Subscribe to RSSFar Flung: Permanent Resident
By Aaron Kohn
Relieved to land in Dulles, having feared Hurricane Irene would block my flight from Addis Ababa, I sit in the almost empty airport, keeping my fingers crossed for my connection. It’s the first time I’ve had high-speed Internet (one of my flaws) in a number of months, and I’m sure the glow of my laptop screen on my glasses makes me look in a trance. I barely notice that a young man has chosen a seat directly across from me in the waiting area. My eyes meet his.
He looks like he has just come from Africa—a smile too big for your normal traveler, white Adidas too well kempt for an American, a non-descript empty backpack over his shoulder. He confirms my stereotype when he says, “Hello,” in a thick African accent.
“Where are you headed?”
“Nashville,” he replies, prompting me to look up at the monitor to see that his flight isn’t leaving till 4:25 PM. It’s 10:15 in the morning.
“You have a bit of a wait,” I think out loud, not mentioning that he could really be stuck if the storm arrives by then.
“Yes. I know, nowhere to go,” he says as he looks around the terminal not with unease, but amazement.
“Where are you from?”
“Zimbabwe.”
“Today?” My forced air of surprise entices him to say more.
“Yes, it’s been a long day.”
“Harare or Bulawayo?” I inquire, knowing he will associate himself with one of two big cities.
“Harare,” he replies. “But now I am a permanent U.S. resident like you.” He adds, “I hate Zimbabwe.”
“Ah. Okay,” is all I say. The situation feels too uncomfortable to offer congratulations. So many people I’ve run into in Africa dream of coming to America. Too many.
We idealize immigrants so much in America—especially Africans—that most of us don’t know where Zimbabwe is, and probably won’t bother finding out. When someone hears that this boy left Africa, they will think life there was terrible for him, not because they will know about the politics of Robert Mugabe, but because it is “Africa.” He has no idea.
***
Looking at my laptop, he stands up and asks, “Can I change my Facebook to Nashville?”
This being his first few hours in America, the suggestion seems amusing. I nod my head curiously, happy to keep the conversation going. I turn my laptop towards him so he can log in. Then I click “Edit Profile.”
“Make it Nashville.” I type in the city. Below I see he was born in 1985. There’s not a lot on his profile. He notices too.
“Interested in women,” he adds.
Seeing the “About” box blank,” he says, “I like football.” I begin typing, but add, ‘(soccer).’
“Here we don’t call it football.”
“Soccer. Okay,” he agrees in a tone that doesn’t clearly indicate whether or not this is news to him.
His voice gets more emphatic, his tone more excited, and maybe too loud for two people sitting next to one another in an empty concourse. “No more Zimbabwe! Delete the picture.”
We make his profile picture blank. “All Zimbabwe pictures, delete!”
“You want to delete everything about who you are?” I ask in a worried tone. What proof does he have that life in America will be better for him?
“I hate Zimbabwe,” he says as we delete five of his six photos, leaving the logo of “The Oprah Winfrey Network” as the only remaining photo.
This is immigration. No more Ellis Island. No obvious estrangement. Possibly wait months or years to save money. Endure lines and frustration at an embassy where young State Department servants learn to block out the stories in order to see the statistics. Win a lottery for a residence permit and make a Facebook update. Take the last gaze at a familiar country, at home, for the foreseeable future.
With the final click on Facebook and one’s past can be erased. Put behind. Out of mind. Off the web. Forgotten. Deleted. A blank CV. A migrant with a one-way ticket. A new Act I at age 25, with a love of Oprah.
“Log out.” I follow the instruction, shut my laptop and stick it in my backpack.
Unzipping his bag, a stapled stack of paper emerges. It is an official pamphlet for “Permanent Residents.”
“This place is money.”
Did the phrase come from some rap song or is there a language barrier? He sort of explains, “Did you know that in Zimbabwe, a bag of corn chips costs $4 [dollars are standard currency since Zimbabwe’s money became worthless], but over in that store,” he points across the terminal to a Hudson News shop, “it is only $1.80.” Somehow, it seems he could tell me the price difference on most of the items in the store.
“That is…if you can find food in Zimbabwe now,” I add, trying to appeal to his discouraged side.
“It’s not like 2008. It was very bad then. No food. Empty stores,” he says.
That was the year when I decided to bail on a drive to Harare. The U.S. Ambassador’s car had been stopped in a media stunt, and a New York Times reporter had been arrested. It was illegal to have U.S. currency at the time, but to buy petrol from the government, one had to use dollars. Someone must have thought “Catch 22” meant Statute 22.
“What will you do in Nashville?” I try to change the subject.
“I can make maybe $900 a month in landscaping, right? And I can find a place to stay for $100 a month?” he asks.
“I’m not really sure…”
“Or in hygiene, maybe $1,100 a month?”
“What do you mean?” afraid of what comes next.
“You know, cleaning toilets and bathrooms. Maybe I can save $500 a month! This place is money!”
Clearly the land of opportunity.
***
“Can I use your phone to call Harare? I’ll give you $2.”
Thinking it probably costs $3.99 a minute, I don’t say anything and hand him my iPhone.
A loud voice and a joke later to a friend, he hands me the phone back. The few people who have arrived around us watch. He doesn’t offer me money and I don’t ask.
***
Back in the backpack, another stapled packet appears. “One six six two,” he points to the price of his ticket on Ethiopian Airlines. “It’s a lot, right?” he says in a tone that seems to be looking for my agreement.
$1,662 isn’t a bad airfare, but one can only imagine what he went through to get it. In fact, few will understand what the average person’s life is like in a place like Zimbabwe. After the books I’ve read, documentaries I’ve watched, people I’ve met, and days I’ve spent in neighboring countries, I can’t imagine what life would be like.
Zimbabwe isn’t at war. There are still daily flights to Harare, Bulawayo, Livingstone. There are often lines of Chinese construction workers with duffel bag in one hand and hardhat in the other boarding the flight to Harare in the Johannesburg airport. But these are not the indicators of safety—economic, health, or thought.
Most Zimbabweans have fled to South Africa or Botswana. Only a few get the opportunity to venture further. Some onlookers might regard those who abandon their homes at times of greatest need disparagingly, but the need to erase one’s history and one’s memories of home shows something much more meaningful in one’s psyche. Trauma. For some emigrants, it might be too late for reparations at home—leaving no option but to leave it.
***
When I finally have to board my flight, I debate whether to mention the impending hurricane. What happens to this Permanent Resident if he gets stranded? Could his first 24 hours in the U.S. be spent on an airport bench, unsure of where to go and what to do?
Cowardice takes over as the dark clouds and wind loom ever closer. Hopefully I am not the only friendly traveler. It feels special to have been a part of someone’s identity arrival, even if it all it took from me was the click of the track pad.
I board my plane. The pilot tells us we might be the last ones out before the storm.
Later that night, I check online to see if the Nashville flight was cancelled. It wasn’t.
-
Mbthe11