My Arrival in America

I was shocked by the sheer number of people, and how…disrespectful they all seemed to be. Just walking out of the port, someone shoved their elbow into my eye. Not being one to take that kind of guff, I promptly knocked him upside the head. Before I knew it, I tackled him to the floor and began punching him so fiercely that my knuckles began to raw. I was overwhelmed by pure animal instinct. With hindsight, the aggression I felt was probably a cheap tactic to guise my fear at this strange new world. His blood sprayed out of nose and onto the pier, and I managed to kick him in the jaw before the police dragged me off him.

Not a very good first impression.

I spent my first night in America in a holding cell. The man I’d started a fight with was on the top bunk of the adjacent bunk, glaring at me. I was on the bottom, sitting with my hands on my knees, staring back, two bloodshot blue eyes and a tuff of dirty blond hair poking out of a hat and layers of scarves.

“What you lookin’ at,” I said, in the best English I could muster. He raised his eyebrow.

“Bloody hell give me a good reason why I shouldn’t, you popped me in the back of the head for no reason,” he responded, shifting uncomfortably. He was British of something, tall guy with black hair, but darker skin. I heard that Brits had colonies in India, maybe he was a combination of the two.

“Hit me,” I answered shortly. “In the eye.”

“Well that’s not a good reason to wrestle me onto the street, boy,” He snapped.

Boy? I was ready to throw him against the concrete. I grunted, kicked off my boots and wriggled out of my many layers of clothes. I rolled over, now in just a shirt, smeared with grease and dried blood. I didn’t need to see his face to tell that he was shocked. Not that I was beautiful, far from it, but that a woman could hit so hard.

The next morning when the guard let us out onto the street, the young man was quiet. There was an awkward silence between us. As I began to walk into the city, I noticed he was following me. I tried to ignore him.

“Hey,” he said, “Look, I’m sorry…but listen if you keep acting like this, you won’t get anywhere. You need help.”

I kept walking.

“You need to find a ward boss, rent an apartment, get a job. I’ve been here awhile, I can help you. You can’t do this by your-.”

“Watch me,” I grunted.

I went into a jewelry store to sell my watch. It fetched much less that I thought it would, and the owner seemed in a hurry to get me out. I smiled at him, I tried to shake his hand and be a courteous as possible, I couldn’t understand why. He looked at my hand as if it were garbage, and when I looked into his eyes where I thought I would see equality and mutual respect I saw annoyance. Maybe even hatred. He slammed the door in my face, and I felt stunned. I felt foolish, standing in the middle of the walkway, stupefied in front of the door. There was that familiar sensation of being very small and insignificant. I looked back at the young man, still standing there, arms folded with a cocky smile. I sighed, and said

“As you were saying?”