My Nighttime Encounter with US Xenophobia

By Pedro Pablo Morejon

HAVANA TIMES – It was a little after 11 pm. I was heading home on my scooter, at peace, and nearly there, when I noted a person walking along the sidewalk. I paused a few yards before I reached him and drew up alongside.

He said something in English that I didn’t understand. I only responded with: “Good night, my friend.”

I continued on my way, but began to hear him yelling.

I couldn’t understand everything he was saying, although I thought I heard him say something like I didn’t have the right to be there. I imagined he was maybe a man looking for a fight, possibly under the effects of some drug. I decided to ignore him.

I reached the stoplight on the corner, and while waiting for the light to change saw him coming closer. I first thought about moving ahead, in order to avoid him, but then said to myself: “Why should I have to change my route because of someone like that?” It didn’t seem right to me.

As I waited for the green light, the man came closer. He was talking fast, in an aggressive tone. I didn’t understand everything he said, because I haven’t totally mastered English, but I did grasp it when he said something like, “they should send you to ‘Alligator Alcatraz.’” 

For an instant, I was stunned – I couldn’t believe what was happening. When I recovered from the surprise, I felt a very strong desire to smash him in the face, but opted to calm myself.

It was then that I understood that, despite my white skin and overall aspect that makes me easily mistaken for a Gringo, this jerk had discovered from my accent that I was Hispanic.

I asked him why he said that. He responded with something, like, I wasn’t welcome, that I wasn’t legal in this country.

I told him: “For you, not for me.”

He then asked me where I was from, and I answered: “I’m from Cuba.”

I understood when he replied that Trump was offering a thousand dollars for immigrants to leave. He repeated sarcastically: “Cuba is a wonderful country.”

I told him: “I’m sorry for you, I will not go to Cuba.”

Next, he wanted to know how I’d entered the country. I responded: “I’m legal here,” to which he answered that I wasn’t legal, that America isn’t my country.

He continued that because of Kamala Harris, Joe Biden and the communist democrats, the country was invaded. That Trump should impose order. That there are too many people like me. That Trump loves America.

I answered that Trump doesn’t love America, he only loves himself.

Then he asked me how I could prove my loyalty to this country. I comprehended that being Hispanic to him was a synonym for not belonging.

I didn’t want to continue arguing. My rudimentary English wasn’t sufficient to express myself fluidly. At one moment, I saw a car pass, and it seemed like they were signaling to him. It was late at night, and the tension kept me from thinking clearly.

I realized that I really shouldn’t be there wasting my time with that person and running the risk of a bigger problem. I didn’t lack the urge to give him a good beating, but I knew that in any case, I’d be the loser.

These types are full of resentment, frustrated people that up until now had been lying low, but now, with this administration of xenophobes and racists, their ideas have gained resonance, and they feel empowered.

I decided to put an end to the conversation. I moved some yards away but could still hear him insulting me. So then, I stopped a minute, looked at him and yelled:

“Fuck you, stupid!”

And continued on my way until I reached home, with a terrible feeling of contempt.

Read more here from the diary of Pedro Pablo Morejon.