The Book of Unknown Americans

by Cristina Henríquez

I just sat there, because something about that idea—that you could be one person in one moment and then wake up and be completely different—punched me in the gut.

“Just trying to blend in. That’s the way of the world.” “Well, that’s the way of America, at least,” my mom said.

I felt the way I often felt in this country—simultaneously conspicuous and invisible, like an oddity whom everyone noticed but chose to ignore.

We’re the unknown Americans, the ones no one even wants to know, because they’ve been told they’re supposed to be scared of us and because maybe if they did take the time to get to know us, they might realize that we’re not that bad, maybe even that we’re a lot like them. And who would they hate then?

I learned something about grief. When someone dies, it doesn’t leave a hole, and that’s the agony.