COMING FOR AMERICA

On my way home that night, lost in deep thought, it seemed that every time I took a step forward toward my assimilation or advancement in American society, I found myself in unavoidable circumstances that pushed me back four or more steps.

I had thought that owning a car would make me independent and free to work or go anywhere, but that celebration was short-lived. The reality was that I still had no money for the next term’s tuition, no idea where I would be living next, and above all, I was terrified that the U.S. immigration department would catch up with me for violating my student visa requirements, deport me back to my home country, and bar me from returning.

As the week progressed, my worries condemned me to insomnia when I learned that immigration had a toll-free number where anyone could report immigration law violators—and that was about to be me. It was difficult to get good sleep that would allow me to rest enough to face my long days at school and my backbreaking work as a worried dishwasher. Things didn’t improve when it dawned on me that I was about to start living a life akin to that of a fugitive in the U.S.—jumpy and constantly looking over my shoulder.

Secondly, with my difficulty understanding American accents at work, college, and play, I learned that to adapt to American ways of speaking and have your ears attune to their inflections and enunciations more quickly, you should engage in conversation with native speakers often. However, I barely had any time left for chitchat. It was then I discovered another way to quickly grasp the American accent is by watching television, paying attention to speech rhythm and intonation, and integrating American slang and idioms into my speech.

Since I could seldom watch television, it often ended up lulling me to sleep on the days I had too much on my mind to fall asleep quickly. One night, I vaguely overheard a commercial for some medicine that promised restful sleep. The next day, I went to the store and bought a packet of the same name I had heard pronounced on television. I took one tablet but couldn’t sleep; I tried two, but still had no luck. The following day, I complained to my next-door neighbor that the sleeping tablets weren’t working.

“Let me see them,” he said.

I handed him the packet. He glanced at it and then looked back at me, as if I were crazy. “You took this?”

“Yes.”

“Are you on your menstrual cycle?”

Blindsided by this offensive implication, I demanded, “Why are you asking me such a dumb question?”

My aggravated tone did not deter him. He burst out laughing until he could barely catch his breath. When he finally calmed down, he said, “Dude, did you read the packet?”

I shook my head. In my country, we hardly had a variety of over-the-counter brands. I was so accustomed to sounding off a few brands in my head that I bought the tablets without the inclination to read the packet first.

“Dude, this is Midol—it’s for women on their period.”

He laughed again. He had no idea that the sleep tabs Nytol and the PMS remedy Midol sounded the same to my ears. Annoyed that his laughter came at my expense, I left his side of the suite, crossed through the shared bathroom area, and slammed the door behind me, wanting to forget what had just happened.

Sensing my anger, he followed me and found me seated on my bed.

“Mush, don’t be mad. If someone laughs at you about taking Midol, just tell them you used it as a hangover cure.”

What I perceived as another shaggy dog story started to incense me. “What? I hope this isn’t another joke because right now is not the time.”

He revealed, “Midol is not just for PMS. It’s also used to treat hangovers.”

“Please don’t; I’m not your laughing stock today. Go try someone else!”

Like someone whose conscience had caught up with him, he implored, “Just hear me out. I’m not bullshitting you. A woman with PMS may feel achy, bloated, and tired, just like a person with a hangover may also feel achy, bloated, and tired.”

My voice dripped with skepticism. “I hope this doesn’t end in another joke.”

He sought to reassure me. “No, Mush. Midol contains an antihistamine to treat nausea, acetaminophen for aches, a diuretic to relieve bloating, and caffeine to fight fatigue and energize.”

I was halfway to believing him when he suggested, “To save yourself any embarrassment, next time anyone finds out and laughs at you, just tell them you were using Midol as a hangover cure.”

Not to be outdone, I had to tell him what I heard from other friends was a cure for a hangover.

“I can just use Imagine-C. It’s better.”

One of his eyebrows rose questioningly. “Wait, wait. What’s the better cure for a hangover again?”

I replied confidently, “Imagine-C.”

“Imagine what?”

His question prompted me to repeat what I had heard. “Imagine-C. It has all the electrolytes and vitamins needed to replenish the nutrients depleted by alcohol.”

When it dawned on him, he struggled to suppress a chuckle. “You mean Emergen-C. The supplement that is mixed with water to create a fizzy drink?”

I had never seen it, but his description was closer to what I had heard, so I just nodded.

My buddy, who had the good sense not to burst out laughing at my gaffe like others did, quickly left as if he had been called to attend to an urgent matter.

When he departed, I had little time to dwell on the egg on my face, and my mind quickly returned to my current dire situation.

As my struggles replayed in my head, I realized that despite working tirelessly, earning overtime hours, and handing over my entire paycheck to the university each pay period, I was only meeting the minimum required to prevent my classes from being canceled. If I paid late, a penalty was promptly added.

The semester was coming to a close, and I was struggling to pay tuition that was nearly double what the university charged American students. Bit by bit, I owed so much that the university informed me I would only be allowed to register for new classes once my balance was paid in full. From what I was earning, there was no way I could meet both conditions simultaneously. Moreover, my grades had plummeted due to long hours of hard at work, and my GPA was dangerously close to academic probation.

That evening, it was clear that my ambition to come to America and pursue my dreams had run into a ditch. I couldn’t tell if my anxious mind was playing tricks on me, but the remaining light around me seemed to succumb to gloomy darkness faster than usual.

As night fell, a sense of profound dejection settled deep within my troubled heart. I was so distressed that I couldn’t sleep immediately. Instead, I chose to sit on the windowsill and contemplate the gravity of my new situation. Occasionally, I peeked into the night sky to distract myself from this feeling of doom, but it didn’t help.

This new twist of fate, which I had been too busy blending in to contemplate twisted a knot in my stomach. The air felt heavier than ever, and an oppressive gloom enveloped my stricken heart. Without an immediate solution, I began to feel the vibrant optimism I had when I arrived in America slowly draining away. I had reached the edge of a precipice in America, where I was about to fall into the unknown. I felt like a long-traveled, thirsty animal on the verge of dying from dehydration just a few steps from a waterhole.

Feeling utterly helpless, just me against a foreign world, I glanced up at the darkened sky again for any sign of divine intervention or a hint of hope. Instead, the opaque stratosphere hovered with impending despair. In that brief, quiet interlude, I could hear various voices and sounds around me, but I felt utterly alone in a vast, cold universe.

Before I could endure another wave of distress, I realized that we could never fully appreciate the full beauty of shining stars without enduring the pitch darkness I was quietly experiencing. On this premise, I could not afford to feel like I was at the end of my rope, for the challenges I faced in my homeland were far more complex and daunting than those ahead of me in America. In fact, it was the very darkness that had driven me to think outside the box and conceive the idea of coming to America.

As this thought crossed my mind, I slowly but surely began to view my newest darkness in a new light, murmuring to myself, “Keep your head up. Your best days are still ahead.”

By the time I settled in for the night, I was slowly accepting that my life in America was not a dilemma to be solved but a new reality to be experienced. Those who found themselves at the top of the mountain did not just fall there; they prevailed against challenging conditions. With that last optimistic thought, I gently knuckled the headboard for good luck on my most formidable challenge in America. Little did I know, I was stepping straight into America’s darkest depths—blind to the firestorm that was about to scorch me in the Motor City and beyond..