The Life of a Bridge Dweller
I am a bridge dweller, somewhere between two worlds.
The wooden planks of this bridge are adorned by the dwellers’ and travelers’ footprints, a discoloured walt of memories and untold stories. The wood is firmly held together by colourful tapestry, showing you a story told for centuries.
I imagine myself on a bridge spanning two distinct lands. This bridge isn't just a means of crossing; it's a place of its own, suspended between two worlds. This is where I find myself - a 1.5 generation immigrant, perpetually traversing this metaphorical bridge.
I first encountered the word 'liminal' in a first-year Anthropology class, feeling as lost as a traveler without a map. The professor described liminality as a state of transition. Victor Turner describes liminal states as "a time when the participants in a ritual are 'betwixt and between' two cultural states - neither completely inside the culture nor yet outside it since their position is a transitional one."
Little did I know then that this concept would become the blueprint of my life. I began to redefine the word “liminal” as “being a 1.5-generation immigrant”, another way to explain my bridge dweller status.
As a 1.5 generation immigrant - those of us who migrated as children or teens - I'm not quite first generation, rooted firmly in my country of origin, nor am I second generation, born and raised in my new home. I'm a bridge-dweller, an in-betweener, part of what Oropesa and Landale aptly call the "decimal generation". I exist in the space between whole numbers, between defined categories.
Life on this bridge is a unique experience. From here, I can see both lands clearly, but I'm fully present in neither. I celebrate two New Years, shouting greetings from the middle of my bridge to both shores. With a glass in hand, I countdown to the midnight on a random freezing night in winter. Only a few months later, I again sit by my humble Haft-Seen table, and countdown the minutes to the precise moment spring equinox begins.
In December, I wear red: an ever shifting cloak of pomegranate seeds for winter solstice and Santa’s jolly hat. My language is a fusion, a bridge-speak if you will, mixing English and Farsi in a linguistic dance that often leaves me searching for words in mid-air.
On windy days, my bridge sways, pulling me toward one side. Yet my accent betrays me as not fully 'native' to one land and my mere departure as too 'foreign' for the other.
This position is precarious: not Canadian enough for Canadians, nor Iranian enough for Iranians. I'm questioned by both sides, my belonging is a constant negotiation. As the result, as Salman Rushdie beautifully puts it, I am one of those “people who root themselves in ideas rather than places, in memories as much as in material things.” Yet, I wonder if the bridge is a place to root myself in? What if I decide to remain at shore?
There is a faint scent of some travelers, those who passed through the bridge to the new shore and never looked back. I hold no judgment for them. The bridge dwelling is not for everyone. I imagine the pain one must hold for leaving behind a part of them that’s too heavy to carry. They step off the bridge and assimilate into the new land. Their sense of belonging becomes firmer as days pass by, yet forfeiting the power the liminal space gives the bridge dwellers.
Here is the beautiful part: Being a bridge dweller also means I can create as my heart desires! I can take up room in the liminal, the infinity of this bridge is what allows me to find my place. I have a unique vantage point and power where I get to create my own culture. Some days, I stand firm in the middle of it, I look at both lands, understand both cultures, and create something entirely new in my liminal space. I'm not caught between worlds; I'm bridging them.
From my bridge, I have two lenses to view the world, two sets of experiences to draw upon. I understand the comfort and love your family can bring to you, and yet I can also understand the importance of independent self-actualization away from your people. I debate internally which culture's New Year is the "real" one, which traditions to keep, which to adapt, what is right, what is wrong, and what is to always remain unknown. It's messy, yes, but it's also rich with possibility.
This bridge-life isn't always easy. The constant translation, the questioning glances, the feeling of being stretched between two worlds - it can be exhausting. But it's also exhilarating. I've taken a leap of faith, jumping from the familiar shore to this bridge of in-between, and in doing so, I've expanded my world.
From my vantage point on the bridge, I've learned that truth and reality aren't singular but beautifully complex. Being liminal, being a "betweener", a 1.5 immigrant, means being open to more than I know. I hold more within me - more knowledge, more perspectives, more of humanity, and that’s one of those riches of the worlds we often take for granted.
As Pico Iyer wisely noted, "We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next to find ourselves." As a 1.5 generation immigrant, I'm on a constant journey of losing and finding myself, all while standing on my bridge between worlds.
So here I stand, not just a bridge dweller crossing from one shore to another but the bridge itself—a living testament to what can emerge from the liminal. My bridge-dwelling teaches me that truth is never singular, identity is never fixed, and belonging can be found in moments of overlap. And most importantly, the bridge belongs to both shores.
Like Gloria Anzaldúa said, to survive the borderlands, I must live 'sin fronteras'—without borders. And so I do, as the bridge, creating and connecting, with one foot in each world and my heart spanning them both.
Gloria Anzaldúa's beautifully puts it:
In the Borderlands
you are the battleground
where the enemies are kin to each other;
you are at home, a stranger
…
To survive the Borderlands
you must live sin fronteras
be a crossroads.
That's exactly what I do - I live without borders, becoming the bridge myself.