America

"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.