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Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

Blackanova from I am a Dirty Immigrant

I heard the same sentiments from a couple of women I sat next to everyday at work. I was a little taken aback because these women were always being extra-friendly with me. Anyway, I expected that from the older of the two women. The younger one took me by surprise because she tried her best to portray an understanding of the plight of black people. She joined the conversation by stating that she did not believe in the mixing of races. This woman was a Jessica Simpson look-alike or wannabe, whichever way you see fit to categorize her. She stated emphatically that she would not allow her daughter to date a black man. I did not say anything at first, but when she insisted, I had to respond. I wanted to know why she felt that way, but she did not have a viable answer for me. I insisted, and she said that the children are the ones who suffer, so I informed her that it was people like her that made it hard for children of mixed origin.

She was speechless, her eyes rolling around in her head as she searched for an answer. She finally attacked my failed marriage, stating that it did not work because of our color difference. To tell you the truth, I had to stop and take a breath so as not to explode. Once again I had to explain to her that it was people of her mentality that made mixed relationships hard to maintain. I also let her know that it was not the ethnicity that ended our marriage. But still she insisted. Hell, I even heard her say that if a black man painted his dick white, she still would not sleep with him.

I was not defeated in my effort to show her that color played no role in how people feel about each other. The following day I embarked on a campaign of flirting. I was more tenacious than a politician, and from the beginning I knew I had her attention. I used my writing skills to woo her, using exotic images from my island. Every day she would come in and try to get my attention. She would swoon like a schoolgirl, always looking for my approval with what she wore or what color her hair was, and believe me she changed it daily. I laid on the poetic charm until I knew she was addicted to the attention, and then I stopped. Her reaction to me stopping was a little hostile, the wrath of an ignored woman. At one point I was walking by her when she told me to kiss her ass. For someone who would never date a black man, she sure seemed a little perturbed about losing the attention.

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Choices, Choices, Confused Immigrant

The one thing that confused me was the magnitude of choices in the stores. On the island, there were only two grocery stores like the ones here. Most of our shopping was done at little neighborhood shops. They were small wooden buildings owned by someone in the village. You can buy sugar, butter, lard and rice by the pound and everything is weighed right before your eyes. I always wonder what makes one brand better than the next. Are we paying for quality or name? Is it taste? I never knew about junk food. I mean, my snacks consisted of me going to my back yard and picking some mangoes or sapadillas, or guavas, or any kind of tropical fruit I wanted. You know what is strange? Like everyone else, I found myself addicted to it. I went from one hundred and forty seven pounds to three hundred pounds. That was in less than a year until my bloody chicken legs rebelled. I always wonder what the fascination with chocolate is in this country. I have seen people eat it, their face twisted like they were in the middle of having an orgasm, but then again, I can understand why. I am seven feet one inch tall of pure chocolate all day every day and I love myself. The main thing I had to get used to when shopping was the taxes added on. On the island, whatever price you saw is what the item cost. For the first two years, I would always go by the price I saw on the item. Needless to say, I was always short.

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Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

Slapped From the novel I am a Dirty Immigrant

The language between blacks and whites was so different it took me a while to understand what either was saying to me. Remember, I said the brother called me a dog? Well, I thought that sort of slang was universal to all the people of The City of Golden Streets. My ignorance of the culture got me in trouble in a big way. I walked up to this white girl and greeted her with a rowdy, “What’s up dawg?”

Now you know the old saying that white men can’t jump? Well, I learned real quick that white women can jump because that short woman jumped up and slapped me across the face. Later I recounted the story to my friend from The Hoosier City and he educated me on the finer points of language between the whites and the blacks. Apparently some slang words were exclusive to each race, like in The Blue Grass Mountains, people called you cuz, or son, or even boy. Blacks were calling me Dawg, Homeboy, and some even used the n word. Where I am from everyone used the same slang and spoke with the same rhythm; it was a national thing.  

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Frozen Island Boy From I am a Dirty Immigrant

The next day I woke up around five o’clock, normal for me, and looked outside. The sun was bright, and I swear to you, it was bright enough to look like home. I thought it was good weather for a run. So I went back to my room, put on shorts and a t-shirt. Hell, I was going to enjoy a nice jog before breakfast. I stepped outside and immediately my skin felt like god and the devil were having a tug of war match. Then, a sensation like needles pricking me ran through my body. I turned and walked like a mummy back to the room and stood in front of the heater thawing out my frozen tropical joints. Being that cold was not natural. Someone had to piss off God for him to create this kind of torture. To tell you the truth, twenty years later, I am still defrosting from that first morning.

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FFFRREEEEE!!!! i AM A DIRTY IMMIGRANT IS FREE ON SMASHWORDS UNTIL THE 6TH

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Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

No Speka Eunglis From the novel I am a Dirty Immigrant

Being an immigrant, people teased me a lot. There was a group of girls who made fun of the way I spoke. One day I noticed all four of them enter the lady’s bathroom, so I followed them into the restroom. You should have heard the screams as I entered and innocently professed, “No speaka Englush, no speaka Englush.”  Needless to say, these young women never humbug me again. I would see them on campus, but they would do their best to avoid me. There were so many misconceptions about immigrants in that small town. On a daily basis, I had to explain myself, or sometimes outright defend my island. Questions like: do women wear bras there; do people wear shoes; do we eat worms and bugs; do we ride in cars or use donkeys; do I have a lion as a pet; do I know how to put a Voodoo spell on someone. I mean the questions were endless. It was quite obvious that I knew more about their culture than they did about mine. And because of some of their fears, they tried to make me assimilate, but I knew back then that there was no chance of me changing

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Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

I am an Alien From the novel I am a Dirty Immigrant

One day my son and I were watching one of the Star Trek shows. He was extremely interested in all of the alien characters, so I pulled out my green card. At the time, the word alien was printed across the front of it. I showed it to him and told him that I too was an alien. I tell you what:  I had never seen a kid move that fast, his little feet pumping, eyes as big as two full moons and he stumbled and fell right before he got into the kitchen. He stumbled into his mother’s legs head first and I heard him as he told her that I was an alien because my identification card said so. It took a lot of convincing for him to finally realize that I was teasing him.

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POEMS Storyteller

From the novel I am a Dirty Immigrant “Cold Immigrant.” 1986

The next day I woke up around five o’clock, normal for me, and looked outside. The sun was bright, and I swear to you, it was bright enough to look like home. I thought it was good weather for a run. So I went back to my room, put on shorts and a t-shirt. Hell, I was going to enjoy a nice jog before breakfast. I stepped outside and immediately my skin felt like god and the devil were having a tug of war match. Then, a sensation like needles pricking me ran through my body. I turned and walked like a mummy back to the room and stood in front of the heater thawing out my frozen tropical joints. Being that cold was not natural. Someone had to piss off God for him to create this kind of torture. To tell you the truth, twenty years later, I am still defrosting from that first morning.

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