The Story of an Outsider

anonymous

As I stepped out into the arrivals terminal, the smell of strawberries and air freshener filled my nostrils. I heard the loud bustling noises of people pushing and shoving their way out of the airport and into the city. My heart filled with joy as I embraced family members whom I hadn’t seen for years. Together, we emerged into the wondrous town that was Washington D.C. The minute I exited the air-conditioned airport, my skin was met with the oppressive heat of a summer day, and I thought to myself, “I’m so glad it’s summer vacation!”

After a long winding drive back to my aunt’s house, I was finally able to relax. I lounged in the living room and turned on the TV. “BREAKING NEWS!” The scene switched to a reporter explaining the events of a shooting. “A young African-American man, unarmed, shot and killed by police,” stated the reporter. “Our sources say that the man suffered 5 shots to the back after a routine traffic stop.” My heart sank. This had been the third time this month that I had heard of a black man being shot by the police. Although I was feeling one million negative emotions, I kept them at bay and decided to go about my day.

I changed the channel, and began to watch Disney movies. The movie I was watching was called ‘The Princess and the Frog’. I had always loved this movie as a child, and watching it again made me feel particularly nostalgic. Just as I had begun to really reminisce about my childhood, my mom walked in and asked me to walk to the corner store and buy some milk. Unenthusiastically, I got up from my seat and began the short walk to the corner store. 

Once I arrived, I grabbed the milk and proceeded to the checkout counter. On my way there, I passed the candy aisle and decided to pick up some peanut butter cups. ‘It’s summer vacation!’ I thought to myself, ‘What’s the harm in buying a few peanut butter cups every now and again?’ Feeling excited to eat my candy, I gave my purchases to the store clerk. He was 5’9, maybe 5’10, and looked fairly young. ‘He’s probably around my age,’ I thought to myself. As he rang me up, I noticed that his nametag read ‘Abel.’ His name rolled off my tongue like honey and I suddenly felt a sense of kinship with him. Immediately, I knew why. He was Ethiopian. I was not surprised that I had located another Ethiopian, there were hundreds in D.C alone. Still, it was nice to interact with someone from the same country as me. I decided to say hello (in Amharic, my native Ethiopian language), in the hopes of sparking up a conversation. Luckily, he understood what I was saying and the conversation began to flow.

While the minutes passed, we talked about everything. From our favorite movies to the events of our childhood, nothing was left undiscussed. As we continued to talk in Amharic, I noticed a woman eyeing us from the bread aisle. She was short and squat, and had wrinkles on her face that seemed as though they could have been drawn on with a pen. She seemed like the type of person who was always mad about something, and right now, it seemed like she was mad at us. 

I decided to ignore the old woman and go back to my conversation. But before long, I heard a shout come from the other side of the store. “Hey! If you’re going to speak, speak English-” I turned around; the words were too piercing to ignore – “or go back to where you came from!” 

I was dumbfounded. My mouth widened with shock, and I could feel my eyes begin to tear up. As I turned to face Abel, I could see that he was just as shocked and hurt as I was. But before I was even able to process the encounter, my mom burst into the store. She grabbed my arm and dragged me out onto the sidewalk. She then began to yell at me about how I had wasted almost an hour ‘buying milk’. 

Even though I could hear her words, I was not processing them. All I was thinking about were the slurs that the woman yelled at us. In particular, I was thinking about how she told us to ‘go home’. ‘This is my home’ I thought to myself, ‘how could I be an outsider in my own home country?’ 

On the walk back to my aunt’s house, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was an outsider. The woman, so old and frail, had made me feel so ostracized and alone. As I entered the house, I turned on the TV and saw another headline reading: “BREAKING NEWS!” The scene then changed to mobs of people marching and protesting with #blacklivesmatter posters. They were marching in solidarity, following the murder of the young man who had been on the news earlier. 

After seeing this young man’s community support and defend him, I looked to my own family and I realized that I will never be an outsider. I will always have a community of people who I can count on to support me and make me feel welcome. And in the end, that’s what truly matters.