Lines from Death of a Saleman flash through my mind as I listen to my family exude the greatness of the American Dream. I struggle to understand how fervently they hold to this cultivated image of the Land of More than Plenty while I am trying so desperately to find a way out of returning myself. When I think of the States, I conjure images of disconnected individuals, unhappy careers, broken families. I think of homelessness and joblessness, the wealth divide, the broken education and prison systems, victims of political impasse. But my family begs that I see it differently.
My brother-in-law wants me to take him with me when I go back to the States. I tell him that it isn’t what he imagines. I think he understands that, knows that buying power reduces impressive-sounding wages to next to nothing, that he will face isolation due to a severe language barrier. He doesn’t care. He knows what he has to offer, and he is confident that he could make it work as a Khmer chef. I believe him. Almost. As in, I want to abandon my skepticism and believe that just because the Western frontier is gone that opportunity has not been consumed along with it. I want to believe in the greatness of a country, culture, and Constitution. I want to believe that hard work and perseverance can overcome and endure. My brother’s passion wants me to believe, but I still find myself questioning what it is that he wants so badly. I tell him that I don’t have money to take him and that I won’t for several years. He says, No problem, he’ll wait. Just don’t forget him. I tell him how difficult it is to obtain a Visa to enter and stay. He tells me stories of friends who have entered into false marriages to receive green cards. Would I marry him? I laugh him off, tell him I want a HANDSOME husband, tell him that I wouldn’t want such an awful husband. He laughs with me. But my sister (his wife) finds me the next day. She asks, Did he upset you last night? No, I say, I know he is joking. Sure… she says. But.. Is it possible? He really wants to go.
Families willing to be torn apart for something that I can’t see about my country. I envision him arriving and finding legal and monetary restrictions to his dreams, sinking into despair. He envisions working tirelessly and unceasingly, the difficulties worthwhile because he is in AMERICA. His wife, his mother, his parents-in-law all want him to have this opportunity to try; they would sacrifice the extra income and household help to know that someone is getting his shot at the Dream. What’s more… they want me to raise my niece.
She’s 8 months old now. She’ll be 2 when I’m done with Peace Corps, still young enough that I won’t need to buy a plane ticket for her, my family argues. Won’t I please take her for 5, 10, 15 years? I tell them that, sure, she’ll learn English, but I wouldn’t be able to teach her Khmer. No problem, they say. She’ll learn Khmer when she comes back to Cambodia. It is more important for her to know English. I am reminded of the story of Hannah in the Bible; my family wants to consecrate their child to America. I watch my family with my niece, I’ve never seen a baby so loved and cared for. To imagine that they would choose her living continents apart, unable to speak their language, unable to hold her and see her smile and hear her laugh… Maybe my family is teaching me more about my country than I am teaching them.
(posted February 5, 2012)
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