2025

For one year in the mid-1980s, I was the concert manager in a music department at a major university. A friend of mine who taught there had called me in a panic when their concert manager quit in the middle of the school year. The university had 10 performing ensembles and about 15 different concert venues spread all over the metropolitan area of the city.

The job was impossible, and it came with zero support staff. Out of desperation, I talked the department chair into assigning me a couple of graduate assistants. Chi Shing and Li Ching showed up right on time the next Monday, speaking almost no English. They were gifted composers and very willing workers.

In college, my friend used to joke that my roommates and I were like the United Nations. One was Russian and born in Canada, another was Indian, and another was half Vietnamese and half Caucasian. I’m Chinese. We were sitting in our living room one evening, and I was desperately trying to teach them, “你好, 我的名字是” or “Hello my name is.” I couldn’t help but laugh at their distorted intonations and jumbled order. Until it was my turn to stumble through Russian: “привет меня зовут Emily.” Attempt Hindi: “मेरा नाम Emily है.” And then Vietnamese: “Xin chào, tên tôi là Emily.”

Inked onto my left shoulder is a pomegranate, its seeds cracked open and spilling out. Another one sits, just as defiantly, on the wall adjacent to my desk. It’s a gift from my girlfriend, who painted it herself.

It’s the national fruit of Iran. Oh, and also a super fruit, an antioxidant, if we’re adding a healthcare twist. For me, it’s a way of carrying a piece of home, and a reminder of how I’ve built a new home over the years.

Practically every doctor, nurse, medical assistant and caregiver that my family ever had are immigrants. They, or their parents, immigrated to the United States for “a better life.” If it were not for these health care workers and care providers, I don’t know if I would be here today.

Although my paternal grandma was born in 1895 in a small town outside of Pittsburgh, my other three grandparents were immigrants—two from Russia and one from Romania. My dad’s father died in the 1918 flu pandemic, thereby playing a minor role in my family’s history.

My mother’s parents, however, affected generations to come. They never shed their immigrant status; they failed to learn English, relying instead on Yiddish, and, due to Zayde’s job as a peddler, never climbed the socioeconomic ladder. Most of all, they deprived their three daughters of an education, believing that only their son deserved a chance at a better life. Their immigrant mentality had lasting effects on my mom, as well as on my brother and me and even our children.

Dear readers,

I am the son of immigrants. My mother lived through the Nazi occupation of Belgium and came to the US after World War II.

My father left Cuba in the 1930s. He was active in a pro-democracy group, and when Batista’s secret police came looking for him, he decided that if he wanted to live, he needed to leave.

They both had accents, each one different. Because of what they’d experienced up close, they were both committed to democracy and fiercely proud of their adopted country.

As a family physician in the Bronx, when I looked at many of my patients, I saw my abuela or abuelo–my dad’s parents, who immigrated to the US too late in their lives to learn English or ever feel quite at home here.