The “Little Immigrant”

The teenager got off his bike, locked the two wheels to a pole, picked up his backpack, looked around to remind himself of the whereabouts of the locked bike and stepped into the parking lot.

He cautiously walked through the morning traffic where dozens of teenagers were parking their cars and bikes, chatting and laughing loudly and walking toward the school entrance. He joined the same crowd and a few moments later as he approached the entrance gate, he paused to absorb the scenery. There was a lot to absorb.

As an immigrant, at the young age of 16 and thousands of miles away from where “home” was, he was entering a new phase of his life.

The kid had no illusion of the difficulties of adopting to the new country, city, school and culture yet he wasn’t afraid of the new surroundings. Concerned, he was as he didn’t know anyone at the new school and language was sure to be a major barrier.

In his home country, language was his friend and companion.

He loved reading novels. By the age of twelve he had read “War and Peace” (although he didn’t fully understand it), “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” and most books by Hemingway, Jack London and Dostoevsky.

When reading these books, he escaped to lands and times of the past that existed in exotic and far distance locations. Through the stories passionately written by authors he admired, the teenager learned about independence, love, fear, destruction tendencies of the human kind, self-confidence and compassion.

He could construct beautiful yet impactful sentences with perfect syntax and communicate effectively with his audience. In fact, his command of the language allowed him to be real successful as a student and a young leader of his school and that earned him respect of his peers and faculty alike.

Fast forward by three months, here, many miles away in this small college town in Northern California, the language (English) was not going to be his ally and he anticipated that for a long time to come it was going to challenge him every step of the way.

Growing up, English was the second language taught at his schools and he had 8 years of it under his belt but those teachings and learnings were focused mostly in forms of dictation, grammar and reading. No one really attempted to teach him the art of conversation.

He could read and understand newspapers and even get the general picture of a soft and well-spoken television sitcom, however; he was tentative and reserved when it came to carrying a conversation and talking to other people…to be truthful he was afraid to start one.

The teenager realized that one wouldn’t survive without befriending the English Language and he knew that he had to turn this weakness into a significant strength if he was going to be successful in this new community and adopt the American way of life. For now, he had to remind himself that today was the first day of his senior year in high school.

Today was indeed day one of rest of his life.

As he approached the school entrance, he smiled back at an older lady, probably some sort of administrator, welcoming the students and then walked through the gateway.

There was no way he could compare this campus and these buildings to his previous school. His was a single one story brick building built for 300 students with a half court soccer field.

Here, in front of him the teenager saw a campus that was neatly organized as a series of buildings surrounding a large grassy courtyard.

To his left (Southern side) there was a one story building that had to be the administration facilities as many adults, perhaps faculty and staff, were walking in an out of an automated double door.

Straight ahead (Norther part of the campus) he saw a structure resembling a gymnasium which should have been the facility housing physical education classes and perhaps a basketball court. He had read how important basketball was to the American society. He liked basketball but found the game boring. When a basketball game was broadcasted on TV, he would get himself involved the last 5 minutes of the match when somehow score would tighten up and game became exciting.

Where he came from Football was indeed played using your feet. In the United States he had learned that a strange game played by larger than life and immensely muscular men was called Football. Somehow in this game no one really used their feet to kick the ball, except for the tiniest of the players. Most of the activities were done by hands; to pass, catch, run and even tackle.

His eyes scanned away from the gymnasium to the left or West where it stood a building with glass wall. It clearly was the cafeteria of the campus. On the right and his East stood several long one-story buildings that must have been the classrooms. That side is where he had to march toward and find his first class, “The U.S. History.”

He felt at ease as his power of deduction kicked in and he grasped the time and the place of where he was.

Early August, just a few weeks ago, he moved from his homeland, many time zones away, to this Norther California college town. Everyone else in the crowd was starting day one of the new school year. He on the other hand was starting the first day of entering into a new world of the American society. For that he was grateful, excited and scared like hell.

The teenager pondered how the teachers and students would react to him. With his darker skin he looked different. His accent was horrible. The most frightening part though was his lack of self-confidence to just about saying anything intelligent to anyone.

Was he culture shocked? Absolutely.
Was he overwhelmed? No doubt.
Was he terrified of the possibility of failing the senior year in high school? You are right on.

The uncomfortable thought was that for all his life, he had been at the top of his class at every grade and now he wondered if he could even pass his classes.

Math was always easy for him. He loved numbers and was able to solve the most sophisticated formulas quickly in his head. Extend that to Chemistry and Physics he was able to understand concepts and make deductions.

Literature was one subject he truly loved. Poetry, fictions and stories imagined in the minds of writers and poets moved him and he secretly wished he could study these topics for life.
**
First, he had to go his “History” class.

His knowledge of U.S history was not vast. Of course he knew the basics; 4th of July, Washington-Adams-Jefferson, Constitution, Bill of Rights, Slavery, Abraham Lincoln presidency, the World Wars, FDR and a few other trivial facts, but; that wasn’t enough.

Using a map, from the main quad he turned right, navigated through hundreds of students and entered the second set of classes. Then he reached to room 222, opened the door and walked in.

Most of the seats were occupied and no one seemed to pay special attention to him. There was a sense of relief. The teenager found a seat in the middle of the room next to a beautiful blonde girl. As he approached the seat, she welcomed him with a smile and morning greetings. Shy and surprised, he smiled back and replied politely. That was a pleasant and certainly an unexpected welcome he thought.

Settling in his seat, he started to scan the classroom.

The first thing that was striking to him was how differently he dressed in compared to others. His new classmates, like him sixteen or seventeen years old, were dressed in Jeans and colorful T-Shirts. They looked relaxed and at ease and the clothing actually made them look happy. He, on the other hand, was dressed as he was going to a church with his buttoned up dark blue collar shirt, light blue blazer, black pants and brand new black dress shoes.

The teenager was astonished that while walking to the classroom, going through hundreds of students, he had not made that observation.

Then he observed how others were staring at him. Looking around he realized that he was the only foreign student in the class. Foreign sounded better to him than alien as some would have referred to him. He felt there was nothing alien about him and as an immigrant the word foreign would be a reflection and admission that he was new to the culture and the people.

Sensing his confidence disappearing by the minute, he sat lower at his desk as if to hide, took his notepad out of his backpack with a couple of pens, one blue and one red, and set himself up for the class to start. Then he heard the chatters. From a few rows behind him the not so kind words began to form ugly sentences.

“Check out the little Immigrant. He looks funny and is dressed to go to a funeral rather than to the school.”

This comment, meant as a joke and to insult him. The comment was received with a few laughs here and there but the laughs were certainly not widespread. Moments later, the same husky loud voice referred to him again:

“I wonder if he understands anything we say. Probably not!’ This time there was less laughter and more uncomfortable wows as others sounded like they couldn’t believe the husky voice would talk like that.

He, the foreign teenager and the object of insults, tried to ignore the words. They felt painful like sharp arrows cutting through his dignity and meant to cause pain. Pain they were causing.

Then things actually got worse. As the words were not enough, the “husky voice” rolled a paper in a shape of an airplane and threw it toward him. The paper plane hit the back of his head. There was hardly any physical pain but the teenager began to feel the emotional pain throughout his body. He didn’t want to start a fight on the first day of school and was hoping against hope that the big guy would get bored and stop bullying him.

When he first moved to the U.S., his parents told him to always smile at people and be respectful to all. Smiling and kindness, his parents believed, would be their son’s best weapon for surviving any uncomfortable situation.

Well, here he was in an uncomfortable spot and at that moment, he felt angry, embarrassed and had no desire to smile and be respectful. He wanted to stand up with his small frame and slap the husky voice. Yet instead of saying anything he turned back facing the whiteboard praying quietly for the teacher to show up.

He assumed more insults were about to be unleashed but at that moment an unexpected event took place. The blonde girl who had greeted him kindly stood up, took the paper plane, ripped it in half and with a measured yet stern voice said:

“Kyle stop it. You should be ashamed of yourself. Grow up for God’s sake and behave!

Is this how your mom taught you to behave when you meet another human being for the very first time?”

Complete silence followed and everyone remained still. As uncomfortable HE felt, he assumed Kyle must have felt worse. The class atmosphere had changed. Kyle at first mumbled something about trying to just have fun and he didn’t mean anything by his actions and even allowed himself to say “I was just playing around Little Immigrant. Sorry about that.”

The blonde girl turned toward him, offered her hand to shake his and with a beautiful smile said:

“My name is Jessica. Welcome to our school.
Don’t mind him. Kyle is actually pretty harmless and will soon become your buddy. He is everyone’s best friend.”

Not exactly sure how to react, the immigrant offered his hand with whatever courage he could muster, smiled back and said:

“Thank you. You are an incredibly kind person.”

She, Jessica, had become his hero and the teenager badly needed one.

At that moment the door opened and an older gentleman, in his late 60’s walked in with a big smile and greeted everyone with a loud and friendly voice.

“My My, everyone is so quiet and polite. Not exactly what I expected on the first day of the senior history class.”
***
First day of school had come to an end. Feeling relieved and satisfied for his initial exposure to the American culture, he walked toward the school gate, thought a bit about Jessica, and even allowed himself to look at other teenagers his age, smile at them and say hi.

He couldn’t imagine it then but unknown to him, Jessica would end up to be one of his best friends of high school days. Through her act of kindness, Jessica taught him how people from different cultures and backgrounds could influence each other’s lives with a simple friendly gesture.

As he was unlocking his bicycle, a hand touched his shoulder. Surprised and shaken, he turned around to see Kyle smiling broadly at him.

“Hey man no hard feeling. You are an OK dude for a little immigrant.” He went on to have a chuckle and continued: “I hear you guys know how to kick the ball well. Well we need a good kicker in our football team. Let’s try your luck after school tomorrow.” Then Kyle waved at him good bye.

The teenager ignored the "You Guys" comment and smiled, thought about the moment and began to navigate the parking lot riding his bicycle. As he made a left turn to the Main Street, he thought to himself that he didn’t have such a bad start for a foreigner in a new country.

In fact, not even a bad start for a “Little Immigrant!”

Kaveh Mahjoob
2008, Orange County

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