Member-only story
Trying to say…
When people look at me, many would like to see a success story. From the outside, what they want to see is a penniless refugee who made good for himself in this wonderful country. But in truth, I’m not that all together inside. I don’t have a steady job, no assets, a virtual unknown.
Although, I’m running on one conviction- to tell the world my story. Why? Because it was fucked up. After so many years, I still feel angry about it. I couldn’t find the cause of my misery but the fact that people don’t really care to listen made me want to say it louder. More so, the mere reason that I survived is enough for me to bring my story to life.
Being a refugee is submitting yourself to the ranking by others. To the West, refugee is an image. He is not real. He is something Westerners read or heard about. One time, I came to a Thanksgiving dinner at the home of my friend’s parents. As I walked in, her mother quietly whispered something into her friend’s ear while both holding wine glasses in their hands. The expression on the listener’s face changed. She went from being festive to dead serious. She came to me and with such earnest sympathy delivered a greeting. Later during the dinner, the guests began to explore my story. When I rendered my voyage to here, the United States, the mood changed from festive to sadness. I felt as if I was bringing the party down. Quietness arrived at the table as the…
