I was born and raised in Portland Maine. I am an Ethiopian American Muslim and grew up in a predominantly middle class family in a white neighborhood. Growing up I had access to walkable green spaces and trails such as the Baxter Woods Park and Capisic Pond Park. I remember taking long walks with my parents and sister regularly as we got older experiencing nature and the great outdoors. Where I grew up l could walk to and back from my middle and highschool school in approximately 10 minutes. I had a backyard with a basketball hoop and would invite friends over every weekend. My parents would invite my cousins and family members to come over to drink Ethiopian coffee and the nearby Jetvideo was the neighborhood hero spot where the whole neighborhood would get ice cream and rent DVDs and movies to watch with their families.
My parents house was a safe place and a haven not only for family and friends but for the whole community. From hosting yearly Eid holiday gatherings, to letting distressed neighbors and community members have a shoulder to cry on, to inviting people to stay with us until they could get back on their feet.
When I was young I didn't have to worry about whether I had food on the table, if the light bill was paid, or if ends were going to be met. My parents each worked three jobs to make sure my sister and I could live a comfortable life. My parents aspired to live the so-called American dream and see their children get a college degree (and eventually, a masters degree). All they ever wanted was for my sister and I to live at ease. But ease came at a price! The price of my parent’s health and their inability to retire in their older age. Who provided not only for their children but who continue to still support multiple family members back home in Ethiopia financially as well. Their overdue and never ending health and prescription bills and home mortgage payments that they are still trying to pay are cutting my parents lifespan earlier than they ever expected.
Now at the age of twenty-five, as a working professional, I wonder if I will experience this phenomenon as part of the sandwich generation - sandwiched between care for aging parents and growing children.
This is my story of housing. I am an adult - the child of immigrants with a masters degree - commuting from and living in my parents’ home. Who, like other immigrant adult children, sway like a floating kite not knowing how to best support their future and their parents’ in this new phase of their lives. Yearning to replicate the joyous upbringing we once had for the next generation, while recognizing that home that made that possible may not be available for us, or for others who want to call Maine home.