Welcome to America
Day to day we pass strangers on the streets. We may never know their names or
remember their faces, but each one of them has a story. As do I. Mine begins in Chicago
5 years ago. It was my first day in America. I had thousands of dollars in cash in my
pockets and had just gotten off a 12-hour plane ride. I had to catch a connecting flight to
Pittsburg. No one looked the way I looked. Their accents were strange and clothing even
more foreign to me. The culture shock was immediately palpable. Standing in the middle
of this huge airport, not understanding any of what was going on around me, I suddenly
felt a panic attack coming on. I ran to the closest shop and handed the cashier a hundred
dollar bill and asked for “metal money” so I could use the payphone to call my family. I
still remember the look on his face as he handed me change. Weeks later, I learned “metal
