Director’s Note: I often feel inadequate to talk about being an immigrant. At this point, I might’ve used up all the words I ever had to describe how I feel, always unable to illustrate the particular pain of leaving, or the emptiness of staying.
On one hand, if I were to make a short film aimed at foreign audiences showing the “life of an immigrant”, it would come off as impersonal. On the other hand, telling a Brazilian audience how it feels to immigrate to the USA would feel dishonest. If I’m reaching out to somebody back home, it’s not to talk about leaving them.
This doesn’t mean I don’t think about it. Most times, it’s all I can do.
I think about how, as a kid, I used to look up whenever a plane would fly by.
I think about how I still look for these same planes, unsure of why.
I think about the creaking of the floor in my Chicago apartment.
I think about how no house has ever looked as big as my grandma’s house did, back when I crawled through its floors.
I think about how all the conversations I overheard have stacked on top of each other, stuck to the back of my mind.
I think about how all my time is scattered across rooms in which I’ll never set foot again.
I think about all this so much that it suffocates me not to say anything, as much as I don’t know how to.
It brings me back to being a kid in the back of my parents’ car, watching fleeting sights pass me by as quickly as I could acknowledge them.
It’s the only feeling I’m confident recreating for others. In the end, it’s all I can do.