Humans Love Humans (Immigrant’s Observations)

The rant was inspired by a play about Turkish refugees in Europe. It moved me so much that it put life into perspective for me, again.

I am an immigrant. I remember, when I just came to the States, I had a hard time connecting to people my age. I felt crazy and out of place. I felt as if everybody were made of cardboard, as if the easy material abundance somehow ate into people’s souls. The things my peers talked about weren’t real. They didn’t talk about meaning of life or about their families—they talked about their favorite TV shows and baseball games—and I just felt crazy grown-up, as if I were the only human in a world robbed of depth.

I’ve been here a while now. I have adjusted, and my life is good. I was raised in a big city, and I know how to speak the language of the ‘civilized,’ uhm, man. I don’t think like a ‘civilized’ person, more like a peasant, but I know how to fake it.

I have met many good people, and I smile ear to ear when I think about my one-of-a-kind, wonderful friends. But when I look around, I see a lot of old children. It blows my mind every time I allow myself to think about it—which is not often because it drives me crazy.

This land is a blessed place of physical comfort, and an emotional nightmare. Have you seen the eyes of an average middle-class suburban citizen (or an average senator, for that matter)? There is nothing there.

Speaking of comfort, it is a blessed place, indeed. I’ve lived in poor neighborhoods in Chicago and in New York, and the people in my neighborhoods had more “stuff” than most of my friends’ families did when I was growing up!

That said, we had everything we needed. I had food and toys, and my grandma sewed beautiful dresses and coats for me. Not to mention that the fruits and the vegetables I didn’t appreciate as a kid go for a price of a small spaceship at Whole Foods! But even though the life back home was relatively simple and far from ideal, there was a layer to it that is missing here. Life was supposed to be about family and friends, education, culture, and all things human. It was normal to think and talk about why we are here in this world, and what the meaning of life is. As a kid, I cooked and baked, played at abandoned construction sites, and spent summers in a country house with no running water. There was warmth. There were also assholes, soulless cashiers, and an occasional line to stand in. But warmth prevailed.

Here, in my favorite city on Earth, life feels like a tired machine. I am a million times blessed to do what I love and keep my own schedule. I treasure every interesting person in my life. But when I look around hoping to see actual freedom, I see survival and maybe content—and I feel strangely sorry for the many old children who were born with bright eyes, and then taught to consume and feel exceptional, because America.