Two Experiences

Imagine living in a backward, impoverished country run by a tin-horn dictator with a penchant for the billy club and an outright disdain for the rule of law and democracy. Imagine scratching together a life savings, paying the bribes, taxes and airfare to get your family out of said country to the land of opportunity: the United States. Once here, imagine jumping through the bureaucratic hoops of starting a business so that  you could earn an honest living and provide for your family. Anyone who accomplishes this deserves my respect--they're what make America great.

While on vacation, our family visited Ellis Island, the first American soil millions of immigrants put their feet on during the end of the 19th and early 20th centuries. I was moved by the museum and buildings and marvelled at the prejudice and fear many immigrants faced from people who themselves were only second- or third-generation immigrants. "Thank goodness things have changed," I thought to myself.

Two hours after leaving the island, we were traveling through Connecticut, when Nathan had to use the restroom. Our window of opportunity for finding him relief before catastrophe is approximately equivalent to his age--a minute for every year of his life. I veered across 4 lanes of traffic on the New England Thruway and braked in a parking lot between two gas stations. One looked too small for a toilet, so we ran to the one next door, run by what appeared to be people of South Asian descent. No luck. No toilet, so I sent him to the bushes behind the stations, only to have the owner of the first station emerge, inquiring gruffly as to Nathan's activities. I explained sheepishly, in hopes that he had once had a son and would understand.

"You could have used my bathroom," he said.

"I didn't think you had one," I replied. "Sorry."

"What kind of gas station doesn't have a bathroom?" he asked.

"The one next door," I replied.

"They're a bunch of towelhead Indians," he spat. "They should be shot."

Gaping, I shuffled Nathan into the car and drove away, later considering all of the things I should have said to the miserable New England redneck. A week later, we were enjoying a meal in an Indian restaurant in the heart of real redneck country, Charleston, South Carolina, when we struck up a conversation with the waiter, a man from Punjab.

"America is beautiful," he gushed. "In America, it doesn't matter what color you are or what social class you come from. If you work hard, nobody looks down on you."