Ask Dr. Anna K

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A Child of Immigrants 

My parents were immigrants. My father came first, by way of Argentina. Born in Lebanon, he was one of four boys in a family where there was only enough money to educate the eldest boy. He lost his father in the Spanish Flu epidemic, so there was little money left. The only sister stayed home to take care of her aging mother and elder brother. She wanted to be a doctor, but being Lebanese and female, this was forbidden. Education was irrelevant for her, as she was to marry. She never did.  

At age 17, my father was given money and told to go live his life. His two brothers headed for America, but my father pocketed his money and worked his way on a sailing ship to Argentina, where he lived for several years. I sometimes try to imagine what this was like. He was a teenager, could not speak any language but Arabic, did not know any culture but that in Lebanon. Still, he boarded a ship and went from Lebanon to South America.  

When he was considered too poor to marry the woman he desired in Argentina, he joined his brothers in Pennsylvania. Together, they owned a confectionary store, which became a bar during the second World War. At 35 years of age, he returned to Lebanon to marry. The bride he selected, my mother, was only 15.  The one time they met before marrying, my mother was horrified that he was 20 years her senior. 

My mother, at age 7, had been sent to a French Catholic boarding school, and by her early teens, had proven herself to be a hellion with “unacceptable behavior.” Her father decided the only solution was to find her a husband. My father was considered wealthy, as he was from America where “the streets were paved with gold and there was a maid in every room,” or so it was told. When she objected to the marriage, she was beaten into submission. So my mother was married to a man she met once and whom she strongly disliked.  

She was brought to America, where she could not speak the language. I use the word “brought” deliberately, as this was the word she used. Language is important and, in this case, “brought” implies she had no choice, which she did not. She spoke only French and Arabic, in a place where she knew no one and the culture was completely alien. She often spoke of being stared at often by men and how uncomfortable this made her feel. She was also sent to high school, as she was underage. But this did not last long, as having a married woman in school was not suitable. 

My mother often spoke of the experience of arriving in America in 1929; one of her first impressions was seeing a pregnant woman with no coat when it was cold and snowing outside. My father took her to her new home, a 2-bedroom apartment above his store. I saw it once. It had few windows and was dark, very dark. And it had bedbugs. She remembers taking the beds apart trying to get rid of them. What this must have been like for her -- her home in Lebanon was large, light, and airy. Since her father was wealthy, and her uncle (who arranged the marriage) was an elite official in the government, she was catered to, and had a lot of freedom. 

Her life, and my father’s life, were filled with trauma. Neither were really ever allowed to bond completely with parents or siblings. Disruption and chaos were the rules of the day. When I think about it, I truly understand the depths of my mother’s anger. I realize what made her the way she was and why, when she beat me, she could not stop. She was beating herself, her father, her mother, her husband…. I was in the way, and as she said, “I beat you because you are strong, and you can take it.” 

I know love is in all things, but when I think of our family story, I cannot see where love comes in. I believe they, themselves, did not know. Being an immigrant is not an easy choice, and it is one that sometimes feels like it was created in hell. My father wanted a better life for his children. He created one and allowed my siblings and I to be who we are today. For that I am grateful. But did he ever know love? I don’t think he thought about it. I never heard him use the word. My mother acted out. She hungered for love, but she never knew how to give nor to receive love fully.  

Love was something I had to learn. And I understand why it has taken me more than 70 years to learn how to trust.  

But this very human experience – living it, seeing it for what it was, working through it and, finally, accepting it -- has allowed compassion to bloom in me, and yes, my love for children and a deep, intuitive understanding of what they are experiencing. My experience, my life, my parents’ life, has given me clarity of vision. 

Underneath it, more and more, I see the grace in it. And that grace is my connection to those with whom I share this wisdom. This is why I became Dr. Anna K. And if my experiences ease the journey for one other human, then my purpose in life is realized.