Since the United States of America was founded, it has been known as a notable land of opportunity and shaped by its rich diversity.
Within the nation’s melting pot of cultures and experiences, it is easy to see oneself as simply American. However, some who came to this country under immigrant, undocumented, or even refugee status, struggle with fitting the mold of American identity.
No matter how many years immigrants may reside in this country, under a varied status, aspects of one’s culture, race, gender, religion, or upbringing, help buildcommunity and shape one’s identity. Despite the various reasons people may come to this country, not all immigrant experiences are the same.
This special report tells the stories of five Contra Costa County residents: District Chancellor Mojdeh Mehdizadeh, District Governing Board Vice President Andy Li, LMC Professor Boe Mendewala, and students Akila Briggs and Aki Sagun.
Uplifting their voices redefines the narrative of what it means to be an immigrant, or the child of an immigrant, and how it molds shared identity. Each story aims to go beyond the surface and reveal that although there are similarities in experiences, each has a unique definition of American.
Pursuing her childhood dream of possibility
By Aliyah Ramirez
“I flew in my bed to what was America,” described Mojdeh Mehdizadeh, chancellor of the Contra Costa Community College District, as she recalled a distinct dream before she and her family boarded a flight from Iran to a new country.
“As an 8-year-old, I remember the blue skies, I remember birds being with me,” she explained. “Once I landed, there was so much candy. Oh my goodness, the United States of America, the land of candy.”
It was the summer of 1978 in Tehran, Iran. The school bells rang at the end of the term and Mehdizadeh had just finished second grade. At home, her parents Mohammad and Masroureh were finalizing preparations for a trip to visit her older sister Maryam and brother Mehran, who moved to Ogden, Utah a year before to continue their education. Mehdizadeh’s uncle lived in the States and provided Maryam a place to stay as she studied at Weber State College for two years. Later, Mehran joined her in Utah while he was in high school.
Mehdizadeh and her parents had visited her siblings in America before, but this year felt different. Their bags were larger than usual and her mother had packed the family photo albums. With friends and relatives there to say goodbye, Mehdizadeh was told to pack her library card which, at the time, was her only means of identification.
Looking into her parent’s eyes before they took off, there was something different. A fear that they may not end up returning home.
“There was a lot more uproar in the nation as a whole,” notes Mehdizdeh, as she remembers seeing her neighborhood theaters engulfed in flames. “I think subconsciously they felt it. There were rumblings about discontent with the monarchy, The Shah of Iran.”
Two months into their trip, her father went back to see if it was safe for the family’s return. But a revolution had begun and with the later establishment of the Islamic Republic, her family chose not to return.
What was initially planned as a summer vacation continued for months and this unfamiliar country soon became Mehdizadeh’s future.
“As a child, you don’t think about a lot of things, you just kind of do,” said Mehdizadeh but, “when reflecting I would say, it was a really difficult transition.”
She had no choice but to adjust to a new normal. As summer came to an end, a new academic year began.
Despite being a recent second-grade graduate from Iran, within weeks Mehdizadeh was placed in the fifth grade based on how her academic performance looked on paper. But it soon became clear that an 8-year-old with little English could not keep up at a higher grade level and she was dropped to the fourth grade, skipping the third altogether.
The coursework was not the only thing she was unprepared for — she saw “no one that looked like me” and feelings of isolation grew.
“I remember kids who would physically attempt to hurt me. They said things to me that I frankly didn’t understand. I certainly recognized the notion that I didn’t belong,” Mehdizadeh said. “Within a matter of months, my parents determined that it would be best for us to leave Ogden, Utah.”
When her parents decided to move Mehdizadeh and her siblings to Oakland, California, a sense of community was hard to come by. However, they found neighbors from Iran who had recently moved and it became a familiar “landing spot” before settling into a place of their own in Pleasant Hill.
Feelings of belonging comforted her in a new state, but that soon changed. Due to the ongoing conflicts in the Middle East, America faced the hostage crisis of 1979 and for the first time, she was labeled a terrorist.
“I remember thinking as a child, ‘What is a terrorist? I don’t know what a terrorist is,’” said Mehdizadeh. “That sense of being othered was starting to come back and it was a challenging time to get over.”
But she was not alone. Her family felt isolated and threatened by people’s polarizing outlook toward them. Mehdizadeh described her brother coming home from high school “beaten up, punched in the face, and blood coming down his nose.”
School no longer felt safe. However, her family, a small social circle with other Iranians, and a few familiar faces in the classroom created a safety net.
“I distinctly remember where I had fallen, ripped the tights that I was wearing, and wounded my knee as a result of running away from some kids who were saying hurtful things while I walked to school,” Mehdizadeh explained. “When I got to class, my teacher, Mrs. Gunderman made time to address my wound, shared words of kindness and compassion, and the next day brought me new tights and some hand-me-down clothing. It was incredibly touching. I suppose those who shared kindness, caring and compassion, covered for those that were ignorant.”
While others attempted to paint her reality with fear and uncertainty, her support system always reminded her to focus on being “the best you can be.” Which is exactly what she did.
Higher education motivated her family to stay in America and despite their changing environments, that degree garnered her siblings’ paths in healthcare and engineering. Despite her parents’ beliefs, Mehdizadeh had a different future in mind that encompassed her passion for learning.
“For myself, as an immigrant and an immigrant child there is such a focus on specific fields of study,” Mehdizadeh said. “While I didn’t go down the typical path of doctor, engineer, or nurse but stayed in education, they were incredibly proud.”
If Mehdizadeh had remained in Iran during the revolution, she says her rights as a woman “didn’t exist” as education barely surpassed a high school diploma. However, her family’s decision to stay in America allowed her to explore undergraduate courses at Diablo Valley College. This led her to transfer to San Francisco State University for a bachelor of science in Business Administration and graduate from California State University, East Bay with a master’s in Communication Studies.
Throughout her educational journey, she continued at DVC as an adjunct professor in Speech Communications and later took on permanent classified positions. Opportunities always led back to the Contra Costa Community College District, where she began her path in higher education and now serves as chancellor.
“I think who I am today, that fabric of my being, is based on my experience as a student and as an educator — it’s all I’ve known. Coming to the United States because my parents were so focused on education,” Medizadeh said. “It is who I am and I couldn’t ask for anything greater.”
Education has always been her path. For more than 30 years she has remained in the district to promote opportunities for students of all backgrounds.
“I feel so privileged to work at a place where I can see through the individuals that the American Dream is not dead,” Mehdizadeh said. “I can see it through our future leaders and our future is bright, based on the incredible students going through our systems today.”
As an 8-year-old girl from Iran, she stepped off the plane into an unknown place. But Medizadeh has never lost her wide-eyed innocence toward opportunity. Through education, she redefined her version of the American Dream but still recalls the blue skies and sweets from her childhood dream.
“There’s lots of candy in this land,” Medizadeh said, “Lots of candy in this land.”
Finding the hidden leader in himself
By Aliyah Ramirez
Andy Li fondly recalls the unique flavors of the dishes he ate as a child. However, the rich taste of his home country has been lost among the stagnant flavors of American Chinese cuisine, so he focuses on recreating them as a home cook. Whether capturing nostalgia on a plate for his family dinners, working as president of Civic Leadership USA, or serving as Contra Costa Community College District vice president, Li never forgot where he came from.
Since he was young, he knew he would pursue higher education. But coming from a small, poverty-stricken village in Tianjin, China, financial security always drew uncertainty.
In this familiar city, Li attended a nearby college completing his bachelor’s in Chemistry. But in his last year, he chose to explore a change of scenery for graduate school.
To further his education in America, he began on scholarship at the University of Tennessee, Memphis Medical School, then transferred to the University of Texas.
Troubles arose when his student visa application was denied. However, with the help of his graduate professor and a college letter, his second attempt was successful.
He arrived in the United States in 1996, and those nine months at the University of Tennessee marked a pivotal time in his transition to American customs and culture.
“When I first came to the U.S., I only had $500 in my pockets. Going to a foreign country, it’s a different language and a different culture,” Li explained. “You don’t have money, you don’t have any relatives here and it’s hard.”
As a first-generation Chinese immigrant, he highlights the inevitable challenges faced but acknowledges the opportunity to study under scholarship positively.
When he transferred to the University of Texas, he no longer had the security of a scholarship to lean on. Now, tuition and living costs overtook his reality and by the end of his first year, he had “less than $30 in [his] bank account.”
His focus was simply on surviving, making it difficult for Li to complete his studies at these colleges. But he later graduated from the University of Wisconsin-Madison with a master’s in Computer Science.
During this transition from one place to the next, he did not see the importance of finding his community. As education and work took him across the country, he could not help but feel alone.
“It was tough at the beginning,” Li said but “after I paid off my debt, I was a little under 30 and I started to think about what’s next.”
When contemplating whether to return to China, the diversity and opportunities in the U.S. narrowed his decision to stay in America.
“It would be miserable to live here for the rest of my life as a foreigner, as a traveler,” Li said adding, “I will take this country as my home and start to build this country and help this country.”
With this mindset, Li focused on organizations to uplift and unite members of the AAPI community.
Through his work, he met his wife who had come from Shanghai to America a few years earlier than Li. Together they were drawn to California for the weather, but this place later promised a career Li would have never predicted.
His world opened up after joining the Rotary Club. He met different communities and participated in various councils and committees centered around education and cultural recognition.
“The more I get involved with the community, the better I understand its voice, learn about its needs, and serve more effectively,” Li said.
Despite strong community involvement, his plans to be appointed and run for office seemed impossible. Because “as an immigrant, I never thought about that,” Li acknowledged.
It was not until 2017 when a friend introduced him to an opportunity in the Contra Costa County Community College District that redefined his vision toward education.
While a new door was opening for Li, he saw doors close for students who looked like him.
Li was startled by the number of student suicides in higher education. From his experiences, he believes the external expectations from family or peers can diminish the value of an education, and ultimately, it became an expectation that motivated him to change.
“This is not acceptable,” Li said. “I have two kids. I cannot let my kids live in that environment,” he said “[Asian families] put too much pressure on the students. Peer pressure and the academic excellence pressure is high.”
To emphasize student success, minimizing stress became the primary motivator for his campaign for office in the community college district. Representing these institutions as the first Chinese American governing board member, he sees it as a “great opportunity” and pathway communities need to know.
He overcame his introverted nature by connecting with others as a politician. In late 2018 he was elected and now serves as governing board vice president, with students at the forefront of his mind.
“When I see a student from nowhere who has nothing, become successful, it resonates with me. I think this is why I’m here. If I can help those students, I can see the change,” Li said.
By educating his broader community on these opportunities, he acknowledges not all mindsets are the easiest to change.
“I do see some limitations because most first-generation immigrants work as doctors, professors, lawyers, accountants, and engineers because what we see is that path to be successful,” Li explained, noting the importance of letting students “find their passion and follow their passion.”
As a graduating student of China and America, Li has now garnered himself a voice in education. But the hardships of his immigration — overt racism and exclusion of his culture — will never be forgotten as it still motivates him today.
“A lot of people still target us as foreigners,” Li said, recalling the conversations he would have about his culture, undermining his and many others’ identity as Asian Americans. “A lot of people ask, ‘Where are you from?’ I say, ‘Oh, I’m from California.’ And they say, ‘ No, where are you really from? Even though you are here, you’re born and raised here, you’re third, fourth generation. People still ask that kind of question.”
He emphasizes the importance of unity among Asian Americans, citing historical examples of discrimination and marginalization — the Japanese Internment Camps, Chinese Exclusion Acts, and more recently, the Anti-Asian Hate Crimes that grew during the COVID-19 pandemic.
“We are American,” Li said. “If we’re united, smart, and we work hard, we should have an opportunity.”
As the diversity of cuisines, communities, and celebrations became a primary reason for Li to remain in the U.S., he believes embracing both parts of his Chinese and American identity will continue to inspire the youth in his work today.
Persevering amid the uncertainty
By Gabbie Munoz
“All of these challenges they face, they tried to shield us from,” explained Los Medanos College Professor Boe Mendewala, as she acknowledged the hardships her parents overcame when their family immigrated from Mumbai, India when she was only five. “Thanks to my parents working hard, they made us feel like we could fit in and do anything.”
With plans to start anew in Southern California, the Mendewalas immigrated to America in 1996, leaving their family and a familiar way of life behind.
However, with only a Visitor Visa, the family struggled to find work and a place to live as they were not eligible for permits or licenses. For over a decade, the family made multiple attempts to gain permanent residency, only to be denied countless times.
“My parents used their whole life savings to try to get U.S. citizenship,” Mendewala said.
During years of uncertainty, even the simplest of acts garnered consequences. When Menewala’s father went on a drive with a friend, who had forgotten his driver’s license, they were stopped at an immigration checkpoint and Menewala’s father was placed in a detention center for 13 months.
“That was a really difficult time because we didn’t know if he would ever come home,” Mendewala explained. “We didn’t know if we had to leave as well.”
Despite the struggles, the family fought to stay in America. But the longer they remained in the United States the distance grew between them and their extended family left behind in India.
Without permanent residency, they couldn’t travel to India for the risk of not being allowed back into the United States and the trip also came at a cost they could not afford. Mendewala sympathized with her parents who missed out on milestones with their siblings, nieces, nephews and friends.
“I remember growing up when my grandma was still alive. We would always write letters and have phone calls,” Mendewala recalled. “We’d always say ‘I’ll see you soon, I’ll see you soon’ until eventually we couldn’t anymore.”
This immigration experience heavily impacted and stalled Mandewala’s journey into adulthood. Yet, her patience and determination were rewarded in 2012 for her to build a life in America.
When the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals was passed under the Obama administration, Mendewala’s life in this familiar country began. DACA ensures children raised in the U.S. don’t have to fear deportation and grants a work permit for the country. More than a decade after it was passed, she became one of approximately 530,000 living under the program.
“I was 22 when I finally got my first driver’s license, my first job, and it was such a huge relief,” Mendewala said.
However, being a DACA recipient can be stressful because it does not guarantee citizenship. When a new president is elected every four years, her residency and permit are at risk based on program priority.
Despite this, Mendewala pursued higher education in physics and earned a bachelor’s degree from California State Long Beach and a doctoral degree from the University of California Merced. After getting her doctorate, Mendewala’s part-time position became full-time as a physical science professor at LMC.
On top of that, Mendewala continues to advocate for DACA and says it can benefit many immigrants but is misunderstood by the public. She further explained that recipients have grown up in the U.S. and deserve the same protections as other Americans.
“I feel like a lot of people don’t understand what DACA is or who DACA recipients are,” Mendewala said. “It’s important for them to understand that they are Americans in every sense of the word, except on paper.”
In 2018, she spoke at a conference in Washington D.C. to share reasons why DACA should remain in effect.
“[The University of California Merced] Chancellor Dorothy Leland thought that it would be good for representatives and senators to hear from someone who was getting a Ph.D. with DACA,” Mendewala said. “It helps them see the kinds of people this program is protecting and helping.”
Despite building a life in America, the stressful uncertainties over her residency led Medewala to struggle with her identity.
She felt pressure to assimilate, leading her to distance herself from her culture and attempt to be as American as possible. This caused Mandewala to stop speaking her native language, Gujarati.
“There was a lot of bullying for my accent or for the oils that we put in our hair,” Mendewala said.
As she has gotten older, she hopes to revive what she once suppressed for years. Now she tries to speak her native tongue at her parent’s home and appreciates the small things, like cooking Indian dishes to stay connected to her culture.
Mendewala also uses her undocumented experiences to connect with students of similar backgrounds.
“I work with the undocumented students on campus and I tried to also talk to my students about it and make them aware and make them just feel a little bit less alone,” Mendewala said.
Her advice is something she had to apply to herself while struggling in her adolescence.
“While it’s difficult and stressful to have the insecurity that comes with being undocumented, it’s really important that you still try to build the life that you want,” Mendewala said, “regardless of what you may or may not know for sure.”
Rewriting her place in her family’s history
By Aliyah Ramirez
When recalling her childhood memories, it was not the American classic spent learning in a classroom or playing outside with friends. Instead, Akila Briggs remembers the stark concrete walls of the San Francisco immigration office on Folsom Street. She and her mother, Brenda Briggs-Baio, would sit side by side in plastic chairs lining the wall, with her nose in a kindergarten workbook and her mother who hand-beaded fabric over her lap.
But the immigration office is not the start of Briggs’s story as her family’s journey to America is rooted in times of war.
According to Briggs, her mother’s father, Robert Briggs, raised her and her five sisters in Sierra Leone, West Africa. But in the early 1990s, conflict was growing near as bombings turned homes to rubble and lives were lost along war-torn streets. Her father had no choice but to “get them out of there.”
“We call it the Liberian Civil War. It was spreading to different countries causing issues with the neighboring countries,” Briggs said. “Due to that my mom and her family had to disperse to refugee camps, someone to Europe, someone to the Gambia, and my mom was the first one to come to America.”
Alone in a new country, Brenda Briggs-Baio faced challenges with her immigration status. Her career as a nurse also faded as she faced blatant discrimination in the medical field as her homeland certifications were deemed below American standards.
“She was a young woman unaccompanied in a country she didn’t know. There were several instances of people claiming they were going to help her, only to try and take advantage of her later,” Briggs said.
In 1996, a few years after her mother settled in, Briggs was born and became the first generation daughter to have a life in America. But her family’s experiences as immigrants and the traumas of war left scars in her family’s story that slowly molded her childhood.
“Choosing to come to America — it was a matter of life or death,” Briggs said.
War stripped away any secure future her family could have in Sierra Leone, but faith kept their hopes alive to make a change. No matter where her family remained or was displaced, believing meant connecting.
“They relied on religion a lot. Even though I don’t agree with the religion, I respect it immensely because that gave them the lifeline to stay together and believe that it’s going to be ok,” Briggs said.
Yet their Christian religious teachings cast a traditional, gendered perspective that Briggs did not feel completely comfortable with growing up. As she later identified as part of the queer, non-binary community, her identity was deemed unacceptable, even to her family. Unable to share the same family trauma, Briggs’s ties to her mother and faith faded.
“I have lost communication with quite a few family members,” Briggs said. “Because it’s either you’re in the religion and the family, or out of it.”
Unaware of her decisions’ ramifications, Briggs focused on redefining her cultural identity as a child of an immigrant living in America. With this mindset, she builds connections outside of abusive family ties through the friendships she creates. But it does not come without hesitations about leaving her family behind.
“It makes me feel so sad because I do want to have a family one day, but then I wonder if this child is going to be treated the way I was treated,” Briggs said. “If the time comes, what’s going to be more important to me? My child knowing where they’re from, or my child knowing fully they are safe with who they’re with?”
With her West African culture, her identity as an African American contrasts with the history taught in American education systems. As historical narratives fail to encompass diverse perspectives, there were occurrences where she still felt isolated in her skin.
“In this very school, I was told I’m ‘not Black enough’ to be a part of the Student Union. It makes it very hard to try and figure out where I’m supposed to stand,” said Briggs adding, “I want to be a part of Black culture but I’ve been told in so many different ways ‘I’m not Black enough for Black culture,’ and then being on the outskirts of the African society.”
Despite the split between culture and family redefining her identity, Briggs’s unique perspective allowed her to be West African and American on her terms.
Remnants of her past shine through her present, from cooking recipes encompassing the aromas and tastes of her childhood to wearing print cotton dresses with unique scalloped edges and right-handed pocket details. These may seem like little things, but it is these small acts that keep “the thoughts of the country alive.”
Adjusting to the suburban comforts
By Darcy Meadows
Navigating adulthood and the world for the first time is a tough enough task on its own. Going to college, moving out, establishing a career, and exploring aspects of one’s identity are some of the core milestones when coming of age. Now imagine dealing with all of that and moving to a different country simultaneously.
This is what life entailed for Los Medanos College student Aki Sagun, after moving to the United States last year. He was raised in Manila, Philippines where he enjoyed the busy environment and lively atmosphere. He especially relished spending time with his friends and visiting local beaches.
However, Sagun was not the first in his family to move to the U.S. because his grandmother moved from the Philippines in the 90s. It was not until 2010, that his grandmother petitioned for the rest of the family to come to the States; this included Sagun, his mother, his mother’s siblings, and children.
Since this process started decades ago, there was a climate of uncertainty as to when Sagun might be leaving home. As he waited for his green card approval, his life in the Philippines continued as normal, with him even being accepted into university.
In June 2023, Sagun was surprised that his green card had been expedited, meaning it was processed faster at the applicant’s request. This began the lengthy procedure of gathering documents, taking medical exams, and preparing for interviews. Sagun explained that his family was tasked with acquiring and providing documents he didn’t even know existed.
Once everything was set and Sagun’s green card had been granted, he moved to Antioch, California in October. While excited to explore, he quickly realized that adjusting to a new home and culture was no easy feat. Compared to the noise of his home city, Sagun found Antioch’s silence — and the solitude it accompanied — evident.
“I think the biggest challenge for me was mental health-wise because I was so used to having my friends around. It was so easy for me to meet up with them. I could just commute easily, and when I got here, it was lonely because I had no friends here,” he said.
Sagun struggled with being alone in his thoughts, anxious and homesick. He ended up feeling like he was living the same day over again. Despite confiding in friends and family, the loneliness was hard to deal with — though not unexpected. This was something Sagun had anticipated.
“Prepare for the homesickness because that’s going to linger,” he said. “There’s going to be times where you’re going to break down and go like, ‘I miss my old life, I miss my friends, I miss my family that I left back home.’”
Sagun then expressed hope, exemplifying the philosophy that adjusting to a big change gets easier over time.
He reminded himself that it would get better, adding “remain optimistic because you moved here for a reason. You can’t let that go to waste, because at the end of the day, it’s up to you to make your future secure.”
Sure enough, Sagun grew more accustomed to his new home in the coming months. People were open to being friends which helped to ease his loneliness. He connected with others over the idea of coming from another place, as becoming an adult is hard enough as it is.
As time passed, the recurring thoughts of “What if I had just stayed home?” began to subside — but homesickness would resurface on occasion. During these times, Sagun sought support from his family, friends, and a therapist to cope with isolation.
Most importantly, Sagun found strength in himself. As negative thoughts continued to race through his head, he demonstrated resilience. An experience that had left him feeling isolated transformed into a valuable lesson about self-sufficiency in the wake of change.
“I’m going to do this for my family, my mom, and my friends,” Sagun said. “I wanted to prove to them that I can do it and I’m doing this for them.”
Alongside the goals he had set for himself — education and job opportunities made him a more confident person. Plans to attend UC Berkeley Haas School of Business gave him the strength to endure any possible anxiety or loneliness.
“I know how to handle it. I know how to be strong and be there for myself,” Sagun said.
In addition to establishing himself in America, Sagun retained a strong connection to his culture. He still enjoys Filipino food, entertainment and music; at home, his family speaks their language, Tagalog. He seeks to embody home even if he no longer lives there.
On campus, Sagun joined a close-knit Filipino community through the Kapwa Club, where he is currently the social media officer responsible for managing the club’s Instagram and creating flyers. He enjoys how Kapwa helped him feel less alone and wishes others would similarly connect to their cultures.
“Because that’s what makes them — where they’re from, right? It’s important to be in touch with your own culture,” said Sagun.
Editor’s note
Define American is a special project surrounding immigration, told through the voices of diverse perspectives in Contra Costa County. Check out the other related stories.
