Dark alleyways outside the railway station, street lamps with no lights, no sense of direction and strangers who seeked a palpable comfort in each other by staying close but not too close, this is 10:30 pm in St. Louis, MO. The risk involved anywhere from the close shave of being mugged to making the headlines on the local newspaper and TV channels in my home country. This seemingly random stop had a building with the logo of a Sheraton next to it and what looked like a facade of a Football stadium from the outside. Opportunities, risks, what did I know? It was my first time, and judgment was made partly for the reason that the area seemed well illuminated from the window of my train ride. As the train slowly gained traction, I soon realized they were downtown lights, and I was far away.
I decided to follow the one person that had gotten out of the barely used train. As I made my way out and the stranger drifted further away, seemingly wanting nothing from me or my supposed comfort, I reached a point where I had to make a decision to turn left or right. I decided to head towards anything that seemed attractive to me, and in this moment, it was just lights and more people. Crossroads that decided fate? It was the lack of knowledge that consumed me, not the fear. More people meant safety, a factual deduction that I quickly realized meant nothing in this country. I pulled out my wired earphones and pretended to hear nothing. If I had just turned around to give them any attention, I would’ve lost quite a bit of money, I think.
As a student, that would have crumbled me. On January 8th of 2014, I moved from my home country to the United States. It wasn’t for a lack of opportunity in India, I probably sided with being perceived as a cool student who graduated private college and used their parents’ money and made it to the America’s. Most of the American’s may not realize it, but the societal pressure of actually bragging about your children’s educational success was sort of, if not the highest praise a south Indian parent could utter. I credit myself, I really wanted nothing from the country but a management degree and perhaps maybe a job I could dally around with to pay my bills and travel the country. Thousands of students from India make it to the US in search of better opportunities, a better lifestyle, freedom from the household pressure, and just plain simple financial resources. It is at the moment 83 times what the standard Rupee offers, it was 60 for me in 2014.
There’s ways around the American system for an immigrant to navigate. Learning occurs with each cue that people throw at you. The culture shock that follows every time someone nods at you passing by on the street, hour long conversations with a stranger who you found smoking next to you, the blatant “regard” for rules in the country, it takes time. You want to fit in, you want them to acknowledge you, and once they do, you perceive it as a positional acceptance of the country of you. Its hard for the regular Indian to look people in the eye and hold a conversation, perhaps it might’ve changed now, perhaps it stays the same. There is no lack of motivation though, everyone who steps foot in the country finds and peruses through multiple avenues of financial complacency. It is perhaps with this mindset that most of us look at it in a condensed way of experiencing the best travel, education and lifestyle and in the process, redeem the thousands of dollars they’ve spent in getting there.
With societal perception out of the way, there does come a time where it becomes lonely. Education for its part in enriching the mind, also develops you as a person with multiple practical skills. In leaving the home country, you leave a lot of things behind. Friends, family, convenience, money and most of all the comfort of being secure and taken care of by your guardians. Stereotypes of multiple places, albeit a comedy routine when placed in a not-so-vulnerable environment, come to the surface when you are facing circumstances head on.
“Oh, don’t try to cross that particular street, there may be muggers present.” ”Careful with your words around this part of town, they don’t like it when you say that.” ”Maybe don’t play that song on the jukebox, everyone’s going to think you’re weird”
Limiting yourself to these practices makes no sense to me. Every cultural boundary is broken, every routine is scrutinized. It is best to approach it with an open mind and accept your lack of knowledge if you are faced with. Which in my case, was certainly derived change. On my way back from the train station that I had gotten off at, I chose to go in the direction of where I would find people. Thoughts creeping in, stereotypes setting in, I still decided to get closer to ask for help; only to realize my instinct was best to play it safe. With my phone on no charge, I plugged in my earphones and at a pace that I knew was neither brisk or strutting, I walked past them. I expected nothing but an arm around my shoulder, a knife or the long end of a pistol facing me, but I kept walking. I could see the football stadium getting closer, that was my only focus.
”Hey man, you’ve gotta come here.” ”You got a dollar on you man?” ”Where are off to homie?”
I did not stop, I knew it spelled trouble. I just had to keep going, I pretended to bob my head in hopes that if something or someone would approach me, I could pretend I hadn’t heard them. The brightly lit up stadium with street lights that actually worked was within reach. I had to cross the empty road and I was gunning for just that. Once I reached the stadium I turned around to see if there was anyone following me. There was, but they just walked past me. I could see no one around me, I peeped the street that I had just traversed to find no one present. Had I just imagined this? Was it that I was going to get mugged from behind somehow? It just wouldn’t stop, the thoughts. I had to do something, so I did. I crossed the street on my right and walked away into nothing. I hadn’t eaten all day, I could use a pizza.
And I did find a pizzeria, which was also a Bar, with people and cars outside. I hesitated for a bit and looked inside from the window. It seemed like a casual setting, a place the locals actually preferred. I went inside carrying my suitcase and travel bag and sat directly at the bar. I ordered a pizza and asked for the bartender to charge my phone. I ordered a beer. This was my fourth day in the country, and I had already started to fake an accent to fit in. Partly because no one quite understood my original enunciated way of speaking.
I found myself in this position because I had missed my flight. I had been put on stand by American Airlines, not knowing what it was but knowing that I didn’t have to spend more than I already did. On January 9th of 2014, I had landed in Washington Dulles Airport. I had a layover change where in half an hour, I was supposed to be on a flight to St. Louis and on the road to Rolla, MO, where I’d spend the next couple years of my life getting a management degree. It was the cheapest flight I could take from India, and it serendipitously landed in Washington, where the only friend I had known from before was residing. Fortunately that was the only time I needed him. I came to America with a clueless anxiety and no lack of courage. I just wanted an experience.
32 degrees centigrade right down to 0 degrees. I knew I had missed my layover to Regan airport, and ultimately the flight to St. Louis. I searched around for ways to access the wifi or find a phone booth. I eventually found one but my anxiety and fear of social embarrassment stopped me from using it. I had no quarters, and I had no idea how to use the booth. I finally built the courage to ask the airport help desk to call my friend, which they allowed graciously. “Get on a shuttle outside and come to this address”, he said. With that, and a shockingly hard to deal with temperature change, I googled what airport shuttle was, what I should be taking, and found a way to finally land on the doorstep of a multi storied building in the heart of DC. With two big suitcases and 30 dollars poorer, I stood outside the doorway only to be greeted by a building pass code to enter that I had no idea of.
In stark contrast, a couple of days later, I found myself in this pizzeria. I had rebooked the flight to St. Louis, arranged for a pick up by the University administration to drive me to the housing only to find myself sitting on a stand by flight. As I stepped out of the flight, I noticed the almost empty airport with barely anyone that could help me get to my University and counters of large hoardings of car rentals with no one present. With my anxiety off the roof, I asked a Police Officer the way to the nearest hotel. He asked me to get on the train that left right from the airport and get off at a place that I could only hear a mumble of. He was tired, and I was anxious. I said ok and walked confidently towards the train. Was I supposed to pay for this? I stepped inside the train. My iPhone read “Low Battery.”
It wasn’t hard to get a visa to America, if you look at the number of students that immigrate to the country in search of either the power to brag or genuine curiosity and sheer want of following along in the footsteps of their peers, it paints a pretty clear picture. The numbers don’t lie. Children from the societal classes of upper middle down to the poorest prepare for a GRE test, prepare for an English language test, and apply for loans to show the officers asking them. It is a simple process of choosing the universities that you think will take you in, some that you really want to go to, and some that will give out an admit to anyone that wants to go there. When eventually one of the eight colleges that you apply to based on your scores and grades invites you to come in, you apply for a visa slot, get your documents sorted, and do everything in your own right to please the interviewer. There are facebook pages and communities that help in this process where your fellow immigrants and college seekers share their experiences. The “What should you say” , “What shouldn’t you say” , ”Is this embassy willing to accept easily or should you book a slot at another location?” Experiences that genuinely help in building confidence.
My Visa interview went something as follows:
“Hello.” ”Hello, F-1 Visa?” ”That’s correct.” ”How many colleges have you applied to?” ”About 8 of them.” ”Hmm, you’re going to Rolla, Missouri?” ”That’s right” ”What can you tell me about Missouri” I smiled. It always helps. ”Well the weather there is quite drastically different from here, so I’m gonna have to somehow get acclimatized to that.” ”Well yes, there’s that. Do you wish to continue on in the U.S.?” This is a well documented question and quite common as the answer they want to hear is a resounding NO. ”Not particularly, I have a 5 year allowance to continue there but that isn’t my goal.” ”What is your goal then?” ”I’d like to be a writer.. umm.. author of sorts.” ”What are you gonna write?” ”Fiction. Stories.” ”That’s different. Do you like writing? What do you want to do in Missouri then? ”I’d like to experience different sides of things. A new perspective. Maybe even get a job and then work for a bit but I’m certain I’ll come back by the end of my tenure.” ”So you just want to go work there to pay bills and then possibly come back with experience?” ”That’s right.” ”What does your father do?” ”He works for the Government.” ”Oh so money isnt…” She stopped short and smiled. ”I don’t think it should be.” I smiled back. ”Alright, your Visa is approved.” ”Thank you.”
This conversation by itself was the first time I’ve ever spoken to someone from a foreign country in my life. The tiny bit of conversation would seem mundane but this was the point I grasped the interactive behaviors of different upbringings. I was certain no other Interview at the counter was anything similar to mine. It made me realize that the connection that forms between humans is lateral. It’s a fine balance of treading the obvious purpose accompanied by comfort and interest.
At the pizzeria, I sat down to drink a beer while my phone charged. Pondering my next move, I look around. Beside me sat two gentlemen engaged in deep conversation about their own lives. I gathered the liquid courage I had and out came a fake accent, one that I had not known I was capable of. This adaptation was spontaneous and quite frankly, disappointing partly because it leaves the essence of a persons behavior. It may seem trivial to some, but if found out by other peers of the same race, it is more often than not perceived as being fake. To adapt in an environment where you are perhaps seen as a minority, it is quite unnerving to be perceived as an outlier.
On a rather improving account of a night that poisoned my opinion of the city for me, I began to look for cabs. As desperate as I was to leave, I had reached a stage of low level acquaintances with my fellow drunks. I realized I could not spend the only few dollars I had in my account on the mighty Sheraton a few blocks away as the struggling immigrant student that I was. I looked for options on google, none of them fit my budget of transport plus stay. Having reached a point of desperation, I asked my comrades for a place to stay.
Half-an-hour later I find myself being driven to a place called “Americas best inn”. Yes, I was being driven by two drunks, to an unknown place, in a new city as a 3 month old immigrant. Having said that, the drunks were only trying to help me out. I ended up at this inn, forced to pay 70 dollars as my stay fare. I searched online for a bus that could get me out of this mess. Having found one, I booked a taxi that would take me to the place the bus station. The next morning, I woke up to a cheerful taxi driver who I had the chance to recite my entire shenanigans from last night. For a needless exercise that only made me feel despondent he calculated my entire cost for the experience to be around 200 dollars.
I should’ve stayed at the Sheraton.
This experience isn’t to portray a feeling of stupidity, sadness or pity. It’s a cathartic exercise about the devil that lives within – anxiety. There is no furtive hero, I was anxious to ask for help, hiding, winging my way through the entire night like a diffident headless chicken, eventually stopped by a social encounter gifted by the gods.
