America’s Immigration Debate: The “Danger of Telling a Single Story.”

America’s Immigration Debate: The “Danger of Telling a Single Story.”

By Olatunbosun F. Leigh

Olatunbosun Leigh

“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.” ― Martin Luther King Jr.

America is rich with history: A history with many stories, the immigrants’ included. America is the primus inter pares (first among equals) among nations and superordinate in many respects, and therefore has been the object of my fascination—as a child, and to this day. I am a first generation immigrant living in the United States, with diverse and rich stories—or experiences. Unlike the United States’, my diverse immigrant stories have been stereotyped, caricatured, and condensed into a single story by cable news and talk show pundits and beltway politicians in the hope of securing ratings and votes.

Those who tell stories control the narratives, and they wield enormous powers. To a large extent, the American people’s opinions of immigrants are shaped by the horror stories that they hear (Adichie, 2009). As noted by the prominent Nigerian writer, Adichie (2009), the strategy is simple: “Show people as one thing and one thing only over and over again and that is what they become” (09:25). My objective is to humanize the narrative and to retell it the way only a first generation immigrant would. Perhaps, in doing so, I can help reclaim the narrative, starting from my little corner. It is my hope that other immigrants will do the same.

We are reminded through an African proverb that: “Until the Story of the hunt is told by the Lion, the tale of the hunt will always glorify the hunter” (unknown source). Stories always glorify the teller. In her TedTalk speech titled: “The Danger Of A Single Story,” Adichie (2009) puts it succinctly: “Stories are so powerful — particularly powerful because we're not always aware of how powerful they are” (12:48-12:52). As the broken immigration debate rages on in this election cycle, we must pay attention to the deeper meaning that is being conveyed. For example, beyond its literal meaning, the label, illegal immigrants, connotes something even more deleterious—say an invasion, plague, or something worse. It carries a deeper meaning that can only be un-earthed through a careful discourse analysis; I do not intend to labor you with that.

The intent of my narrative is not to trivialize America’s Immigration problems—we can all agree that the system is broken, and it needs to be fixed. Yet, the media’s insistence on telling only the horror stories with regards to immigrants is a disservice to Americans because it elevates and emphasizes the stereotypes. I extol Adichie’s wisdom, and reiterate her assertion that “the single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story” (Adichie, 2009, 12:48-12:56).

While stereotypes underpin single-story narratives, I am not immune from forming stereotypes. After all, while growing up in Nigeria, my idea of social-America was steeped in stereotypes. I came to America with assumptions that Americans refer to one another with the B and N word appellations, and that including the M, F, and S words in conversations is quintessentially American. The Jerry Springer show and other reality TV shows shaped my reality about the American family and society. Stereotypes are how we make sense of other people’s culture or way of life when we experience it from afar but it is always incomplete. Predictable yet unfortunate, my single story narrative about the American family and society was incomplete and reeked of abject ignorance.

Issue analysis

Stereotypes have real life implications. Labeling immigrants as a problem rather than as value added can lead to the exclusion of immigrants (even legal ones) from opportunities within the larger American construct. From a policy perspective, how a problem is defined determines the solutions that are proffered (Alcock, et al, 2012, p. 23). For example, if policy makers view immigrants as invaders, they are likely to respond militarily. If seen from a solely law enforcement perspective, the intervention can lead to serious unintended consequences.

Furthermore, the law enforcement approach cements the notion that immigrants are undesirable, and therefore must be contained. If so, can a law abiding and well-intention American carry out a citizen arrest on perceived illegal immigrants? What would the criteria for arrest be? How does one identify who an illegal immigrant is? My guess is there will be a default reliance on stereotypes. Is the illegal immigrant Hispanic, African, or Asian? We have seen cases of citizens’ enforcers or vigilantes emerging in some of the Border States like the Anti-Immigration Minuteman Militia (Lyall, 2009). Complaints of illegal stops by the vigilantes are rampant (2009). Acting based on stereotypes rarely ends well.

As for the charge that immigrants are responsible for high crimes in our society, the Center for Immigration Studies found no clear “evidence that immigrants commit crimes at higher or lower rates than others” (Camarota & Vaughan, 2009). In an interview on PBS, Marc Rosenblum of the Migration Policy Institute noted:

You know, it’s a very persistent stereotype, but there’s a lot of research on it, looking at prison populations and looking at city crime rates.

And what it shows is that immigrants are disproportionately unlikely to be in prison. The prison population doesn’t have a lot of immigrants in it. And when you look at crime rates and correlate them with immigration populations, immigrants are — cities with lots of immigrants don’t have lots of crime. (Rosenblum, 2015)

Needless to say, that because some immigrants engage in some vices—although very few do—does not warrant the caricature of the immigrant community writ large, Mexicans or not.

By and large, the single story narrative does not account for the immigrant technocrats, artisans, doctors, nurses, janitors, lawyers, taxi drivers, investors, the farm workers, military women and men, and scholars who help build this nation. Their stories are lost in the immigration debate, but yet germane to it. The single story, as it is sometimes told, is akin to poor marauders crossing the border to commit crimes and depress the American way of life. Telling a single story reduces immigrants to subhuman levels. Having said that, unless I (an immigrant) take charge of the narrative, my stories and that of others like me, will continue to be told as a single story—i.e., a story of illegals and common criminals.

The Dream

Like many immigrants, my journey to America started with a desire and a dream to be free. Memories of my immigration to America flooded my mind. My stories came back to life as I reflected on the current immigration debate in America. I was your typical child dreamer, and every now and then I strayed into la la land. The type of dream, to which I have become accustomed, is not the type that you do while getting a shuteye in the horizontal position on soft feathery mattresses. It is the kind you do in the vertical position in a bid to evade your problems by staring into oblivion and conjuring up utopia. On this fateful day, on my usual dream trip, and somewhere on cloud nine, reciting the Gettysburg speech:

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field [sic] of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we… (Abraham Lincoln, 1864)

Olatunbosun Lay! A lady yelled out my name incorrectly—in a husky voice; her phonetic version of Leigh. I was jolted out of my dream. As usual, I had been reciting the Gettysburg speech while I dreamed—daydreamed that is. I was nine years old when I stumbled on Abraham Lincoln’s speech while rummaging through my uncle’s collection of encyclopedia Britannica. Discovering the speech marked the beginning of my fascination with the rich socio-political history of the United States. I memorized Lincoln’s speech because it offered me a sense of idealism (or utopia) as against the incessant political and economic upheavals that I had become accustomed to in Nigeria in the eighties and nineties. 

 I dreamt up my future in America. I dreamt of possibilities, of freedom, and of self-actualization, which for me was only attainable in America. For me, America was no mythical El Dorado; it is an existential and essential reality.

Here! I yelled back, jumping to my feet, briskly approaching her. “Here is your file, please go wait in the lobby; you will be called upon once your passport is ready.” The lady handed me a manila file. A smile made its way to my cheek as I walked towards the lobby of the passport office like I was instructed. I sat in the lobby of the passport office in Ikeja, Lagos Nigeria waiting to be called in by the passport officer, I looked around me, and I noticed that there were many more people like me, people waiting to get their passports. My guess at the time was that, like me, many of the people in the lobby wanted to leave the country. I made myself comfortable in the chair, stared into the ceiling, and sneaked off into my dream world. Again, I dreamt up my future in America. I dreamt of possibilities, of freedom, and of self-actualization, which for me was only attainable in America. For me, America was no mythical El Dorado; it is an existential and essential reality.

As a young boy between the ages of 10 and 16, I remember telling whoever was willing to listen that I am “Nigerian by birth and American by heart.” I memorized Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg speech, and at every opportunity, I recited it with gusto. I had read a lot of stories about immigrants who moved to America in search of the American dream. Earlier in the month— precisely two weeks before—I had just completed my mandatory National Youth Service Corps (similar to AmeriCorps), and hopes of a better future flooded my mind; a future which at the time, could only be fulfilled in the United States of America. Nigeria has witnessed economic downturns in the previous two decades prior to the year 2000, which had resulted in high youth unemployment and the pauperization of the Nigerian households. The Nigerians who thrived were either politically connected or were from relatively well-to-do families. I had neither of the two. My options were to either leave Nigeria, or to endure the ignominy of joblessness and poverty. I chose to leave.

Give Me Your Poor

Once I made up my mind to leave Nigeria in search of a better life, I had no doubt that the United States was my destination. After all, one of America’s great Presidents, Ronald Reagan, had declared in his commencement address at Williams Woods College in 1952 that:

I, in my own mind, have always thought of America as a place in the divine scheme of things that was set aside as a promised land. It was set here and the price of admission was very simple: the means of selection was very simple as to how this land should be populated. Any place in the world and any person from those places; any person with the courage, with the desire to tear up their roots, to strive for freedom, to attempt and dare to live in a strange and foreign place, to travel halfway across the world was welcome here.

Based on the lofty rhetoric, I assumed that America was promised to me. I presumed the unfettered benevolence and generosity of America. Please do not hear me wrong, America is benevolent—after all, a second-generation immigrant, Barack Obama is the current President—but I have realized that there are strings attached. 

 The blatant intolerance for new non-European immigrants confounded me. I was left heart broken and jilted. I found myself asking: where is my America, the America that promised a refuge for a “tired…poor…huddled masses,” like me, “yearning to breathe free”?

However, over the years, I have come to realize that to be considered properly immigrated, one has to be white, and of European descent. On clarifying what he meant by the term anchor baby, Florida’s former governor, Jeb Bush stated that “there is organized efforts, and frankly its more related to the Asian people coming into our country having children in that organized efforts taking advantage of a noble concept which is birthright citizenship” (2015). Bush used the term anchor babies to describe American born children to unauthorized immigrants, specifically Asians, Africans, Hispanics, and Latinos.

Policy wise, while we can agree that, the issue raised by the former governor is a valid one—it should form part of the national discourse on immigration—I bemoan Bush’s use of labels. Labels fan the amber of stereotypes, which if unchecked, may lead to prejudice. It is indeed deplorable that a mainstream politician would muddy what is otherwise a serious debate.

The Ronald Reagan commencement address echoes Emma Lazarus’s famous statue of liberty quote, “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” In a nutshell, Emma Lazarus’s rhetoric fits my circumstance, I was tired, poor, and yearned to breathe free. Needless to say I headed for the United States of America (U.S.A.).

Coming to America

I was stoic and without emotion as the British Airways flight that I traveled on taxied through the runway of the John F. Kennedy Airport. However, I noticed how busy the airport was which I interpreted to mean that everyone must want to come to the U.S.A. I found myself humming the American national anthem as I made my way through immigration except for the time I had to respond to the immigration officer.

“Mr. Leigh; what is the purpose of your visit to the U.S.?” I responded. “And how long will you be staying,” the officer asked. Again, I responded. Did he notice my nervousness, I thought to myself. I observed as the immigration officer flipped through my passport pages as if he doubted the authenticity of the traveling document. I tensed up for fear that I would be denied entry to “God’s own Country,” and for fear that my visa would be rescinded. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he settled on a page, and affixed the visa stamp. “Welcome to America Mr. Leigh, enjoy your stay,” the immigration officer said, while handing my passport back to me. I sighed under my breath, relieved that my journey into freedom had been advanced. Hooray! Hooray! I am in the U.S. of A.

Reality Sets in

Unbeknownst to me, and unlike the mythical Eldorado, America is an experiment laden with contradictions. Soon I discovered that behind the lofty rhetoric—freedom, racial equality, economic upward mobility, etc.—is the dark unsavory reality about America’s immigration posture. The blatant intolerance for new non-European immigrants confounded me. I was left heart broken and jilted. I found myself asking: where is my America, the America that promised a refuge for a “tired…poor…huddled masses,” like me, “yearning to breathe free”?

One event, which perturbs me to this day, was a rather violent encounter I had with an elderly white man while I was on a queue at the checkout line at a bookstore in Rahway, New Jersey. The elderly man yanked me out from the queue, alleging that I jumped the queue to be in front of him. I stepped out of the queue to go swap the book I had for another but before I did so, I told the gentleman in front of me that I would be right back as I was only gone for a minute. However, the elderly man got in the queue before I returned, unbeknownst to him that I was in there before. 

 I was too afraid to press charges for fear of being deported. As an undocumented immigrant, fear ruled me; fear of reporting abuses and getting deported. There are many other stories of abuse, which this short narrative cannot accommodate, but through it all in a typical immigrant fashion, I persevered.

At first, the man did not appear disturbed by the fact I returned to my place on the queue but after he—the elderly man—asked me where I was from, to which I responded Nigeria, he snapped. The elderly man grabbed my shoulder, and yanked me out of the queue saying, “In America, we don’t jump in front of people.” I fell flat on the floor, shocked and scared at the same time. I got up, gathered myself together but to the dismay of the obnoxious man and onlookers, I did not react in a violent way. As a Nigerian of Yoruba descent, we are taught to respect the elderly regardless of how they act toward us. On that day, my Yoruba home training came to bear. I would not lash out at my elderly grandparents. So, I could not lash out at the old man. Onlookers were shocked when I asked the old man in a subdued voice: “Sir, what did I do to you?”

  I later enlisted in the United States Navy because I wanted to join in the effort to defeat the terrorists who attacked us on 9/11.

My reaction must have surprised the onlookers because I saw shock and pity written all over their faces. Perhaps, they expected me—being a young black man—to respond violently? Did I shatter their stereotypes? I hope I did. As for me, the event revealed the paradox in the American society. On the one hand was the grizzly old man behaving badly—reminds me of certain politicians in the news. On the other hand were the protective onlookers who defended me and protected me from my assaulter. While the event was a traumatic one for me, at the same time, it restored my faith in the ability of America to recreate itself for good. America has always been an “idea in progress, an idea in search of a more perfect Union” (Leigh, 2013). I digressed.

I was too afraid to press charges for fear of being deported. As an undocumented immigrant, fear ruled me; fear of reporting abuses and getting deported. There are many other stories of abuse, which this short narrative cannot accommodate, but through it all in a typical immigrant fashion, I persevered. I later enlisted in the United States Navy because I wanted to join in the effort to defeat the terrorists who attacked us on 9/11.

My Story as Told for me

It is 2015, and the American presidential election is swinging into full gear. Politicians role up their sleeves, throw down the gauntlet, and rail against immigrants unabashed in an attempt to curry votes. They become master storytellers overnight, specializing in the act of single story telling. Candidates emerge from both sides of the politico-ideological divide jostling to proclaim their anti-immigration bona-fide (authenticity). As a result, the immigrant community becomes the “political piñata”—receiving beat downs after beat downs. 

 I suffered a lot of injustices as an undocumented immigrant. Contrary to popular beliefs, I did not receive treatments equal to an America citizen or permanent resident. I was paid $3.00/hr. doing menial jobs, which was way below minimum wage, and I worked 16 hrs. a day for four years. I suffered abuses.

While this quadrennial presidential election is essential to America’s democracy, for me (a first-generation immigrant), it is a time of anxiety, sadness, shame, and disappointment. The reader may be wondering why a time such as this, would evoke such negative emotions in anyone; much less from a veteran of the United States Navy like me. The answer to the foregoing is not far fetched. Rather than being about serious policy debate, the immigration debate has devolved into mere political posturing and pandering a la candidate Donald Trump (i.e., Republican candidate for President, 2015).

According to Trump, Mexico—Mexican immigrants being the media “scapegoats” for immigration—is “sending us their problems” (Tani, 2015). Donald Trump epitomizes all that is wrong with the single story narrative. Trump’s immigration proposals are suspect. Caveat emptor; let the buyers beware. Trump, is an hotelier par excellence, he knows a thing or two about serving cuisines. The problem is that rather than serving cuisines, Trump is serving stereotypes and hate to vulgar Americans on a platter, and they are licking their fingers. Would they be fed, or would they be fed-up? Time will tell.

The gamut of my immigration experience and values have been narrowed down, and distilled into a single story. My story is the immigrant story; the story of the “illegals” thronging across the American southern border in droves, supposedly raping people, pillaging, gang-banging, and peddling drugs. With time, I too started to feel like a man without a face, and completely non-existent in the larger American society. It dawned on me that I represented America’s underground economy.

When I was not playing in the underground economy, I was socially consigned to the periphery of the society, snubbed and abused. I was derided and labeled the cause of America’s public policy failure—I know it is a bit of a stretch, but it felt like it. I was portrayed through the media as the “leech, which sucked up taxpayer-funded social programs. By and large, I belonged to a class of people whose stories are told as a single story.

I suffered a lot of injustices as an undocumented immigrant. Contrary to popular beliefs, I did not receive treatments equal to an America citizen or permanent resident. I was paid $3.00/hr. doing menial jobs, which was way below minimum wage, and I worked 16 hrs. a day for four years. I suffered abuses. A lady battered me for several months, and there was nothing I could do because she threatened to lie to the authorities that I raped her if I attempt to report to the police. Yet, I had no legal recourse because I was afraid of being deported.

Most of the immigrants who allegedly receive government services are here legally; either as permanent residents, skilled workers, or refugees (all legally). You may also include foreign students in that list. I would have given everything to be treated half as a citizen or as a legal resident. Not to mention the fact that I always had to have my medication shipped in from Nigeria. I always prayed not to get sick because I could not visit the hospital or clinic since I did not have insurance or documentation. Instead, I made friend with the doctors and nurses with whom I attended church. They were the ones who would tell me what over-the-counter medications or remedies that were available. If only people could walk in my shoes for a day. I cried most of the times before I went to bed. It was a hard life.

The Immigrants’ Stories

My immigrant-story is many, and could hardly be summed into single narrow condescending story. My story is about my journey and life’s experiences. For my story to resonate, it has to be complete and told with nuances. While beltway politicians and pundits like to throw out numbers and statistics about immigration, “statistics do not tell the story of immigration. People do. Since its inception, this nation has been continually infused with the energy of newcomers. Yet their assimilation has seldom been smooth. The challenges we face today are not new; only the stories are” (“My Immigration Story: The story of U.S. immigrants in their own words,” 2015).

The single story narrative is parochial and self-serving; it makes illegals out of all of us. Immigrants are an addition to this country, and they continue to make positive contributions to America, and these are their stories:

Umar: I came to United States at the age of 14 from Uzbekistan. The decision was my mother’s; she felt like we needed a better life after my father died from lymphatic cancer. It was tough at first, but all I cared about is that I’m here now. I knew I had no future in Uzbekistan due to extreme corruption and broken education for which you can pay through. I am 17 now, on my way to college. Although current circumstances aren’t [sic] as I’d want them to be, I will change that. After all, this is the land of opportunities.” Los Angeles.

Bashar: I came here in 2009 by myself from Iraq. I was 20 years old then. Now I’m 25 years old and pretty soon will become a citizen. I don’t have family support or any kind of support. It was tough at times but quiet seas don’t make good sailors. Life is going pretty well. I have a lot of experience in sales and customer service. I can work in any field I wish. I’m working full time and going to school part time. I made a really good plan for my future. I believe that my future is set. (“My Immigration Story: The story of U.S. immigrants in their own words,” 2015).

Emmanuel Olawale, a prominent Lawyer in Ohio wrote:

I touched down in New York in the fall of 1997, arriving as a permanent resident with no money in my pocket but with big dreams, great vision and the determination to succeed in this land of opportunity. ‘God’s own country’ as it was commonly referred to in Nigeria.

I viewed my arrival as a kind of spiritual deliverance from penury, unnecessary struggle and familial bondage. My concept of America was akin to the biblical land flowing with milk and honey, figuratively but not literally. I believed I was like the biblical Abraham or Joseph, whom God had to relocate from their countries of birth, reinventing them, reestablishing them and promoting them to positions of prominence in foreign lands.

Since the earth is dynamic, always moving around the sun for us to have the days and nights, the seasons and the weather, I rationalized my immigrating to this new land of my dreams as part of my earthly dynamism and movement to potential great success. (Olawale, 2015, pp. 180-181).

 The immigrant story is my story. The single story as told by the media and partisan politicians is incomplete.

I will not belabor the point; the immigrant story cannot, and should not be condensed into a single story. There is power in story telling. Hearing only the single story about a people, immigrants or otherwise, promotes ignorance. The number one danger to the American way of life is the proliferation of ignorance because it breeds intolerance. Fueled by ignorance and stereotypes, telling a single story of the immigrant community strips it of humanity and dignity. For the immigrants whose stories were narrated above, America remains “the last best hope of earth” (Abraham Lincoln, 1862). Like many before them, these immigrants are hard working and believe in the totality of the American experiment.

Unlike the single story narrative, Nigerian immigrants are the most educated group in the United States. According to recent article by Akogun (April 7, 2012) in the This Day Newspaper titled “Diasporas Are the Most Educated Immigrants in the United States,” a report by the US Bureau of Statistics (USBS) revealed that Nigerian Immigrants are the most educated groups of immigrants among the various ethnic groups in America. According to the article, 37 percent of Nigerian immigrants have bachelor’s degrees, 17 percent have master’s degrees, and one percent have PhDs (April 7, 2012). The article also noted that the same report by the USBS revealed that among the indigenous majority white population, only 19 percent have bachelor’s degrees, eight percent have masters, and one percent have PhDs (April 7, 2012).

What the USBS report indicates, is that the immigrant populations add value to America. They “bring a lot to the table and consequently have earned a pride of place within in certain sectors of the American socio-political experience” (Akogun, April 7, 2012, para 3). Indeed stereotypes are powerful; powerful enough to becloud the objective mind. It is certain, that this report flies in the face of the single story. Sadly though, the story in the report is overshadowed by stories told by immigration demagogues

Bottom Line

I am a father, a husband, a wartime veteran of the United States Navy, and a taxpayer. I have never been to prison, never raped anyone, I don’t gang bang, and I don’t peddle drugs. Rather, I am a hardworking and patriotic first-generation immigrant. My story is one of hard work and perseverance, and quintessentially American. The immigrant story is my story. The single story as told by the media and partisan politicians is incomplete.

About the author:

The author is a first generation immigrant whose works include “AMERICA THE IDEA: An Ode To America” (Copyright© 2013) and other unpublished articles. Author is a PhD candidate in Public Policy and Social Change with interest in Foreign Policy and Globalization. Please join me in telling the immigrants’ stories. What is your immigrant narrative? What would you like to contribute to the Debate? Let us collate and perhaps publish it, and by so doing, we can seize the narrative. Send your story to: theimmigrantstories@gmail.com Remember: “The man dies in all who keep quiet in the face of tyranny.”

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