Mad Confusion

Like a damn fool, I agreed to come with Ishwar to America. "Rich," he said, "we will be rich. Beautiful houses, fabulous cars, luxurious clothes. We will live like maharajahs!"

But, no, we live in a rat and cockroach infested apartment in Oakland, a town so full of drug addicts and thieves that they have to kill each other to survive. What do I know of the blue green Pacific Ocean and the sandy beaches that I saw in pictures before we came?  Nothing, I tell you, nothing.

I sit and watch TV, game shows with people like me who wish they had more money or soap operas about the rich Americans who invent a stream of problems to make their lives seem important. I feel nothing for these people and even less for the commercials for drugs and deodorant.

My formerly honorable and respectful children come home from school talking about Facebook and dances. They listen to hip-hop and rap music. I have to cover my ears in my own home to keep my sanity. Do they study? I don't know. I only see them on their IPhones all day.

All is mad confusion to me, but I miss the familiar mad confusion of my own country. In the old days I would spend hours in the open markets bargaining for food, and even more time sitting in the shade of a patio talking with friends. Now I hate to go out. People can't understand my accent, although I think my English is better than theirs. They make fun of me behind my back.

My husband is working two jobs to earn this American dream. We see each other at dinner. He won't allow me to complain about anything. He says he's too tired to listen and he wants the children to be like other Americans. He wants them to fit in.

I may never see my mother and father again. My heart feels as though it might break. Perhaps I will find a neighbor who is Hindu like me. There are Muslims and Punjabis in my neighborhood, but what have I to do with them?