People often talk about defining moments in their lives, moments in which they inquired deep within, moments of deep realization.

Life-changing moments like these can be very sweet, or unbearably bitter. Imagine wandering through life bearing a dead soul, drained of its liveliness. Imagine living in a dead, bitter moment — but not just for a moment, for years.

Sadness lingers in my heart. I had to leave my relatives and move to America.

Being socially accepted at school in the South was difficult, just for looking “different.” Yet I was a happy and vibrant little girl: confident, self-willed and the clown of the household.

I hated my parents for wanting me to move. They lost every bit of dignity, kissed up to people who were nothing short of rude and condescending. All we could do was keep our heads held low, say yes to people in “power,” get passage to a country that was promising. In my mind, the cons outweighed the pros.

Despite making new friends, a jolt had set in. I was unwelcome and different. The attacks of Sept. 11 happened. Our shock was seen as rudimentary compared to Caucasian despair. It was as if we were personally responsible, extensions of the terrorists.

A boy in my school, an army man’s son, said with teachers and students present that I should die. I told my mother, in my then 10-year-old brain, that he was going to kill me.

She called the principal’s secretary, ironically named Miss White. My mother was told that it was too small a matter for the principal.

My mother, passionate and feisty, called the local newspaper, which ran an article. The next day, the principal was at our door, flooding our living room with disingenuous apologies. I saw through the hypocrisy of the system. They cared only if their reputation depended on showing minimum regard to a “foreigner.”

The principal had no answer to my mother’s question. What if it had been a Muslim child threatening death to a white child?

I visited my grandparents, only to find the void furthered. My grandpa was in a wheelchair, my grandma bedridden and my home was no longer my home. My mother and I left our hearts behind. I saw through my mother’s façade, strong with bloodshot eyes. Her pain ran deep.

At the New York airport, we were picked on by customs officers, one who raised his voice, shouting at us for not filling out the arrival form correctly. I wanted to hit him.

Instead, we stood with our eyes lowered, afraid of deportation. After several hours and interviews, they let us re-enter.

I wanted no part of this country and its humiliation, but the humiliation only strengthened.

It was 4 a.m. and my father was away in another state for work. The door sounded like someone was breaking it down. My mother looked outside to see the front yard sprawling with policemen with guns. It was the INS and FBI. They had come to deport us, unless we produced further papers.

My mother was thinly clad. She asked if she could dress, but the agents shouted “No!”  She had to let a dozen men in as she walked around semi-naked, fishing for legal documents. They ransacked the house, talking to her rudely. They confiscated our papers, told her not to leave the house — not even for groceries — without her passport, or she would be arrested. They left.

She collapsed to the floor crying, holding me and my brother on either side, rocking us and saying, “It’s going to be all right.”

Now, nearly 10 years later, we were granted green cards. I have a splendid boyfriend, graduated from high school, and am following my dreams.

I understand more as I become a woman why my mother wanted to leave Pakistan. I am grateful for all the misery she spared me in that country, but there is a huge teardrop lodged within me, like an eternal bubble. It won’t ever burst.

Choosing between hells is hardly a choice. Precious friends and the chance to carve out a life make it all worthwhile. Somewhere between my grandmother’s embrace and my mother’s sacrifice lies my chance at redemption.

I know I will one day be able to fully appreciate life.

• Maya Masood is a 2009 West High School graduate and attends Las Positas College as a full-time student. She has lived in Tracy for four years.