Being born as a first generation American in an immigrant family comes with any struggles of its own, namely, my identity. Who am I? That is the cliché, but a very real question I have been dying to answer since I realized balancing my Bengali and American identities was going to be a more difficult task than I aimed for it to be.

Like myself, many first generation Americans find it hard to be in touch with not only their American identity, but also the identity of their motherland. For people whose family lives overseas and across the world, it is seemingly difficult to ever see them, let alone hold a legitimate bond with them. Most of my mother’s and father’s sides live in Bangladesh, a place I’ve only ever been to three times in my life, for no more than a duration of a month. Unfortunately, what I remember from these trips is even less. We first generation Americans and our immigrants parents have learned to make our own family, to surround ourselves with people who love and care for us all the same as the ones in Bangladesh want to. Our Thanksgivings and Christmases are spent with this family. Our sorrows and happiness are shared; one for all, and all for one. It is just as genuine of a familial connection, and I’ve realized blood does not directly correlate with family. In my eyes, I was luckier than most; I had two families. A real one and a makeshift one, both just as real as the other. Thus, the separation anxiety has never bothered me too much.

It has now been 10 years since I’ve actually visited my motherland of Bangladesh because things, such as school, work, much too short vacations and yes, even the weather (summers are deathly hot), always seemed to get in the way. There is technology, but I think we can all agree some sort of relationship has to be cemented first before FaceTiming with them the way you would with your best friends. The classic “Hi, how are you?” “Hi, I am good, how are you?” small talk gets old after a while. And, after a while, you just give the phone to your mom to avoid not having anything to say to the person who is supposedly your family member. A part of me is now afraid that my relatives won’t be getting any younger, and whatever memories I do have left of Bangladesh are only growing more distant from me. However, there is another part of me that is scared it has been too long since I’ve been there. Even if I visited now, there is no undoing all that they have missed from my life.

I mean, these people have been MIA from all the big moments in my life: the terrible twos, embarrassing grade school stage, every ballet, dance and piano recital I’ve ever had, awkward middle school stage, club banquets, high school graduation and whatever other achievements I’ve had thus far. The most impact they’ve made on my life here were phone calls asking me about my wellbeing and packages sent, full of nice clothes and yummy Bengali food. More importantly, they’ve missed out on me, seeing me grow, seeing me prosper and seeing me change. They missed out on my little quirks, my personality, my good times and bad times, my tears and the laughter, my transformation from child to (mini) adult. The last time they saw me, I was a mere, rising fourth grader, who always had two pigtails and a bossy voice. Besides the pigtails maybe, everything else has changed. I have changed, and am now a rising sophomore in college.

My biggest fear out of everything: They wouldn’t understand who I am or my lifestyle because of this disconnect and because they aren’t here with me. More than anything, this fear has hurt me and held me back the most.

Recently, I just found out my grandpa is extremely sick and very nearly on his death bed. It is one of those things where it could happen tomorrow or in a month. Suddenly, the past decade of my life he has missed is irrelevant, and I would kill for boring small talk conversation with him. Suddenly, I believe I can still update him on my life through the phone because not that much has really changed, nothing I can’t synopsize. And suddenly, everything in me is pulling toward Bangladesh, a gravitational pull to fulfill my deep inner wish to visit my grandpa and to resolute my inner identity turmoil. The main point is that family is important, blood or not blood. To me, it is integral to my identity to connect and have a lasting relationship with my relatives because knowing more about them is also telling me something about myself and where I come from. The disconnect seems like a hurdle I can now jump over freely (although the Bangladesh heat is another story). Something that has always helped me carry on was the hope that someday, I will be very close to my family in the motherland. Someday, somehow. My grandpa being in this state has put this in perspective for me: If I don’t put in the effort to meet them or communicate with them, then that can never happen. Someday, it may be too late. Today, while my grandpa is still here, maybe a Skype call wouldn’t hurt.