If Americans Were Arabs

I arrived from Peru a month ago, and already I’m in love with America. Or should I say, I’m in love with the American people.

The first night, after I dropped my things off in my new apartment (a nice first-floor flat with a lot of space but little furniture), I took a walk around the neighborhood that would be my home for the next year.

It’s a beautiful area. Not for its parks or fountains or manicured lawns – actually, the streets are full of garbage – but the people, oh! The people here stop you while you’re walking just to welcome you to America. They stand outside of their businesses and on their apartment stoops and smile as I walk by, trying to catch my eye. Some even yell out their car windows as they’re speeding along, “Welcome!” Very few of them are conversational in Spanish, but they all know enough to try out “Hola! Como estas?” or “Bienvenidos!” I’m sure Latinos aren’t very common in this part of America, and they act like my presence is a real treat for them. I’m more than happy to oblige their irrepressible desire to welcome foreigners to their country. I must have shaken a dozen hands just on that first walk around town.

I’m settling into my work, and I’m even starting to know Boston pretty well, but the Americans themselves always provide me with fresh experiences. One man that owns a store near my school always spots me walking by and waves me in. He hustles behind the counter and pours some thick coffee into a small paper cup for me to drink as I walk. It tastes like asphalt, so I just chug it quick and thank him with a smile and a phony “mmmm!” I make an effort to buy my necessities at his store, even if his coffee sucks.

My neighbors in the apartment building have beautiful children that mob me whenever I round the corner of the block. They hold my hand, pull on my clothing and talk way too quickly in English. I never understand a word they say, but we share enough smiles to fill in the gaps of a real conversation.

I’ve started to make real friends with some of the older children, though. The oldest, 17, speaks pretty decent Spanish, and he’s brought me tea a few times. We drink it on the floor of my apartment since there’s no furniture. I feel bad that I can’t reciprocate his hospitality with at least a box to sit on, but of course he never minds. “This is how we used to do it, back before. We always sat on the floor to talk,” he says.

I found out there’s a coffee shop a few floors up in a building on my block, and I’ve been heading there for coffee three or four nights a week. The second I walk in, ten chairs are pulled up around me. Every American knows how to give the most meaningful smile. Even if they just speak a little Spanish, I instantly understand “You are very welcome here. Your presence makes me happy. America is beautiful, and I want to share it with you. Aren’t we lucky to be here?” 

Some do speak pretty good Spanish, and since my English is still pathetic we mostly talk in my native language. It’s struck me as a little silly that I came all the way to America to work and we still have our conversations in Spanish, just to accommodate me. But they all seem very willing to inconvenience themselves if it means we get to build a relationship. 

Tonight I went and had dinner with yet another family. I could probably fill up every evening being hosted for dinner, or at least coffee and sweets. They were so excited to show me their property: garden, orchard, balcony.

Just this week I was invited to two different weddings. “Oh, my cousin’s getting married on Friday. Come!” Americans love weddings. Every Friday the whole city is filled with the small explosions of wedding fireworks, as well as the parade of cars plugging up the main road as all the attendees swerve and honk and wave flags and flowers. 

I don’t think I’m going to get tired of this people. They value community and relationship and hospitality far above efficiency and hard work, which has come to make total sense to me. These Americans, with their white eyes and pure affection, are drawing me into themselves, filling my days and nights with so much relationship that even if I moved now I’d feel like I was leaving family.