Thirteen years old now and I still face the same exact problem I faced when I first arrived here at age six. You expect that after a while, it will all stop. They will get used to you or get bored, and get obsessed over some other foreigner. But no, their jeers had been consistent all these years. They called me Brown-face or terrorist. If they are feeling really frisky, they call me Sand Monkey.
Even the teachers at school aren’t left out of the prejeduce. I hear their whispers, They are concerned. Why did my mother chose to come here? Why were we even allowed into their glorious country. It’s risky. People like me are capable of anything.
Do they know what it’s like to be the third wheel in a bloody war? To feel like the rope in a tug-of-war. I was too little to know how life before being an immigrant was but in my subconscious, I still hear the sound of berrading machine guns, the deafening sound of explosions, and the screams that is heard beyond it all.
Back in my war torn country, people envy my family. “They made it.” My relatives would say. Back there, my mother had done everything to get us here. After father died, (Not of a shrap-metal explosion. He had heart problems) seeking greener pastures was a necessity. She wanted the best education for me, no wonder she always flips when I get a C on a test. A lot of people were turned down for us to get this “golden” opportunity that took us to the States.
From the outsider’s point of view, the picture is never clear. One side sees you as the most fortunate of beings to escape the never ending carnage that has become so much of a norm; the other is threatened because they imagine you as a poor violent prone refugee that can sucide-bomb the entire town on a whim.
But for me, all I want is for the bulling to stop and the confidence to finally ask Sally out to Prom.