America, the friendly nation.

9:25 PM, at Wal-Mart. I was standing in a long line at the self-checkout machine with a cartload of groceries.
A young American man, probably in his late teens, scrutinized the long lines of people waiting to pay their items, “Shit, there's a long line,” he groaned, then he stood behind me. He was only carrying a single liter of Coca-Cola.
Moments passed, I was observing the cover of the People's magazine with “Beyonce and Jay-Z's Secret Wedding” written on it when I heard a voice behind me.
“Don't you hate that shit when that happens?”
“Eh? What?” I turned around. It was the same guy.
“That guy, who's paying with a check at the self-checkout. He has to write down everything on his check, rip it out, then hand it over to the attendant.” He motions his head towards the front of our line.
I glanced at that direction then turned to him, smiling, “Is that how it works?”
“That's how it works.” He turned his attention to my cart and observed it thoughtfully. Then he looked at me.
“Are you a college guy?”
“Yeah.”
“I can tell a college guy by the stuffs he's buying,” he pointed to the contents of my cart. “Cereals, juice, cookies, they all buy that.”
I laughed, “Is that the usual diet?”
“Right! That's the usual diet, yeah.”
“And that's what I've been living on in the past two years,” I said.
“And your parents thought that you're well-off fed over here.”
“They have no idea what I'm going through.” We laughed.
I looked at the bottle of Coca-Cola he was carrying. A thought crossed my mind to allow him get ahead in front of me so he can pay first, but something inside tells me I needn't bother.
“I swore off soda ever since I lived here. I'm trying not to make it a part of my diet anymore.” I said.
He chuckled, “I'm meeting up with some lady friends. We're going to drink alcohol but we ran out of soda. So I got us this Coca-Cola.” He pointed to the words on his t-shirt. Corinthians x:x. “I might be a church-goer, but I do all that shit and get high.”
“What's your religion?” he continued.
The slightest pang of apprehension instinctively shot up inside me. Within nanoseconds, the presumption built up, “Okay, let's see where this goes...” I thought.
I answered the guy, “Islam.”
“Islam?” he nodded. “I'm from Dallas. I'm meeting up with some friends here. I actually went to the mosque there several times, in Dallas. I went there like, 8 or 9 times. But I don't really get what they're saying. They always talked in Arabic, and I didn't understand a single thing. Sometimes the guy in front would speak in English, but most of the time it was in Arabic. I asked my friend, “Hey man, what is he talking about?” But my friend had a hard time explaining it, unfortunately he's one of those guys that's not too good with English.”
I smiled, “Yes, they always do that at the mosque. It's quotes, so it's in Arabic. But it's translated into English.” I explained.
He nodded thoughtfully, then asked, “Where are you from?”
“Oh, Indonesia.”
“No, I mean where are you from in Texas.”
“Ah, I'm from Bryan.” It's the name of the town I live in.
He nodded, “Oh, so you're from Indonesia and now you're studying in Texas?”
“Yes”.
“You've been here for two years?”
“Yeah, I'm trying to finish up in May.”
“And then you'll go back?”
“Uhuh.”
“How d'you like it here?”
“It's good. The people here are nice.”
The lady in front of me had finished picking up her items and left. I moved my cart to the front and started scanning my items.
“But ever since that 9/11 shit, everyone thinks you're a dickhead, huh?” He grinned.
I laughed, “Yeah!” I put my first item into the plastic bag. “You have no idea how difficult it is to get in here.”
The young man's face suddenly turned solemn. “Yeah. Shit like that happens.” His voice was surprisingly sympathetic. “Shit happens,” he repeated and smiled at me.
I finished paying my items. One of my plastic bags snapped as I tried to lift it. I cursed.
“Shit,” I said.
“Too much shit in one bag?” He asked.
“Yeah.” I lifted the bags carefully and loaded them into my cart. The young man moved to pay his Coca-Cola, and as he did so he tapped my arm and grinned widely.
“Hey man, let me give you a piece of advice,” he bent over and lowered his voice. “Get all the pussy you can get while you're here. It would be much harder to do once you get back.”
I burst out laughing, “I'm staying away from pussies. But thanks for the advice.” He laughed, then said,
“Well, see you around, man. Assalamu'alaikum.”
I offered my hand and we shook hands. “Nice knowing you, man. Goodbye.”
He smiled, “Goodbye, man,” and I left.

Maybe I should have let him pay first. That would have been the right thing to do. Because even though we might not meet each other again, and he would probably forget our conversation later in the night when he's drown in alcohol, trash-talking or not, God knows I've made a friend that moment.

But ever since that 9/11 shit, everyone thinks you're a dickhead, huh?
But ever since 9/11, everyone thinks Americans are dickheads.
Prejudices, discriminations, suspicions.
"We are holier-than-thou."
Bullcrap.
Ignorance is bliss.
But it's also hate, prejudice, discriminations, suspicions.

It's a beautiful world of pride and prejudices we're living in.

...did I just say 'beautiful'?

Maybe I'm not as pessimistic as I thought.






But utopia is for fools and dreamers.







...am I... right?