COMING FOR AMERICA
THE DILEMMA
Andayi Mushenye
CHAPTER 1
Moonwalking to Belong: A Night of Celebration and Identity
Besides landing at the airport in Detroit and hearing the magical words, “Welcome to America,” managing to ride out the storm until I learned how to use a computer was the second-highest point of excitement in my new life.
On this Friday evening at the end of the school term, and still riding high, I was too animated to let the successful completion of the dreaded computer class go without any celebration. This achievement was a breath of fresh air because, for the most part, since arriving in America, I had been in a never-ending race to blend in and pursue the American dream. Now, I felt on cloud nine after finally conquering the final acid test required to function competently and pave my way to success in the high-speed environment of the wealthiest country on Earth.
Even though the class had ended many hours earlier, I remained in a state of rapturous excitement. Feeling technologically connected, the ecstatic neurons in my brain refused to let this success go uncelebrated. This euphoric feeling made closing my eyes and going to sleep an impossible feat. Fortunately, there were no more classes or exams. After all the accumulated frustrations, I decided something had to give to release the pressure. What better way to do this than to go out, let loose with a few drinks, dance my heart out, and blow off some steam?
However, the idea that initially seemed so fitting posed an unexpected challenge. Through my everyday interactions, I quickly realized that if I stuck to my ways and didn’t act as if I belonged, I would likely become isolated and treated as an outsider. Although I had immersed myself in American culture and technology, I still struggled to engage in conversations with my buddies.
Most of my friends were eager to engage in chitchat or debates about their favorite topics, ranging from American sports to movies, television shows, and celebrities. Since I only knew a little about these subjects, I often felt like the odd one out. Even when speaking with strangers, my accent gave me away immediately.
Such a challenge made it clear to me that if I went out, I needed to blend in to avoid being singled out or isolated. This perspective meant that to fit into what America and Americans viewed as their “real America,” I had to look like one of their own. The best way to appear more American was to dance like their biggest music superstar. That was when I came to terms with the fact that while I might not blend in with the way I spoke, I could certainly blend in if I danced like a trendy American. And what better way to do this than with a moonwalk?
Even after reaching this conclusion, I realized that acting and dancing like I belonged wouldn’t help if I didn’t dress and look assimilated. If I didn’t dress fashionably, I would stick out like a sore thumb, and the prominence of my fashion mishap would likely ruin my celebration of technological success. Moreover, the confidence that would come from wearing the most fashionable outfit would give me an edge.
Recognizing this, the only trendy American look I knew how to put together was that of Michael Jackson. This perception stemmed from my reputation for impersonating his attire during high school. When I left my homeland, Michael Jackson was the man to imitate. However, little did I know that America had moved on to other stars, and the King of Pop was a long-faded memory. What was trendsetting in my village had been groundbreaking in America over ten years prior.
Despite this, I couldn’t imagine rocking the MJ look without his curly hair, especially after enduring subtle and overt jokes about my large afro. I had already bought my Jheri curl kit and its supplies, just waiting for the right moment, which had now arrived. It took me a while to follow the instructions, but in the end, I achieved the best result I could. The moment I finished with my hair and dressed, it hit me—I would not have a second chance to impress. I decided to rehearse my choreographed dance moves to perfection.
Feeling dandy and groovy, I returned to the bathroom mirror to practice my basic moonwalking skills, moving backward while appearing to walk forward. When I reluctantly concluded my dry run, I was confident that the electrifying sequence of steps had come with me from the motherland and was ready to rock and amaze. Recognizing that Michael Jackson was a perfectionist with a keen eye for detail, I looked at my reflection again, and a pleasant smile lifted my cheeks.
When I got dressed, I couldn’t wait to paint the town red on my own.
However, I had no car to get to and from the nightclub. I’d heard most of my friends sing its high praises and I memorized its name and location: C.J. Barrymore’s at Ellsworth and Hewitt. I mentioned to my roommate, Moe, that I wanted to go out and dance to celebrate my accomplishment. He volunteered to pick me up from the club just after midnight when he got off work.
As I changed my appearance and updated my wardrobe to fit in, I complained to Moe, “I wonder when this endless race to assimilate in America will ever end?”
As if he understood my feelings, he advised, “It’s not about assimilation—it’s about blending in, going about your business without standing out or feeling isolated.”
“I don’t get it.”
He elaborated, “Assimilation means losing your identity and adopting someone else’s, which means losing the heritage that makes you who you are.”
I asked, “When will it end?”
“It will end the day you no longer use American television shows to lull you to sleep because your brain doesn’t engage with them.”
“Is that all?”
He chuckled, “Just kidding, not really.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if a lost American approaches you on the street and asks you for directions, you’ll know you’ve finally blended in. Most Americans are hesitant to ask for directions from someone they perceive as an immigrant.”
He then left for work.
At around eight o’clock, after calling a taxi, I stood outside like a greyhound at the starting gate—fired up and ready to go. The weather was unseasonably cold for just a waistcoat, pantsuit, bow tie, white shoes, and a white tuxedo shirt—all courtesy of my favorite fashion house, the Salvation Army. However, that hardly mattered when it came to channeling Michael Jackson down to the last detail.
The sun had begun to sink below the horizon when the taxi arrived on time, and I jumped right in. When the bemused driver stopped to drop me off at the club, he turned back and gave me the fist pump I needed to inflate my already bloated ego.
“You must be an African prince to wear white after Labor Day.”
I quickly disagreed, “I’m pretty sure yesterday was not Labor Day.”
He realized I didn’t understand and explained, “What I mean is that in America, wearing white after Labor Day indicates you have the means for end-of-summer vacations. In other words, you are just showing off how affluent you are.”
He was spot on, as that was the spirit I was feeling—to show off to America—and I crooned, “You got that one right!”
He cheered me on, “You the man!”
I returned the fist pump and roared back pompously, “I’m the man!”
I sneakily glanced at the taxi meter, paid my fare, gave him a thumbs-up, and stepped out.
As darkness crept in, swallowing daylight by the second, the streetlights shone much brighter. I pulled my shirt sleeves halfway to my elbows, just like Michael Jackson, and strode toward the club.
The instant I opened the double doors beneath the colorful, flashing entrance lights, a beefy man appeared out of nowhere and blocked my way.
“Sir, your ID, please?”
“My what?”
“Sir, you need to show that you are of legal age to enter the club.”
In my country, the legal age to enter a bar was eighteen, and I chastised him, “Look at me. Do you think I’m a seventeen-year-old?”
“Sir, you actually have to be twenty-one to enter.”
I realized he would not let me pass, so I removed my state ID. He checked it and directed me to the ticket window. I paid and entered a discotheque in America for the first time. The loud music with its earth-shaking bass instantly took me aback. Struggling to adjust to the delightful chest-thumping experience and the dimmed, blinking lights, I looked up and saw a well-lit bar counter stocked with various beers, wines, and liquors that caught my attention; I headed that way..
CHAPTER 2
A Cultural Clash at the Bar: From Whiskey Shots to Belly Button Shock
Halfway through my grand entrance in America, I attracted noticeable attention from a few revelers who were looking my way. Their smiling glances made me add a bit of pomposity to my gait. Sleek and confident, I surveyed the crowd and quickly concluded that I was the best-dressed man in the discotheque. With all the swagger I could muster as the son of the soil, I pulled out one of the bar stools and perched myself at the bar.
As soon as the busy bartender caught up with the orders ahead of me, he asked, “What can I get you today?”
I started to order the most high-class whiskey I had ever heard of. “Can I get a quarter of Johnnie Walker?”
He looked confused. “A quarter of Johnnie Walker?”
“Yes. It’s the smallest bottle.”
“No, we don’t sell them in bottles.”
“Okay, just give me a full glass of Johnnie Walker.”
“Sorry, we only sell shots.”
“Shorts for who?”
“I mean shots in a glass.”
He noticed the lost look on my face as I conjured the image of shorts in a glass, then reached back and grabbed a tiny glass.
“A shot is served in this mini tumbler.”
“No, that is a tot glass.”
“A tot?”
“Yes, a tot is a small amount of a strong alcoholic drink.”
He was hurrying to serve and didn’t want any back and forth. “Do you want it straight or on the rocks?”
Coming from a village where my grandma used a crude water filtration system made of sand and rocks, I declined.
“No, don’t put it on any rocks; just give it to me straight in a glass.”
He realized I didn’t understand. “I mean, do you want ice cubes in it?”
Thinking “Ice Cube” was one of the famous people with brands named after them, like Johnnie Walker—a grocer in Ayrshire, Scotland, who began selling his selection of single malt whiskies in his store—I perked up. “Ice Cube’s? Sure, he’s my favorite rapper.”
“No, not that kind of ice cube.” He leaned sideways and scooped chunks of ice into a small glass. “This kind.”
I remembered receiving these cold chunks at Kentucky Fried Chicken because it was hot outside, and I protested lightly, “But it’s not hot outside.”
He grinned. “The ice cubes soothe the intensity of hot drinks.”
However, his reasoning contradicted my village culture, where alcohol is considered a hot drink only at the moment of distillation in the boondocks. Furthermore, mixing our illegally brewed liquor, known as Chang’aa—our version of American moonshine, infamously referred to as “Kill Me Quick”—with anything else is seen as cowardly.
To be honest, it’s viewed as a total waste of the drink and an insult to the hardworking brewer who strives to earn a reputation for distilling the purest form of alcohol. In the village, the pursuit of high-proof liquor is so prioritized that a drinker heading to a drinking den can identify the right spot by the number of drunks he encounters staggering or passed out by the roadside or in the bushes.
Upon arrival, the brewer pours a squirt of the unadulterated drink into a glass and lights a match, the blue flame confirming it’s the real deal before they accept your order and money. Even this authentication may not suffice, as some hardcore consumers are only convinced once they feel the firewater spreading like wildfire in their stomachs upon swallowing. This ensures that even the most health-conscious drinker need not worry about the dirty serving glass, considering that over twenty drunkards usually share it before him; the potent alcohol will kill any lingering germs.
With such consumer and distillery benchmarks amid severe poverty, the competition for the cheapest and most potent liquor has led some homebrewers to spike their products with methanol, jet fuel, and embalming fluid. It’s no surprise that this dangerous concoction has resulted in many deaths, with the fortunate ones left permanently blind after just a sip. There have been numerous cases where, after gulping the laced drink, the drunkards who had just lost their sight kept asking the brewer why he turned the lights off when they were just getting started.
Thinking of this, I rebuffed the bartender, “No, no, no, don’t put anything in it.”
He quickly inquired, “Okay, single or double?”
Since I was alone, I replied, “Single.”
He served the whiskey in a tiny glass, as if it were some precious medicine that needed to be rationed.
I drank it in one go and ordered more. After four shots, warmth surged through me, but soon after, I felt a fire in my stomach. I decided to have a beer to cool it down and relax.
“Can I have a beer?”
“What kind?”
Feeling the effects of the shots hitting my head, I flexed my muscles and boasted, “Real men drink Guinness for power.”
Before serving me the Irish stout, he surprised me with another question, “Bottle or draft?”
I had no idea what “draft” meant, so I simply said, “A bottle.”
When he placed the drink in front of me, I downed it immediately and ordered another shot of Johnnie Walker. Before filling my order, he suggested, “Instead of mixing whiskey and Guinness separately, you might as well try an Irish car bomb. I make the best. Do you want to try one?”
I wondered how the Irish Republican Army bombings had made their way into our conversation when they fought to preserve their territorial, national, and religious identity. I was still deliberating, but he lost me when he began to explain that it was a cocktail of Guinness, Bailey’s Irish Cream, and whiskey. I hardly heard him because a striking woman caught my attention with her ample breasts, barely covered by a tiny cropped blouse, the open front loosely tied with shoelaces. The unfastened strings left deliberate gaps for maximum cleavage exposure that I suspected were barely legally permissible.
She stepped right up next to me, and I could see three-quarters of her smooth, flat stomach was, by any definition, exposed. Without a doubt, my newest person of interest radiated a sexual magnetism that could make any man stop and stare by reflex.
She called out to the bartender, “Sex on the beach, please.”
The moment she uttered those words, it was clear that her half-nudeness in such an indecent setting indicated she was more than ready for what she was asking.
Startled by the immediate attention I gave her, she appraised me with a quick up-and-down glance, taking in my curly hair and my outfit. Seizing the moment, I shot her an engaging grin and winked. Rather than moving closer for intimate negotiations, my boldness elicited a hearty laugh, as if she had been tickled by a mischievous thought.
As I smiled back, a hint of a smile still tugged at the corner of her lips, as if I had tickled her with a private joke. I winked again, and her eyes glinted with humor. I was reluctant to let our brief connection end. The showstopper, whom I quickly identified as a waitress from the small tray in her hand and the immediate attention the bartender gave her, was bobbing her head to the rhythm of the music.
Feeling a wet heat of desire cascading upward, I shot her a look just as she pierced me with her large brown eyes, which sparkled above her hot red lips. When our eyes met, I glanced down to break the connection, but my gaze automatically landed on her snug mini skirt and the smooth curves leading to her abdomen. Instead of seeing a protruding navel or a scar from when the umbilical cord was cut, I noticed a small ring hanging on her stomach. I thought the alcohol might be playing tricks on my mind, so I discreetly took another careful look.
That was the first time in my life I had seen a belly button pierced with what appeared to be an expensive piece of jewelry. I began to wonder why she had two good ears yet had chosen to pierce her navel. However, the moment I raised my head to breathe normally, I was caught off guard again by how large her breasts were on such a small body..