My childhood was more star-spangled than most.

I grew up on an Army base, a tight-knit community encircled by barbed wire and ensconced in the patriotic mores of the U.S. military. Even though it was the late 1990s and early aughts, we watched reruns of “The Andy Griffith Show” on government-run television and listened to Paul Harvey on government-run radio.

My teachers were Vietnam War veterans and my friends’ parents were active duty soldiers and sailors. Nearly everyone in my community — including my dad, a civilian engineer who spent his career with the Army — dedicated their lives in some way to the service of the nation.

This explains some of my deep love of country — but it’s only part of the story.

I am also the child of immigrants. My mother is from the Philippines and my father is from India. Growing up, I had a hard time fitting in. I didn’t feel Filipino enough to hang with the Filipinos, and I didn’t know any other Indians.

It was an odd ethnic combination — a mashup of cultures and contradictions. My mother was Catholic, my father Hindu; my mom an omnivore, my dad vegetarian (at least until they met); they grew up speaking different languages, with English as the mediator. Because of my dad’s job I didn’t have any regional ties either. I moved four times — from Illinois to Japan to Georgia and back to Japan — before I was 13.

AJC photojournalist Arvin Temkar poses for a family photo against the backdrop of Mount Fuji in Japan in 1999. (Courtesy of Arvin Temkar)

Bridging traditions from the old land to the new

Jocelyn Correa poses for a portrait at the construction site for Legacy at Herndon Square, a mixed-use community in Atlanta, on Friday, June 12, 2026. Correa's parents are from Mexico. (Arvin Temkar/AJC)

A guiding metaphor for the project was the “American mosaic.” Like a work of art assembled tile by tile, we are built of cultures, ethnicities and ideas from around the world. First-generation Americans are uniquely positioned to understand this because they are raised American but are also often steeped in the cultures of their parents’ home countries.

My mom cooked pancit noodles and sinigang soup; spoke to me in Visayan, the dialect of her home island; and flew me abroad to visit relatives, like my uncle with the pet monkey and parrot.

Consider what unites, rather than divides, us

Even though I didn’t always appreciate my heritage when I was growing up, I’ve come to realize that it is something to be celebrated alongside my Americanness.

AJC photojournalist Arvin Temkar (center) poses for a photo with his mother, Daisy Perez (left), sister Tara Temkar (second from left) and father Prakash Temkar in a family photo taken in Singapore in 2000. (Courtesy of Arvin Temkar)

This is common sentiment among the many ethnic groups in the country: Irish Americans, for example, have turned what was once a religious holiday into a commemoration of history and culture so spectacular that even I am proud to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day.

In telling the stories of first-generation Americans I aim to highlight all Americans, because nearly everybody is descended from an immigrant — or a person who was brought here against their will. Our history is complicated and sometimes tragic, but at its best it is a testament to the qualities that inspired my parents and other immigrants to leave their homes to make a new one.