This New World Called America

My name is Enrique Ball, and I am an immigrant from Venezuela. The year is 1980, I am scared. I am confused. Around me all I hear is words. Words that I don’t understand. I look to my brother, Carlos, he’s always been an inspiration to me, he taught me how to ride a bike, he took me to get Arepas at the bodega near my house. I look at him and see that we’re both lost. Lost in this new world called America.

I now live in a town called Newton, Massachusetts. I can not say the word Massachusetts. My classmates skin is as white as the clouds that hang above me. My skin is as dark as the night sky after the clouds have dissipated. For the first time in my life I am viewed differently for something as insignificant as my skin color.

Inside the safety of my new home I feel almost as if I am back in Venezuela. I understand the language being spoken around me, the rolling of the tongues, the sweety melody of simply comprehending the words being spoken to me. But even so, this new home was a foreign land. My house in Venezuela was named Casita De Mariella Sandra. Now I live on 139 Oak Hill Drive. The rhythm of these new words daunted me.

My first day of school I ask a group of boys to play Futbol with me, they nod with a questioning look. I see them travel into the school building and when they come back, they carry a strange diamond shaped brown ball. This is not what I asked for. They ask me what my favorite team is, I have no clue what they’re talking about.

The day is October 31st. I walk to school with my brother only to see a mass of children dressed up in scary clothing. In Venezuela, we don’t have this holiday called “Halloween”. The whole day I was ridiculed for not wearing a costume.

The funny thing is that I felt like I was wearing a costume everyday at school. I was left back in school, I was no longer with boys my own age. At lunch I was being fed sandwiches and apples. I could not say the word sandwiches. I wanted my friends, mi amigos, I wanted empanadas and tres leches. I wanted my tan skin to be glistening in the hot Venezuela sun. I did not want these cold Massachusetts winters. I want more, more than this dismal life of routine. Dismayed by the constant ridicule of my accent. Or my skin color. Or my clothes. Or the contents in my lunch box.

Simultaneously, I wanted to have what these other boys had. I wanted milky white skin and clear blue eyes. I wanted white blonde hair and knowledge of this new sport that they, for some reason, call football. I wanted to be able to pronounce the word Massachusetts. Or sandwich. Or Maryland. Or compartmentalize.

This new world called America. It’s confusing. It’s scary. Everything is new to me. It’s a crazy concept that you can live in the same world as someone, at the same exact time, and everything is still so completely different. But yet, so completely the same. This journey has taught me that all of mankind shares a common goal, the continuity of existence, Blonde hair or black hair, the ability to roll your R’s or not…we are all the same, we are all just attempting to live.

My name is Enrique Ball. I am an immigrant, who shares the same goal as you.