Living with the Enemy
I never thought this would happen. I’m living with the enemy. I’m pretty sure he despises me more than I despise him. He thinks I want to live the American dream.
I see myself standing on the subway surrounded by “Yankees,” while lines of lights travel in cinematic motion. I feel as if I were in one of those movies where the (non-white) protagonist goes to the big city to live her dream. Think “Crash” meets MTV’s “The City.”
They are not all Yankess, though. The stereotypical Latin guy who looks like he belongs to a gang with his bandana and baggy clothes looks at me as if he knew my secret. I look into his eyes and turn back to let him know that he’s wrong. No, I’m not like you. Meanwhile, the girl with the Latin name and American accent scans me from head to toe. I look at her; she looks to the opposite side. No, she doesn’t want to be like me.
We all want to be like them, with their freedom, democracy, luxuries, and shit. Deep inside, we all want to belong to America: live in gentrified Brooklyn, shop at Soho, enjoy a foreign cuisine while we bomb its origin.
We’re all delusional. Stop. Rewind. Delete. I’m not We, yet. They’re delusional. Having a conversation with them makes me feel like Chávez or Castro. And I don’t even know anything about them. Where’s the wake up call?
Nobody wanted your liberation. Nobody wanted your free trade. Nobody wanted your guns. Nobody wanted your fucking opinion. And I’m pretty sure nobody wanted your black hawks and militarized aid. Am I in denial?
“Then what are you doing in New York?,” he asked.