Real Americans

by Rachel Khong

It wasn’t until years later that I would understand that just because I could win an argument, it didn’t mean I was right.

Every powerful man, possessing everything already, wanted the thing he couldn’t have: time.

Had I never felt at ease before Ping? This was how it felt to be with him—a deep sigh of comfort. Until now, belonging had meant a denial of myself—a flattening. With Ping it was different. I could be who I was, however imperfect. My brothers’ voices rang in my head, trapped like an echo in a cavern: I was hideous and I was strange. But Ping called me beautiful, called me brilliant. He wouldn’t turn away. Instead he turned toward me, like a plant toward the sun. He knew me, even without my explaining.

She picks up an apple from the counter, rinses it, and bites into it. That’s how you know. I would take it and cut it into slices, put it on a plate. See if anyone else wanted some, too. Not to say that Betty hasn’t faced hardship or discrimination in this country. I know she has. But most people in America, those who are fed and clothed and housed, can choose what to care about. From your comfortable position you can decide if you want to know about people in Syria or Myanmar, with the flip of a television switch.

As people we interrupted one another’s lives—that was what we did. If you sought to live your life without interruption you wound up like me: living life without interruption, totally alone.