I had come for the weekend. My family and me ordered Chinese food for pick up. So there I was. At the Chinese restaurant waiting to receive my order. The only thing I could think about was the fact that I was finally home after a month. How odd I felt every time I came back. Trenton was always so different from the area around my college. Every one was the same in those towns. Here everyone was different.
As I stood there, I heard the workers of the Chinese restaurants speak their native tongue. It reminded me of earlier. After arriving to the train station, I took a taxi home. The driver was Indian, and so was another passenger in the front seat. They also spoke in their native tongue. I was also reminded of the phone call I received while in the taxi, it was my step-dad. I spoke in my native tongue too-Spanish. As I stood there, I couldn't help but think of how we were all different yet the same.
I wondered if they also felt what my family did, fear and struggle. I wonder if they too what others were saying when they spoke something other than English. I wonder if they too, felt afraid of today's America. Do they even realize it? Whatever they felt, others felt too. My mother too came for a better life, and only found struggle. My mother too, works day in and day out to give her children something better than what she said. My race too, is oppressed by American law.
We are separated by stereotypes, the color of our skin, culture and a language barrier. Yet all these differences brought us together to this same space- a Chinese restaurant in a run-down town. We all like to point out how different we are from other races, from other people. We don't ever point out how we might be different. We always think our sufferings is something unique to our people. This isn't always the case. We are united by the same sufferings, the same happiness, the same flesh and blood. We can claim we are different all we want. At the end of the day, we are all one and the same. When will we come together and accept one another?
