"Why did you even come here?" she snarled, her lips twisting in anger. "You don't belong. None of you do."
"I've
come, looking for America." I replied, my English pained and stilted.
How could I ever explain that my dreams were filled with this place,
filled with all the joys and dreams of generations? How could I explain
her own great-grandparents' joy and desperation as they crossed the
waters, their eyes searching for the bright torch of Liberty?
This
land, soaked with dreams and tears, the hopes of generations drenching
the earth until it is burgeoning with it. Like a rose in full bloom.
And, like a rose, the thorns of prejudice pierce my fragile skin. They
all stare at me, their eyes full of hatred and bias. I can't describe
the dream that I followed here. The belief that I fought so hard to
maintain.
The dream that America is a mother with her arms flung
open wide to embrace her weary children. The torch of home burning
through the mists and the fog, the moon competing with it. With this
belief, we ran and fought, screaming and dying for the dream of America.
A dream of freedom and liberty. A dream of acceptance and love beyond
our faults. The dreams being crushed in the fists of the woman in front
of me.
She hates me, for no reason other than I am different. I
am not from here. I am not "American." I've lived here for five years
now, I'm only a short way away from being a full citizen, but I'll never
be "American." I'll never be what she believes I should be because I am
different, because I was not born here.
I ignore her, my eyes
straying toward the torch held aloft. I smile, though the tears are
dripping down my face, stung by her words and the dreams that slowly
die. The light I followed here, to escape the starvation and the crush
of dreams deferred, has been burnt out for years. The America I dreamed
is a dream that has died. I close my eyes and feel the incessant throb
in my chest, my broken heart refusing to give up on this dream.
I
look into the eyes of Liberty, her torch held aloft. Her words echo in
the still waters of my mind. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your
huddled masses yearning to breathe free; The wretched refuse of your
teeming shore, Send these, the homeless, Tempest-tossed to me I lift my
lamp beside the golden door!"
I've gone to look for America.
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