Going Home
Sometimes it seems like more people used to agree on the simple things in life…
Y’know, like not being an asshole.
We’ve all probably noticed the increase in “go back to your country” talk lately. And, man, do those words take me back (pun intended).
Growing up, it was confusing…
I’d be in the middle of American kid stuff…eating Fruit Loops, going to the arcade, and watching Knight Rider. A goofy citizen of the only home I’d ever known. And then, every so often, I’d hear those words again…
Go back to your country.
Let’s be real…India would have eaten me alive. I’ve got the most sensitive stomach west of the Mississippi, can’t speak Hindi well, and don’t like 3-hour movies that break into song and dance numbers.
But every few years, someone would tell me to go back (to a place I hadn’t even visited).
Crazy how clearly we remember certain moments…
For me (and probably you too), turning 16 years old was a milestone. It felt like an exciting first step into adulthood. I remember getting that driver’s license and wanting to be on the road all the time. Even volunteering to run errands for my parents just so I could get behind the wheel.
I was 16, independent, and ready to buy eggs on my own.
One particular day, I arrived at our neighborhood Kroger and hopped out of the car with my new I’m-becoming-a-man strut. A sense of pride that only an 11th grader with his own keys can feel.
As I reached the entrance, an older gentleman stepped into my path. I thought he might have needed some help for a second. But he looked at me with disgust and said, “Damn foreigners taking all our jobs. Go back to your own fucking country.”
Jobs? I was a kid in a Bart Simpson shirt.
Ow.
A couple of years later, college house parties were the main source of weekend fun. But on this very special Friday, my attention was focused on a girl named Lisa. She was so absurdly beautiful that she didn’t even bother wearing makeup. Didn’t need it. She was so fun and so effortlessly sexy that I couldn’t believe my luck. Why would she want to hang out with me? I mean, it was genuinely confusing. I couldn’t even talk to her without my palms getting sweaty. She was clearly out of my league and I really wanted to make sure the night went perfectly. My wingman David “Toes” Miller was there too (his nickname had to do with an unfortunate lawnmower incident). He and his girlfriend joined in the fun as we jumped from one party to another. A very collegiate type of double date. Somehow, it was actually going well. Lisa was giggling at my lame Adam Sandler imitations and, wait, what was this? She was suddenly touching my arm as she spoke too?
Alright, no sudden movements.
Don’t blow this, nerd.
Right then, I heard a basketball debate starting up with a group of guys at the party. What a perfect opportunity. See, I’d been encouraged a few times to do a sports talk radio show (and knew more about basketball than any subject I was studying in school). It wasn’t like I could show off my knowledge of Michelangelo. But Michael Jordan? Very different story. And it was time to impress Lisa…
The main debater guy and I started going back and forth about Magic versus Bird. It was very lighthearted and I was pulling out all kinds of stats. Going great. Suddenly, for some unknown reason, the guy didn’t find it fun anymore. He’d had enough of the debate and sneered, “Why don’t you go back to your country, you fucking camel jockey.”
Everything stopped for a second…
Well, until the group of guys started cracking up.
(I guess “cackling” would be the appropriate word)
It’s amazing how you can be an American but still be made to feel like a total foreigner in the blink of an eye. I decided to go outside and “get some air.” The truth is, I was humiliated. And I couldn’t understand why I was so hurt. But I really didn’t want Lisa to see me this way. Apparently, it was pretty obvious. She told Toes Miller what happened and he stormed out of there. Dude looked like steam was coming out of his head. I’d love to say I handled myself in a more manly way that night, but it totally caught me off-guard. I was just a young guy trying to impress a girl. And I think she probably noticed when I started to tear up for a second. Not very impressive at all. I just wanted to go home and forget the night.
So I did.
I don’t know what happened to Lisa, but hopefully she’s had a great life. She seemed to lose interest in hanging out with my group after Toes Miller threw a beer bottle through the window of that party. Go figure. But, all these years later, I never really thought about the times people told me to go back to “my country.” Just part of life, right? Well, for some reason, it was on my mind this week.
And I think something (finally) hit me…
I heard “go back to your country” enough times that I actually started believing I’m not as American as they are.
Deep down, they really think that’s true.
And, somewhere along the line, they convinced me of it too.
But, hey, these are weird and confusing times.
At least I’m more clear about one thing now:
If you feel comfortable telling another citizen to go back to “their” country…
Or if you think of yourself as more American than another American…
That has nothing to do with “politics.”
It’s just you being an asshole.
