I’m a nail lady, and I love my job. It might sound mundane but amidst the buffing and the endless coats of polish, I find a way to get through the day. My clients are an integral part of it, they share stories and between insignificant lines, I catch glimpses of their dreams. The desires that linger from childhood, what can be, what could’ve been. From the doctor who got ballerina nails, to the observatory technician who longed to be an astrophysicist. Their dreams are confident and they shine. As for me? It’s just a shadow compared to those of others. It’s a burden to watch people chase dreams that I can barely admit to having in the first place. My passions are luxuries that I simply cannot afford.
I want to do whatever I can to not be seen as “other”. I listen, and I learn what it means to be human in Western society from my clients. I learn, but I don’t find an answer for people like me. How do you do small talk? What should your idea of happiness look like? How do you roll your “r”s? Every conversation is a lesson for me. I try to bridge the chasm between “Can you repeat that” and misunderstandings.
People light up when they talk, but my voice is dim and unnatural like the bristling noises of a fur throat. With sharp consonants and awkward syllables, expressing myself in a language that doesn’t love me is hard. I find myself in immense jealousy over how people take expressing themselves for granted. For me, every word weighs down on my tongue, and fills my heart with terror when I see an eyebrow go up when pronouncing “t”. In the back of my mind, I still hope that one day, I too can be a part of the Western world and be allowed to have dreams as comfortably as them. I will allow my clinging past to fade away with each stroke of nail polish.
These innocent dreams that I harbor eventually got crushed by a client of mine. People like her, who instead of seeing me as a person, reduced me to an embodiment of their assumptions. She spoke to me, judging if I even had the right to exist. “Oh, it must be nice to have the chance to live here. I mean, it seems so easy for you to just come and get a job like this. I can’t imagine how much more comfortable your life must be now!”
I was at a loss for words, more than usual. For the first time, I wanted to be loud, I wanted to scream but what would I say? What if I said it wrong?
Her words were laced with privilege. She saw my struggles, and my hardships as a mere “escape” from the so-called atrocities back home. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to yearn for the warmth of homeland, to crave the breeze running through your hair, the laughter shared in a familiar language. When I emigrated, I had nothing but floral dresses; maybe I hoped subconsciously that this place would be warm with love and embrace me as the sun’s shining rays, but now my wardrobe greets me with soulless jackets and the desolate cold. As her words settled into my mind after my anger calmed, I questioned her intentions. Did she truly mean to hurt me by those words? Her eyes were a twisted color between curiosity and judgment. Regardless it sank into my heart like claws.
Despite my disgust towards the statement, I let it pass in silence. The sting of the words had morphed into something else, my ignorance. I became the thing I hated the most. Trying to blend into Western society, I bought into the very stereotypes that I detested.
To have the right to be angry with my client, I had to acknowledge my struggles, happiness and passions. Being an immigrant is an experience filled with bravery and my client and I both failed to recognize that. Belonging to the Western world is already a privilege on its own, a privilege that often blinds individuals in ignorance and moulds the brave newcomer to be perceived as a monster intruding on their land. In the process, she is alienated from the very society she yearned to be a part of, so the newcomer feels compelled to see herself as a monster. This monster had forgotten that she left the warmth of family, comfort and home in the pursuit of working hard towards a better future. A frightening experience, one that is commendable when overcome. But the client didn’t and will never recognize that because she can’t let her eyes go bare, where comfort is luxury and every letter seems like a battle against misunderstanding. The armour of privilege is thick for those who will never have to fight for their place. However, the struggle for acceptance is not only external but deeply internal. Were the privileged narratives what I allowed to shape me? I had filed away my own identity, believing I had to erase parts of myself that didn’t scream human in the West. And in the process of erasing my vibrancy, I humiliated myself as much as others did. I carved out the mindset that I was the monster for being foreign in a foreign land, and partly it was true. To blame me for existing a certain way had been due to the social norms inflicted by Western society, but to succumb to those very standards was a choice. I had forgotten that I could be my sun in this cold city and that the jackets could be as colourful as my heritage. Every time I sanded down my voice to sound articulate, it came off like a cacophony, that was the reality of covering up my origins with a coat of self-hate. But I am simply indefinable, shaped by experiences that many could never understand. The Immigrant experience is often viewed through a narrow lens, filled with misconceptions and biases. In that moment of clarity, I lifted the weight of being labelled the monster in someone else’s monstrous night, a darkness created by ignorance and fear.
I’m an Immigrant nail tech, and I love my job. It sounds mundane but amidst the buffing and the permanency coats of polish, there is adventure. My clients are an integral part of it, we share stories and between the lines, we catch glimpses of each other’s dreams. The desires that linger from childhood, what can be, what will be. To the doctor who shared her secret with me about wanting more than just ballerina-shaped nails, I shared that I was now pursuing a PhD in Linguistics. Everyone’s dreams must be confident and should shine. After years of asking what nail colour others wanted, today I decided to ask myself. After the bright orange marigolds in my garden caught my eye, I knew the answer. As I applied the coats of nail polish I unravelled the layers of doubt and I realized that,
I’m an immigrant, but not just an immigrant. My name is Mai, and I have dreams, and I will give them a voice too.