MY STORY
So here I was��my first footsteps in the land of the free. A place I�d heard, similar in proportion to the biblical land, flowing with milk and honey�only there was no milk, much less the honey.
It was a particularly hot summer day with the sun beating down ever so hard on the bright yellow taxis. Cars honking everywhere, eager to free themselves from a traffic jam. People pushing their way to meet and greet relatives who had perhaps, come under more fortunate circumstances than me. Needless to say I was a little disoriented but I would not allow myself to be disappointed. After all, I was finally here, which made the 3 something crores that my father had borrowed from neighbors, relatives and friends, �That� much more worth the effort.
I managed to cram my suitcase into the two-door, hatchback 1987 Pontiac Grand AM of a friend. The car was a bare minimum�manual, no air conditioning and an audio that reminded me of a hometown radio station of yester-years. Despite the shoddy surroundings, my friend looked upbeat. He had gotten himself a slight pot belly, wore a big golden ring studded with some cheap look alike amber and his shirt flashed a brand name that I wasn�t aware of at the time. But his silver hair showed signs of a tough life that 8 years in the U.S had exposed him to. Perhaps, I was reading too much into it or perhaps I was too �New� to know the nuances of this so called American life.
One week into my stay and I had overstayed my hospitality. �So what are your plans�, spat out my friend over a can of shared coke and a fan that circulated hot air all around. I got the hint�.Do you know if anyone is hiring, is all I could manage to reply.
I met the world over the next 4-5 days. Pedro the taco shop owner said he had a full staff (of illegals) already. Dmitri was irritated by my inability to understand his accent. The Afro thought I was yet another Chinese out to get his slice of bread and butter, and the white guy gave me the looks he�d call the INS, if I took one step closer. So I was left to choose between Chang from the Chinese carry out across town or Mr. Patel from the shop round the corner. I didn�t like either of them, but my weekly rent was due in another week. Not knowing the �intricacies� of having to commute without a car, I refused to be subjected to another Indian in the land of the free. So I chose Chang over Patel, simply because I wanted a change of scene.
My next few months was a scene out of Dante�s Inferno. I didn�t see the big sign that proclaimed the Nutcracker was playing in town; neither did I see crowds of men and women rushing to watch Cats or Cirque du Soliel. All I was focused on, was perfecting my skills to accurately take an order and the much more daunting task of being the cook, the cleaner, delivery guy all wrapped into one. My humor came in the form of Chang�s attempts to speak english (if that was still English) and success was defined by my ability to make a perfect fortune cookie, with some ambiguous message which squared the meal with finesse. The $4.50 an hour didn�t amount to much, but when you have to work round the clock 9-12, 24/27 not knowing when days turned to nights and weeks to months, what good could a few cents up or down do. All it did was fill the pockets of the creditors back home who�d come knocking on my father�s door before the crack of dawn.
�Man�, as they say adapts to his surroundings and I for sure had come to accept my life as my karma from a past life I had absolutely no recollections of. This was my shot at the American dream and boy was I determined to keep my engines running.
It was 4th of July and Chang had reluctantly closed his shop early (10:00 p.m. as opposed to midnight). So there I was in front of the television listening to the President of the free world, talking about opportunities, freedom and liberty�how America was the champion of human rights, a savior to the down-trodden, all the while slamming the door shut to the possibility of extending that hope over to people like me. Illegal Immigration is what America wanted to cleanse itself of.
Suddenly, the people with the big mansions felt threatened by someone like me, who shared a bathroom with 5 other people. Suddenly, we were a threat to those hunks making obnoxious 6-7 figure salaries and those meek hearted women who�d run to the doc if she sneezed more than once in 2 hours�.whilst I suffered through pneumonia awaiting God�s grace. Suddenly, the America that professed equality for all was in some kind of war with me, who was merely trying to make ends meet��sweating it out to make an earnest buck, working hard, MUCH harder than most people out there. Living a crime free life, and thinking THE WORLD about this �Great Country� which I had dreamt and raved about back in my little hometown.
That night I fell asleep with a broken spirit. I thought about Dr. Martin Luther King and how he�d dreamt about an America where everyone was equal. Yet here I was, 40 something years later�..still unequal in every sense of the word.
I did not dream a thing that night. Perhaps, I wasn�t entitled to one.
