In this post, I'm just going to dump some thoughts on what growing up as an immigrant in North America was like.
Warning: this might not flow very coherently, but it's mostly meant for myself as a therapeutic tool, but also want to share these thoughts with anyone who cares enough to sift through the verbosity
One of the first memories I can think of where I interacted with the world outside of the tiny little town I spent most of my formative years in was when an American or British (I can't remember that detail at this point) pastor was a guest preacher at the church we attended there. I don't remember exactly how old I was, but it was before 14. For some reason, I remember the church asking me to translate from English to Malayalam (my native language) as the preacher talked to the youth group. I had sucked at school, but I was a quick learner when it came to some things. Language was one of those things, apparently. But keep in mind, I was very young at the time, so the pastor had to repeat himself a ton to help me with the translation.
At that moment, I never would've imagined that I'd be spending most of my teenage years and adulthood in a region of the world where most people looked like him.