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Vorschlag B2

Immigrants

1.
Outline the biographical information given on the author and his parents. (Material 1)
(30 BE)
2.
Analyze how Choudhury’s attitude (Material 1) towards the traditional view of American immigration is conveyed.
(30 BE)
3.
Choose one of the following tasks:
3.1
Assess to what extent the cartoon (Material 2) reflects what Choudhury and his family (Material 1) have experienced in the US.
(40 BE)
or
3.2
You are participating in an international school project on identity.
Write an article for the project website in which you discuss the importance of place in shaping one’s identity.
(40 BE)
Material 1

Kushanava Choudhury: The New World (2017)

This is an excerpt from the introductory chapter of The Epic City, Choudhury’s literary portrait of Calcutta, the city of his birth, from where his family moved to the United States of America.
1
Of all the people who came to Ellis Island in the first decades of the twentieth century,
2
more than half went back. They never told us that on our seventh-grade class trip.
3
The American immigrant myth says that migration is a reset button. The New World
4
offers deliverance from the past, liberation from the Old World’s limited horizons. The
5
myth states: ‘The past is gone. The future awaits. Start over.’
6
It never really works like that. That was the story no one ever told about America. The
7
past is never left behind. It haunts every world you live in. Sometimes it drags you back.
8
By the time I visited Ellis Island on that class trip, I had already migrated halfway
9
around the world four times, flipping back and forth between continents like a dual-voltage
10
appliance. My parents were Indian scientists, torn between nation and vocation. Twice
11
they moved to America, twice they moved back. They were unwilling to leave their country
12
and they were unable to stay. When he was around forty, my father quit his cushy job
13
at a government research institute in Calcutta. He wanted one more chance, he said [...].
14
So, when I was almost twelve, my parents and I moved to Highland Park, New Jersey.
15
Our move carried no Emma Lazarus cadences. We certainly had not arrived tempesttossed,
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beating at the golden door. Our coming was equivocal, always tied to return. Living
17
in New Jersey, we hardly saw ourselves as immigrants. My parents expected to go back to
18
India, like many of their Bengali friends, someday, eventually. On Saturday nights, they
19
gathered at each other’s homes, ate fourteen-course meals brimming with various types of
20
fish and meat, and derailed each other’s sentences in locomotive Bengali, their conversations
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full of memories of Calcutta. Return, the duty of return and the dream of return, were
22
spoken of endlessly while eating platefuls of goat curry and hilsa fish. Few, of course,
23
actually went back. There were too many good reasons not to. Nationalism and nostalgia
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did not pay the bills, raise children or advance careers. And yet that dream of a return to
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the great metropolis cocooned them like a protective blanket from the alien world all
26
around.
27
As for me – my friends, my neighbourhood, my Calcutta life was gone. In New Jersey,
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I was in seventh grade in a public school that had almost no Indian students. Cocooning
29
was not an option. I had to fit in fast. I wasn’t assimilating as much as passing. So much
30
of what went on inside my head was from another place. I had happy childhood memories
31
of mid-morning cricket matches during summer vacations, of games played in gullies,
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rooftops, courtyards and streets. When I moved, it was the streets of the city as much as
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my childhood that I left behind.
34
We had not had an easy few years in America. The man who had offered the job to my
35
father had made promises he did not keep, and so my father was forced to find other work,
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work he grew to despise. From time to time, there would be talk of another move, to Georgia,
37
to Colorado, and I would pull down the posters in my room and prepare. We stayed
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put, the three of us adrift in the treacherous shoals of the lower middle classes, a world of
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chronic car trouble and clothes from K-Mart. In the fall of my senior year, a piece of good
40
news finally came to our two-bedroom apartment. I had been accepted early to
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Princeton University .
42
Every immigrant who has lugged worthless foreign degrees through customs knows
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that where you go to college [...] determines your lot in life. When the acceptance letter
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from Princeton arrived, my parents acted as if someone had come to our door with balloons
45
and a giant cardboard cheque. It was their happiest day in America. But it wasn’t mine.
46
It is probably universally true that education drives a wedge between us and our hometowns,
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our families, our earlier selves. But for the immigrant the gap is greater, that divergence
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in mentality more extreme. My trajectory was taking me farther afield, to Princeton,
49
while a part of me was elsewhere, in another country, in another city. Through all my
50
sojourns I had carried memories on my back like Huien Tsang chair, until at seventeen,
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I felt hunched over with nostalgia like a middle-aged man. When the Princeton letter arrived,
52
I had what my friend Ben called a ‘premature midlife crisis’.
53
At night, I couldn’t sleep. By day I sleepwalked through classes. Each evening, while
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my friends assembled at Dunkin’ Donuts, complained about how there was nothing to do
55
in our little town and roared together into the night on long aimless drives, while they
56
enjoyed the languor of spring and that sweet American affliction called senioritis, I stayed
57
home and stewed. In my mind, I hatched a plan. I would go back.
58
India lives in its villages, Mahatma Gandhi had said. So, even though I was a city boy
59
who had never spent a night in an Indian village, I wrote letters back home to arrange to
60
teach in a village school. Instead of Princeton, I would take a year off and head to rural
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Bengal, I told my parents. But in our two-bedroom apartment full of shared immigrant
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striving, such a detour was out of the question.
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Instead I just drove. The black night, the shimmering yellow lines on inviting ribbons
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of asphalt, the radio jammed loud. Enveloped by night and noise, the mind gave way to a
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deeper calling. Just drive. It was the mantra of our Jersey youth, an exhortation, a command,
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an ideology, something hardwired in us as teenage boys. Night after night, I took
67
out my parents’ Toyota and just drove, without destination, without purpose, to escape. [...]
68
After graduating from college, while friends set up their apartments in New York, Boston
69
and Los Angeles, I headed to Calcutta, to join the Statesman.
Source: Choudhury, Kushanava The Epic City. The World on the Streets of Calcutta.”, London: Bloomsbury, 2017, xi –xvi
Material 2
Zwei Männer lesen eine Zeitung über Amerika als Schmelztiegel und diskutieren eine humorvolle Aussage dazu.
Source: Dan Rosandich, cartoonstock

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