Diana, my co-worker, married Abdulah, an Arab immigrant. Abdulah was instantly dislikeable to me, had shifty, furtive eyes that darted back and forth, and a cruel grin. He seemed to fulfill several negative stereotypes about Arabs.
He was also arrogant. He came into our office and hung around. I had to leave when he did that.
I hastily concluded that he had married Diana, who was no beauty queen, simply to gain residency in the U.S., that he was a spoiled brat son of a rich Middle Eastern family, a classic mama’s-boy user.
Admittedly, there was a dangerous exotic quality about him that must have appealed to Diana, much as some women, like moths, are drawn to a flame (Abdulah looked like a young, stocky, dishonest, Omar Sharif).
I berated myself that I was a close-minded hater. I felt ashamed, vowed to lighten up. “Give people a chance,” I told myself.
When the Middle East war started, Abdulah, who managed a fast-food restaurant, openly rooted for the U.S. to be defeated. Not long after, he deserted Diana, who at this moment is chasing him across the country.
I was going to invite the guy and his wife over for cocktails. Abdulah, why’d you do that? If I immigrated to France, and made a living there, and France got embroiled in a tragic war, I’d at least have the decency to express sorrow for my host country, not cheer for its demise.
Abdulah was a waste of skin.
I’m not against immigrants coming here. But gosh darn it, I am against being used.
According to their e-mails, the Chinese also hate our guts, we who helped modernize their country with favorable trade agreements. Many Chinese are reportedly elated that New York was bombed.
If you hate us, why do half your people want to live with us? I’ll tell you why.
Right now, in Yin Shan Province, in Inner Mongolia, where the hills are windy, cold and bare, where life is incredibly bleak, in a remote village, a single TV set is turned on, one of those old-fashioned black and white jobs with a horizontal black bar slowly moving upward across the screen.
The village’s sole TV is being watched by all the villagers.
Clark Gable appears on the screen in a tux, leaves a Hollywood mansion, and gets into a 1930 Dusenberg (Chinese subtitles, writing, allow the villagers to follow the story).
A Chinese man watching thinks that if he can just get to the U.S., he can be like that, become Clark Gable (if he’s a transvestite, he wants to be Marilyn Monroe).
He’ll be illegally stowed away next month on a ship coming through the Golden Gate.
All you bums out there who want to make the U.S. the focal point of everything you hate. Just remember this, Pilgrim! This society has given more to more people than any in history.