SPECIAL TO SCOOP:

My American Dream

by Hammam Alomari

My palms are sweaty in the airport. Behind me and outside of these walls, a revolution is happening. The country, for which my heart beats, is falling apart. Inside of these walls, none of that matters. I am headed to the United States. I have a grand goal; I will go to the United States and, like my father before me, own a gas station and find love before returning to my country. My mom cries as I leave her loving arms into those of Lady Liberty. The airplane has us packed like canned sausages, and the air is heavy, but my spirit is free. Soon enough, I will be an American.

Media portrayals of the United States are all I have to live by; in my head, I am on my way to living large. Good values combined with solid work ethic equals great success. Who needs school?

I left with my sister’s husband. It took two days to get to America. I first arrived in Alabama.  When I stepped from the plane, the hot air choked me. Was I still in Yemen?  There was no red carpet to receive me, only busy people pushing busy luggage to continue their busy lives. The culture, the language, the people were all shocking to me. I stayed overnight, and my older brother came to pick me up. Then we drove to Memphis, towards my new life, home to the great legend, Elvis Presley.

The sights around me are spellbinding. The buildings, the people, the language is all as new to me as a baby's exit from the womb. Every corner is met with a restaurant; each person seems different. Here, continents away, I am home.

Once in Memphis, I go straight to work. Here at the gas station, I understand nothing or no one and my heart pangs with longing for my mother's love. The customers were speaking to my brother, and I did not know what they were saying. At that time, I had not seen my mom for four days, and I was missing her.  It was a shock to me. Everything was different and I was homesick. I reach into my pocket and instinct takes over as my fingers dial the only voice I want to hear—my mom. As soon as I heard her voice, I started to cry.  Her sweet voice brings me to tears. The woman I left behind for this grand dream is the only person capable of consoling me. The first month passes, and I was still unable to communicate with the people that I work with.

Every day I do the same thing. I wake up. I pray. I go to work. I stock the same shelves and serve the same customers the same things. I pray, then I sleep. Rinse, wash, repeat. Rinse, wash, repeat. My life revolves around its own sameness, and the United States has lost its luster.  My paycheck is gone before I can see it. I go back to the sameness of yesterday. There is no white picket fence in my future.

I decide to go to school. If I'm to truly experience the dream of being an American, I must be educated. I asked my older brother, but he did not go to school. We lived in a tiny box of an apartment in a shoddy neighborhood. Education means nothing here. I could not go to the neighborhood school for several reasons. My father was afraid for my safety; he wanted a better school for me.

Now that I have made the decision, I know my immediate family will agree with me. I imagine a new life all over again- a new dream.  What I didn’t know, though, was that my uncle and his family would not accept my decision. My uncle is a stern man whose morals and ideals are cemented in the past. His views are limited to his own experience. He laughs at the mere idea of my education. He believed what I too once believed—work hard, and all else will fall into place. His views were as suffocating as the simple life he wanted me to live. My supplicating went nowhere with him, and I was stuck. Apparently, I wasn't the only one stuck.

At this very moment, my father is stuck in Yemen with an expired passport. He cannot help me. Am I to lose everything I never had in the first place? I cannot give up. I will not give up. My determination to live the American dream could not be put on pause because of my uncle. While I anxiously wait for my father's arrival, I learn basic English. The passion that drove me to learn also showed me that it is I who is in control of my destiny. After waiting what seemed like the longest year of my life, my father came home. I put down my Arabic to English dictionary, and my father brought me to apply for private school.

If my life up until this point has taught me anything, it should be that expectations and reality rarely, if ever, collide. My expectation of working was a failure, my expectation to teach myself English was laughable, but nothing prepared me for the expectations of grandeur I developed for school.

I walked into Pleasantview School only to be pleasantly surprised to find the comfort of my culture. I was surrounded by Muslims—few from my own country. The principal speaks to me in my native tongue. I finally fit in…for just a moment.

My teacher is flamboyant. I do not mean that in a good way either. She is loud; she screams often. She doesn't speak Arabic well, and after knowing her for some time, her English was spoken as poorly as her Arabic. She isn't actually a trained teacher, and we don't actually do any work. I find other ESL students, and we stick to each other, gluing ourselves to our hopelessness.

Another person though, sticks out in my memory in a much different way, a teacher of whom I found myself quite fearful. She would scream down the hallway in the most obnoxious of ways. The students spoke terribly of her. They said she was mean, unfair, and that her class was impossible to pass. I hated her. I didn't know her, but I hated her.

One day, we were waiting for our teacher, and she never came. This, of course, was not surprising to us. My brother and I sat and waited until that teacher's daughter sent us upstairs. She said she would teach us that day. We were petrified. We hated her mother, and by proxy, we must hate her daughter as well. This was my defining moment as a future student. This woman that I hate is offering to teach me. These were the women, whom we once loathed, that would veer the course of our future towards a path of success.

Mrs. Vazquez, who taught English in my high school, guided my journey as an American and helped to shape the person I am today.  Had Mrs. Vazquez not intervened, I would have had to work as a food clerk and agree to an arranged marriage.  Mrs. Vazquez told me education would liberate me. She believed in me when no one else did. She held my hand through every step.  Mrs. Vazquez not only taught me how to read and write English, but she also taught me life lessons in which I learned that was the master of my fate while maintaining my Muslim roots. She was a mother to me when mine was so far away.

Ironically, I thought I would only ever graduate high school, but Mrs. Vazquez had her daughter take me to Southwest and matriculate into the community college.  My father was unhappy with my decision, but she insisted my happiness had to come first.  I am proud to say that I will be graduating community college in two semesters and have made Dean’s list every single semester.  I am now the master of my fate and will be a professional American with advanced degrees.

I am American. I do not have a home with a white picket fence. I am not married to a beautiful woman for which my heart beats. I still long for my mother. My English, while much improved, is still better on paper than in person. My life is not perfect. I work hard, I study hard, and I love each moment more than the last. My journey has taught me that being an American is not the same as being successful. It is to work hard, to enjoy the moments as they come, and to never give up.

Hammam is a sophomore honor student and Phi Theta Kappa member studying biology and chemistry. Upon his graduation from Southwest in 2019, he plans to continue his studies at the University of Mississippi and eventually earn a Doctor of Pharmacy degree.