Edosewele's script

Immigration is a word that I had known but never knew. It was a word I didn’t know carried immense depth and sometimes a hint of shame. But it was an exciting thing to be an immigrant, to leave a country with so much beauty and fruitfulness, yet barren of opportunities. To squeal at so much ice cream and fast food yet bedridden with the worry of being obese, To anticipate the things that could all be possible and move towards working on them, It was all exciting.
How oblivious, How ignorant, How innocently expectant.
The man at the driver’s license office was making smart remarks at us while discussing with a supposed colleague, and we had only known because my Dad had reprimanded him. The people you see often at work continue to ask where you’re from faces distorted with forgetfulness, and when it continues after weeks, you know you have arrived at a place that is unwelcoming of you, upon this realization is to hasten adjustments, a contrast conscious anxiousness of being caught, you laugh at jokes that you do not understand and do unfamiliar things to make yourself known in silent desperate pleas of acceptance. I thought that coming to America would cause a shift in the air, a dawning of bliss, but it wasn’t like that. There is no magic here, and hardly is there any occasional kindness, and to experience one even in supposed flickers is to doubt its honesty constantly.
There was also the unnecessary gratitude that threatened to come out from underneath the skin. Receiving an absolute bare minimum becomes a gift of Gold in a swift wave of the hand. The looks and remarks of people who hardly know most things, but wish to glow and bask in your ignorance, asking questions with already prepared answers, how cowardly I thought, but also sad, to need to enjoy one’s ignorance to be truly fulfilled.
On days I let them have fun, extremely pretentious of common knowledge, to also have little ceremonies of glee as I watch them explain things already known, wondering if they can figure out what the smirk on my face is for, other days I laugh, an extended cackling that makes them uncomfortable and suddenly conscious of their absurdity, and then I fake wipe my tears and when they have questions about my place, I too explain, so slowly, asking them if they understand what I mean.
America is a wonderful place, and there are reasons why that is general knowledge, but you see, it is no heaven. All the people who live here seem to be getting by, somehow looking soul-sunken, their lives occupied with work and scheduled Adult assignments.
To truly know and experience America, I believe, is to read the books of the Ancient Founders, amazed at their thirst for growth, and dreams of a place built on with dedication and might.
I hope and wish to see America, the founding dreams old yet so beautiful at the forefront, still and basking in the morning sunlight, of abounding glory.