to the office, I was told—almost with laughter—that if approved, my number would arrive in six months. There I was in the U.S., responsible for rent and bills, unable to work legally, and with no clear roadmap forward.
Eventually, I started working as a student assistant at the university library, TA-ing, and babysitting to make ends meet, all while adhering to the 20-hour work limit for international students. I was fortunate to have my parents’ financial support throughout graduate school, along with loans I’m still repaying. During those four years, I found myself—my values, my friendships, my sense of independence. But it came with a constant undercurrent of anxiety. Each time I crossed the U.S. border on my student visa, I held my breath, uncertain of what documentation might be demanded next.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, international students were told to justify their presence in the U.S., and at one point, the Trump administration even attempted to send us home. I received approval for my H-1B visa on August 30th, 2025—only to see a proclamation weeks later that nearly halted the program entirely. At times, it has felt like I am contributing to a country that doesn’t always want my contribution.
Through it all, I’ve been fortunate—supported by friends, mentors, and family, with the privilege of being able to call my parents or even fly home when homesickness hit hard. But I often think: What if I couldn’t? What if I were in my father’s shoes?
On May 15th, 1984, at the age of 20, my dad left Punjab for Vancouver, B.C., after his grandfather handed him a plane ticket. He was met there by a distant relative before making his way to Edmonton, where his uncles lived. Unlike me, his purpose wasn’t education or exploration—it was survival and family reunification. His goal was to work hard and eventually sponsor his family to Canada.
When I asked him how he felt when he first learned he was leaving for Canada, he said it felt like he had “a ticket to heaven.” He often jokes about leaving with only $5 in his pocket which, as he tells it, the airport security took from him. He knew little English then and learned it on the job—driving a taxi, chatting with passengers, listening to 630CHED radio, and reading the Edmonton Sun while waiting for fares. Hockey, he said, was a universal language—Gretzky’s glory days made it easy to connect with passengers and build a sense of belonging.
His early days were not easy though. Jobs were scarce, especially for newcomers with limited English. He started as a janitor—after having worked as a bank teller back home—and often laughs at how he had never cleaned a floor before that. Eventually, his uncle helped him earn the certifications to drive a taxi. Over time, he moved out of his uncle’s basement and into an apartment with other taxi drivers, learned to make roti, and relied on canned saag shipped from India.
In 1988, he returned to Punjab to marry my mother, his college sweetheart (a story for another day). It was the first time he had spoken to his parents since he left—international calls were unaffordable. Letters from home were a lifeline, but years passed before he heard their voices again. By 1990, my mom joined him in Canada. My dad began working at a company called Maple Leaf, eventually becoming a manager. He hired other Punjabi newcomers, building a tight-knit community of workers who supported one another—a network that still exists today referred to as Canada Packers. Over the years, he sponsored nearly every member of his family to Canada, continuing a cycle of opportunity and resilience.
Compared to that, my challenges feel small—an inconvenience next to the sacrifices my family made. I’m reminded of this every time I face a visa hurdle or bureaucratic setback. My father rarely speaks about mental health, but I can sense the weight of what he endured—the racism, the isolation, the pressure. He recounts these stories now with humor, but I know behind them were moments of pain and fear. More than that, I was a witness to the stress he took on, as his child, I know where my generational trauma comes from.
My father’s story is one of millions in Canada, just as mine is one of millions in the United States. These stories—whether documented or not—are testaments to the resilience, perseverance, and faith of immigrants everywhere.
By learning about my parents’ journey, I’ve come to understand their sacrifices not through guilt, but through compassion. Of course they wanted me to be educated and independent—education was something no one could take away, even when so much else was uncertain.
On this National Immigrants Day, I encourage you to ask your parents or grandparents about their journeys. Learn what they hoped for, what they feared, and what they sacrificed. In those stories lies the strength that continues to carry us forward.