by Rosalia Scalia
We all sit on the floor in a house in Northern Virginia eating roasted goat, curried vegetables, and steamed rice during the Festival of Lights party. Next to me, Soros, who came to America almost a year before I did, eats with his fingers like back home. I use a plastic fork provided by the host, a white American lady whose name I can’t remember or pronounce. Wanting to embrace new ways in America, I practiced using a fork and knife before coming to the party. She worked in my country as a veterinarian in the Peace Corps, and now back home in America, she stays connected to people from my country by hosting holiday parties for newcomers, and everyone who’s attended in the past is invited. A lady from my country lives with her, but something doesn’t add up with them. They hold hands sometimes in the house, but not in the same way ladies hold hands at home. The lady from my country should already be married, but she’s here in America going to school when she should already be a mother. All the traditional foods from my country cover the buffet table, cooked by ladies who have been in America for a while, and I can’t stop eating it. It tastes like home. I don’t realize how much I miss these dishes until I’m eating, and the tastes and variety cause a rush of memories to crash into my brain. I put the plastic fork down and begin eating with my fingers, like at home, and lick the sauce from them. I came to the party with a friend of a friend of a friend, a guy I met for the first time tonight, who’s lived in America almost forever, long enough to own a fancy car, stylish clothes, a beautiful house, and an American nickname, Max. Continue reading
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