FIRST TWO CHAPTERS
COMING FOR AMERICA 2
The Turbulence
CHAPTER 1: Touchdown USA: The Unforgettable Arrival
The movements of flight attendants in the aisles collecting trash and shutting the overhead
compartments woke me. I moved about haphazardly, as if freeing myself from a dream, and
wiped the remaining sleep from my eyes. That is when I noticed that the crew had distributed
landing cards during the flight, and I quickly filled mine out.
Unbeknownst to me, my seat light was blinking. One of the attendants came by to make sure
the belt was secure. She pushed her hair back from her face, snapped my food tray into place,
and positioned my seat upright. When the other stewards finished inspecting the aisles and
checking all the seats, a cheerful voice came over the intercom.
“This is your pilot speaking. We have been cleared to land and are about to descend into Detroit
Metropolitan Airport. Please buckle up; we are beginning our final approach.”
When I heard the pilot’s announcement, thrilled blood cruised in my veins—a feeling of
excitement. In less than a minute, exhilaration flowed like warm water during freezing
temperatures. The thought of finally landing in America caused an endless joy to sparkle on my
eager face. I was about to make it in life from the best place I dreamt of and plotted for a month
of Sundays.
The moment I felt the wheels of the Boeing touch the runway, the seams of my skin threatened
to burst from the uncontainable restlessness. The plane roared along the track, then slowed
down and started to coast to my final stop without a hurry. It was hard to suppress the howl of
victory threatening to crack out of my chest. The journey that had looked to be impossible was
finally ending.
Not so fast; the plane seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace toward its parking zone.
Throughout the flight, I had exceeded the quota of my composure, and now I was a basket case
of anxiety. It was evident that Airbus, Boeing, or Bombardier had not manufactured a
supersonic jetliner designed to get me to my final stop in America in the quickest way possible.
If there had been a way to get out and push the jumbo jet to arrive at my destination faster, I
would not have wasted a nanosecond.
Before I had much time to weigh this thought, I heard the aircraft slowly but surely come to its
final stop. It was the actual authentication—I had, without question, landed in the greatest
country in the world, the motherland of all freedoms. This last part of the flight was the
second-most-thrilling point since taking off from Nairobi, Kenya. Feeling more electrified than I
had ever thought possible, I had only one thought running through my mind; if you don’t spread
your wings, you cannot discover how far you can fly.
Without wasting time, I was up and out of my seat quicker than everybody else, ready to get off
the plane and step onto American soil. A voice came over the plane’s intercom.
“Thanks for flying with British Airways.”
“You are welcome!” I hollered boisterously and gave the pilot two thumbs up to see me from
his just-opened cabin.
Several passengers turned to look in my direction with their eyebrows raised in question.
However, I was an impatient young man feeling the onrush and vividness of a brand-new life.
When I got up, high spirits had painted my new razzle-dazzle world with beautiful roses.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t get off the jumbo right away. Fellow passengers had already pulled
their carry-on luggage from the overhead compartments and had blocked the aisle.
I was unable to wait any longer, impatience combusting inside me. With each passing second,
the blood in my veins grew hotter, but I could not move any farther. Exasperated by the holdup,
I leaned on the headrest in front of me, looking like a restless baby standing and impatiently
holding on to the crib railing, ready to climb out, take the first step, and explore the new world
forever and ever.
My restlessness would not let me play the waiting game. Since I had no carry-on bag, I forced
my way out toward the exit. In a matter of seconds, I was the first one at the exit door, waiting
for the plane crew to come and show me where the Nairobi airport loading crew had put my
suitcase in the belly of the airplane. It had not occurred that I’d confused plane travel with our
bus system, where passenger luggage was placed in accessible compartments in the underside
of the bus. Usually, any time a traveler arrived at a destination, they’d get off the bus and wait
for the crew so that they could point out their belongings to be unloaded.
Locked into that mindset, I stood at the exit, unaware I was blocking other passengers. Before
long, no one was moving, and the aisle started to get jam-packed. I thought nothing of it
because I rationalized that I was the first one out and, therefore, would be the first to pick up my
luggage right outside the plane. The plane hostess speedily approached me with the most
charming smile of the entire voyage.
“Sir, may I help you?”
I was surprised at how fresh her face looked after such a long flight. She seemed so
well-primed and put together that I doubted her job description included lifting and unloading
heavy luggage for passengers.
I revealed, “I’m waiting for someone to unload my suitcase for me.”
She smiled as if she had seen the likes of me before. “No, sir, you will find your luggage in
baggage pickup.”
My body language demonstrated that I did not comprehend what she had just divulged.
She asked, “Could you please step slightly to the side?”
Unsure of where I should move, I obliged reluctantly. She beckoned me out of the way of the
impatient passengers, and I parked myself.
When the long queue eased, she returned promptly and requested, “Follow me, please.”
We deplaned and entered the airport, where she gestured ahead and asked, “Do you see that
arrow sign up there that says, ‘Baggage Claim’?” I nodded, and she instructed, “Just follow the
arrows on each sign, and it will take you to the area. Your flight number and arrival time will be
displayed on the monitoring screen there, which looks like a television, and you can pick up
your luggage from the carousel it indicates.”
Although I failed to understand how my suitcase was already ahead of me when the airplane
landed barely a few minutes ago, she seemed sure of what she was saying. I thanked her and
started to go, carefully following the signs. When I turned the corner, I was astounded when I
saw the people ahead of me just standing but moving up and down in opposite directions
without walking. Intrigued, I picked up speed to see how in the world this was possible.
After a few steps, I was standing next to a moving staircase. The first thing that crossed my
mind was that those steps could flatten, and everyone would go sliding and tumbling down.
That wary thought caused me to hesitate before getting on it. When I looked around to see if
anyone was paying my dilemma any attention, I saw a posted sign that read:
‘Pets must be carried on this escalator.’
Having been told Americans love the companionship of their cats and dogs so much they pay
for a seat to comfortably travel with them, I stood still, flummoxed by my newest reality.
Nonetheless, a multitude of hurried travelers just kept passing by me.
I exhaled and mumbled, ‘Phew! Americans must truly love their dogs and cats.’
I had no pet and realized I could not get on the contraption. I walked back to look around for
other ways, for those who didn’t have the cherished tamed animals. To my surprise, the other
passengers from various airlines passed by me, heading for the escalator with no pets.
Since I had seen no sign that didn’t prohibit toddlers and other young kids from riding alone, it
felt foolish for an adult like me to second guess my capacity to ride. With that thought, I turned
back and followed to see what they would do. They got onto the escalator without any
hesitation. I quickly ran after the pet-free group, followed suit, and practically leaped onto the
moving stairway before it left without me.
Although the ascending ride flowed smoothly, it didn’t stop me from marveling at how I would
get off this moving chain of stairs without sliding and falling. With each breath, that thought
caused my chest to rise slightly more than usual. My restless toes followed suit, beginning to
tighten and wiggle in preparation for the leap-off. This fretfulness caused my fingers to clamp
tight on the handrails and get clammy. I feared my grip might slip as I neared the top, causing
me to fall backward and knock everyone down.
With no time to think of any other solution, I paid close attention to the five passengers ahead
of me, quietly studying how each stepped off. When my turn came, I bounced off my toes and
landed on the floor more firmly than I had anticipated. When I looked back, an awe-inspiring
hoo-hah had embellished my previously worrisome face. I was so proud of myself for flawlessly
pulling off such an intricate act in America on my first try.
For a little while, I remained motionless, studying the area and looking around for the baggage
pickup area sign. When I finally got moving, slowly but surely, I felt subtly egged on by the
people walking too close behind me. I could sense the pressure from other extra-hurried
travelers behind me to shuffle my feet a little faster. Since I had fleetingly blocked their way,
some passengers passed by me, and I could hear their sighs and feel their signs of impatience.
The polite ones said, “Excuse me” or “Pardon me.”
When I moved barely an inch on the side, they practically zoomed past me at full tilt.
Others who were angry seethed, “Jesus Christ!”
Feeling as if I had slowed the whole day for everyone, I eased back, pondering why these
people were calling the name of Jesus in such a chagrined tone. These minor but significant
incidents were the first time I sensed America was a fast-paced world.
After another thorough visual sweep of my surroundings in an airport so squeaky clean, a
luminous baggage pickup pictogram came into view, and my march picked up. What was
perceptible was that despite the hustle and bustle of Detroit Metropolitan Airport, I felt lost and
alone. In that instant, a loud announcement over the airport’s public address system interrupted
my lonesomeness.
“Passengers are reminded that they must always keep their luggage with them. Any unattended
items will be treated as suspicious and confiscated.”
The thought of my unattended luggage ahead somewhere in the baggage pickup area struck
me, and I broke into a fast jog. When I saw my flight number on one of the monitoring screens, I
was huffing and puffing for air. Leaning forward, with both hands on my knees, I looked about
and saw the familiar faces of passengers who’d been on the same plane as me. They were
standing next to a long, large, motionless belt that encircled the center of the area. To
double-check, I looked up at the scrolling screen one more time. I was sure I was in the right
spot when I saw the British Airways flight number I had memorized in case I lost my way.
To confirm what was expected to happen, I asked a fellow passenger, “Excuse me, where is our
luggage?”
Without saying a word, he pointed at the end of the belt with a sizable dark opening. How
could the tiny hole of space fit the crew that would come through carrying our entire luggage
from the plane? I wondered silently. Unconvinced my luggage would come from that opening, I
moved to the next passenger and asked again, “Where will our bags be coming from?”
He looked like he empathized with my inexperience and elaborated, “Basically, the airport
computerized baggage system, which is supposed to shorten waiting times at luggage
carousels, automatically gets loaded and conveys our luggage to where we are standing right
now.”
He saw I had no clue what he meant, so he expanded, “This service makes airports work better
because passengers are not struggling with their luggage through the lines.”
He was quick to read my discernable greenness. “Be extremely careful next time on that
escalator.”
The dire warning caught me off guard, “What?”
“That moving staircase that you jumped on.”
“And why should I be careful?”
“Your shoelaces are loose.”
I looked down, and my shoes, indeed, were unfastened. Filled with immense excitement upon
arrival, I’d forgotten to tie them back up after loosening them to relax my feet for the long flight.
When I looked up, he finished his thought. “They could get caught in the escalator, and you
might get your foot trapped and decapitated.”
As I bent down to tie my shoes, the giant belt suddenly started to move, startling me. I nearly
jumped out of my skin and toppled over because back in my village, I had seen a usually
worn-out conveyor belt of a maize miller, also referred to as a posho mill, instantly reach top
speed, tearing away from the pulley and slashing someone’s face.
By this time, I was struggling to rein in my jolted nerves, and the rotating carousel was moving
and delivering one piece of luggage after another. Fellow passengers stepped up without a
word and picked up their bags. When I stabilized, I stood there intrigued, wondering how these
beautiful and loaded bags found their way from the airplane to this large and crowded airport
to where we were without getting lost or stolen en route. Other travelers, unaware of the
wetness behind my ears, continued to step forward to grab their bags and depart in a hurry.
Soon, my beat-up high school suitcase appeared among the expensive name-brand luggage.
Copying everyone else, I stepped forward, picked it up, and headed toward the immigration
desk, where I would be officially authenticated to begin my bright future.
Once I neared the big signboard designated “Arrivals,” I stalled long enough to fall behind
everyone. I intended to follow, see how they processed through, and then do what they did. I
joined the queue, and in a few minutes, it was my turn. The U.S. Airport Customs Officer
quickly checked my student visa and stamped my passport.
When I left the booth, the last gate to America had officially and finally been flung wide open.
Feeling the immortalized sparkle of my life, I could smell the new country and the dreams,
money, and bliss it promised. The country with more wealth than any other had allowed me to
come and earn any amount the work of my hands could produce.
Struggling to come to reality and believe what had just happened, I glanced at my passport
again. When I saw the official entry stamp confirming my arrival in the USA was real, I became
hypnotized and hyperventilated vibrantly. Unable to get ahold of myself and feeling like I was
on the verge of starting something so big, I began to hum and snap my fingers to the tune of
Michael Jackson’s Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin.’
Full of vim and vigor, it took another virtual bullhead to dissuade me from stopping to pull my
shirt sleeves to my elbows, tug the hem of my trousers into my socks, do a 360-degree spin that
would initiate a nonstop moonwalk backward, glide toward the airport exit, and continue till
my heated feet kissed the American ground outside. I had to bite my index knuckle hard to stop
myself.
When I nipped off and began walking steadily, my finger had slight tooth marks. Somehow, the
sight of the indentation put more bounce in my vivacious footsteps, causing a gleeful smile to
plaster my face. With the happy-go-lucky bliss of the late morning, the only thing that came to
mind was, if you pursue what you want with determination, one day, your thrilled rooster
might even lay an egg just for you.
COMING FOR AMERICA 2
The Turbulence
CHAPTER 2: A Spooky Welcome to America: The Whirlwind Arrival
I was busy hustling with my suitcase toward the final airport exit when I was spooked by a
white man holding a sizable poster with my name printed on it. He was silently scrutinizing me
with the eye of a dedicated observer. When I discreetly glanced in his direction, he seemed
obsessed with visually tracking all my movements, and it freaked me out.
Deeply puzzled, I wondered, How does he know my name?
While secretly looking his way, I took two or three quick steps and ducked in a split-second,
just inches from crashing into a cement pillar. The moment I recovered my panicky pace, I
wondered again, Who told him the exact time I would arrive?
When I thought about how he already knew the specific door I would emerge from, a lightning
bolt of fear shot through me. Right away, the African proverb Cross the river in a crowd, and the
crocodile won’t eat you rang in my head.
The timing was perfect because I was being washed along by the sea of people exiting the
airport. So, I decided to get lost in the boisterous crowd, playing cat and mouse until I found my
way out.
With alarming queries filling my head, I quickly found my way through a throng of people,
bumping into a few of them as I rushed to stay one step ahead. Nonetheless, it wasn’t working
as well as I thought because even as I tried to quickly blend deep into the masses to buy time
and strategize my next move, from the corner of my eye, I could see his interrogative gaze
entirely fixed on me.
When he was confident it was me and seemingly realizing I could get away, he practically
jogged after me, calling my name.
“Mr. Mushenye.”
I ignored him and kept my swift pace.
He called out, “Hey!”
I was all hands on deck, focused on escaping the mysterious stranger.
“I’m coming for you!”
When I heard him say that, I had no clue what tricks he had concocted up his sleeves. At that
nerve-wracking moment, if the Pope and Queen of England had come together for a historic
meeting and were about to stride through, I would not have stopped to give them the moment
they needed.
He finally hollered vociferously, “Mr. Mushenye!”
The detectable sharpness in the tone of his voice stopped me dead in my tracks. If I had done
something out of whack, I wanted to avoid attracting any attention that might compel him to
make a scene or call reinforcements. Appearing sure of himself and me, he walked right up to
where I planted my feet, grinning at me as if I were his long-lost beloved brother.
He extended his hand for a hearty handshake and blurted out, “Welcome to America!”
From being tense, the swift exhilaration that shot through me upon hearing that greeting
overjoyed every sense of my whole being. The three most gratifying words I’d never thought I
would one day hear had been uttered loud and clear. I almost pinched myself to ensure I wasn’t
zoned out in my usual daydreaming about America.
Nonetheless, this feeling of the seventh heaven was promptly cut short when he requested,
“Can I take the suitcase?”
In a split second, my expression went from joy to fright. The intercom had prominently warned
everyone not to leave their bags unattended. Thinking the strange man had fooled me so he
could take it somewhere, I could not keep an eye on it, and not knowing what he might do with
it, there was no chance I would let him.
I queried, “Take it where?”
“To the car.”
I looked at him suspiciously, “To do what with it?”
“To load up.”
A sneaking suspicion that he could plant illegal drugs in it caused my grip to tighten
impulsively.
“I can’t leave my suitcase with you; it must always be with me.”
“Of course, it will.”
A mask of restlessness covered my face. “So why do you want to take it?”
“I’m here to pick you up,” he informed me.
The hairs on my nape levitated at once. “Pick me up and do what with me?”
He changed tack. “I’m here to meet you?”
Mama had warned me not to get involved with strangers until I got to the university.
I questioned, “Meet me for what?”
I eyed him suspiciously and scanned the crowd to see if anyone had noticed this strange white
man trying to pull a fast one on me. To my dismay, everyone just passed by us without a second
look. Feeling cornered before I reached my university destination, I protested, “I don’t even
know who you are.”
He quickly detected that I did not know what was happening. He explained how the university
had assigned him to pick up new international students today from the airport. Sensing the
sincerity in his voice, I relaxed and released my grip. The man was so eager to assist with my
suitcase, and the full attention he’d given me made me a little uneasy.
“That’s very kind of you,” I barely mumbled.
He beamed. “It’s my pleasure.”
His timely response sounded like he had rehearsed and saved it for the day he would come to
receive me in the most prosperous country in the world. He didn’t waste time. He was already
turning my tattered suitcase around, checking for the best way to carry it because the handle
had broken off long ago.
I was sure at that moment that he wouldn’t have been able to believe how much my life had
changed in a week or imagine how frightening it was to be suspended up in the sky for over
twenty hours with no way to escape if anything happened. I doubted how much he knew I
could care less about how he handled or mishandled my suitcase. He could push, pull, or
scrape it on the spotless floor, and it would be fine by me. He might as well trash it. I couldn’t
have cared less because I was so over the moon after arriving safe and sound.
We headed for the exit, and since his hands were occupied, I rushed to open the door. Just
before I reached the glass door, it quickly slid open on its own. I was so intrigued that I was
now in a country where doors slid open for me. When I stepped out of the airport, it dawned on
me I had finally emerged into the most beautiful world, the one I fantasized about day and
night. At that realization, a quick surge of pride rose in me so fast that I felt woozy for a few
seconds.
I swaggered into the warm Michigan spring weather with a theatrical kick at my electrified feet.
The whiff of the paradise I’d come to seek hit my nostrils, and I could have collapsed from the
sudden surge of excitement. To rein myself in, I stood still, took in another gulp of the new
heavens, and exhaled a sigh of relief. It was the final affirmation I had for sure crossed the
roughest river of furthermost impossibility.
To date, I will always remember the pristine freshness of the flowering springtime. From the
informational materials the university mailed me, I ascertained it was one of the seasons in
America when the weather becomes warmer after the cold winter releases its grip, causing
plants to revive and the return of animals that had hibernated during the freezing temperatures.
This realization mirrored how I felt from the inside; the arrival signaled the revival of my life,
which would bloom for the rest of my existence.
We got to the university van, and he went around with my suitcase to load it up. I stood there
marveling at how the master and servant roles had switched in the first minutes I arrived. It was
something I thought would never happen in my wildest village dreams. When he hurried to
come around and open the door for me, I started to feel more important than our country’s
president: the wealthiest, most feared, all-knowing, and most powerful man. The latter’s portrait
appeared on all our currency, displayed in all shops and government offices. He was so
glorified that many universities, schools, hospitals, roads, and airports were named after him.
Competition to entertain the sovereign was so fierce that a few band leaders were explicitly
assigned to study his face and body language during performances to tip them off to the songs
and dances he liked. They would make a note and go and rehearse the lines and jigs, hoping for
another presidential invitation. Although he had the insane trappings of wealth and power,
including being the commander in chief of all the armed forces, I had seen no white person
carry his luggage and open car doors for him.
In my village mind, this was way above and beyond any hallucinations. I was roused from my
daydream when I realized the mysterious welcomer had opened the driver’s side for me and
was now beckoning me over. I thought he wanted me to drive, yet I was in the dark about my
destination. Looking befuddled, I stood still, eyeballing him skeptically.
He beckoned cheerfully, “Get in and let’s go.”
I shook my head and declared, “Uh … Uh, no way, sir.”
Taken aback, he asked, “Why not?”
“I have just arrived in America; I can’t drive in this country.” I protested, weighing between
defying the revered white man and breaking the law on my first day in America.
“No, you are not going to drive.” He gestured at himself, “I’m the one driving.”
“Then why did you open the driver’s door, sir?” I asked, and before he answered, I squinted at
him with suspicion as if he were trying to set me up for a fracas I did not want with the laws of
this new country.
“No, this is the passenger’s side.” He opened it generously. “Now you see?”
He gestured to the front cabin with a grin that summoned two dimples on his cheeks. Slowly
and nervously, I strode much closer, peeked in, and realized American cars had a steering
wheel on the opposite side. Our driver’s side was their passenger’s side, and our passenger’s
side was their driver’s side.
Satisfied it was all clear, I hopped into the university van. He came aboard and buckled in.
Instead of settling in for travel, I felt more suspicion get the best of me because I was worried
about being alone with a stranger in a new country.
I shot him with another apprehensive look. “Where is the rest of everyone else?”
“You are the only one at this moment.”
His contradictory response caught me off guard, and I goggled pointedly.
“But you said you are here to pick up other foreign students.”
He concurred, “Yes.”
His short and quick rejoin failed to persuade me and caused me to probe further.
“Why are you not waiting for them?”
“Everyone’s arrival time is different.”
Although I had grudgingly dropped my guard, I still eyed him edgily.
He detected my discomfort and verified, “I will return for them.”
Instead of his reassuring assertion appeasing me, another strange peculiarity struck me. I was
accustomed to boarding a public service vehicle that could only depart once it was full of
fare-paying passengers. It would even take three hours of waiting in the hot sun, and
passengers would sit patiently. The sixteen-seater minibus would be crammed with thirty
travelers and their bags by the time it took off. Times had changed, and now I was occupying
this small bus alone.
About to be chauffeured like a boss, I felt very snobbish. By the time he turned away from the
parking garage, I had extended my hand over the middle seat the way I’d seen rich people do
back home. The well-heeled would get immersed in a newspaper, ignoring everyone on the
road or foot travelers who might wave them down to hitch a hike. I wished I could get a
newspaper to bury my head in it and ignore the imaginary villagers I had invented in my
self-aggrandizing mind. The image of several commoners waving and saluting me along this
smooth road in America was so elevating to my newly acquired prestige.
In that short silence, I looked up and let my eyes adjust to the endless American beauty that
seemed to promise me whatever I dreamed of in my life. However, my quiet observations were
crudely disrupted when I realized the driver was now racing and picking up speed toward a
bustling highway. He showed no sign of slowing down to let the fast-moving traffic ahead of us
clear before merging.
With the pedal to the metal, he continued to drive too fast right into I-94 highway traffic. Feeling
like I had put myself on a limb, I breathed in and pressed back hard against my seat in readiness
for any impact. Right away, I thought he was about to show off his daredevil driving skills to a
newcomer in America. I had seen such insane stunts in the open-air movies at our village
market, where the bullheaded driver of an over-speeding vehicle would swerve in a split
second and avoid a deadly collision. After arriving safely, I had no stomach for stunt-driver
dramatics.
With that thought, I decided there was no way I would push my luck by being part of such a
reckless display of American madness. I moved uncomfortably to send a subtle warning, but he
did not pay me any attention. Feeling as if I had been tricked into a death trap, I moved back
and forth, peering through the windshield, palpitating with visible fright. It didn’t work. I
started a silent countdown, at the end of which I would grab the steering wheel and squeal at
him to stop his carelessness and not enter a busy freeway without stopping to look both ways to
ensure no vehicle was coming across.
I reached my final mark, and just before I yelled and leaped for the wheel, he merged into the
speeding traffic effortlessly and without any care in the world. I exhaled a sigh of relief as
plenty of vehicles continued to flow, uninterrupted by our “rude” entry onto the freeway. I
looked back to see if there were angry drivers behind us, but most of the rear-approaching
vehicles had turned on their left turn signals uniformly, switched lanes, and overtaken us as our
van picked up speed. Mesmerized by how nobody slowed or stopped to let anyone through
first, I turned to face the front. When he saw me fidget, struggling to calm down, he uttered no
word; his eyes said it all.
I had barely regained my composure when I was caught flat-footed by another surprise; the
driver was driving in the middle lane of the road. Coming from a country with narrow roads in
a two-way traffic system, I was terrified we were heading into a head-on collision. Sooner than I
could open my mouth to rebuke him, I heard a car horn. Jumpy as a cat, I swiftly turned my
head to look where the forewarning beep had originated. That was when I noticed the
oncoming traffic was on the other side, in separate lanes! The roads had three huge lanes going
each way.
Assured I was safe, I switched my interest to the side of the road and got fascinated by the
well-planned American landscape, the towering skyscrapers, and the many brand-new vehicles
with only one person in them. In my village, few folks owned cars; a negligible number even
passed through. I used to compete with classmates to memorize and recite their license plates.
Out of my village habit, I attempted to cram each vehicle’s license plate number in my head,
but after just a few seconds, so many had passed. There were too many to retain, and I lost my
license plate number memorizing skills for good. The roar of car traffic boomed on. I had never
seen so many vehicles speeding all at once, side-to-side and back-to-back in one direction.
Like an eager tourist, I leaned back in the seat and drank in all the new sights. Within a few
miles, I inhaled the fresh American air that steadily rushed in from the window. Right after
Haggerty Road, and feeling like a VIP, I turned halfway so that my back was almost against the
door as if facing the driver.
By the time we went through Belleville, I had rested my hand on the windowsill to ensure that
everyone would see my stylistic vehicle sitting position when we arrived at the Eastern
Michigan University (EMU) campus. When the driver noticed my pompous gimmick, his face
broke into a tickled smile, creating little wrinkles around his eyes. He slightly shook his head in
amusement and kept on driving.
For a white man to notice me choreograph such a sophisticated body-parking maneuver and
appear too timid to disapprove of my dramatics, I felt like more than the tribal warrior who had
conquered the Queen’s Army. I breathed lavishly, and from then on, every breath I took carried
a taste of everlasting promise into my lungs.
The only thing that disappointed me was that although American roads were spacious, there
were no pedestrians in sight. It was unlike my village, where a teeming sea of foot travelers
thronged both sides of the road. The deserted roadways meant it was impossible to egotistically
stick my head out of the window and wave to show off to everyone I knew (or didn’t know) that
I was traveling in a vehicle.