An Immigration Story:
Trinidad
A short story by Ali Sadr – Part 2
Leaving your homeland and residing in another—with a totally new culture, language, and set of laws and regulations—is very challenging and requires a lot of adaptation that, in most cases, is also very frustrating. But, looking back at those challenges many years later makes some of them look funny, some amazing, and some, of course, sad. The truth is, no matter how we feel about them, the challenges are, for sure, part of the history of immigration that needs to be documented for use by our grandchildren or simply by historians to picture the hardship that first-generation Iranians had to go through to meet those challenges.
Peyk kicked off this column in 2021 with Reza Khabazian’s story, with a goal to encourage our readers to start telling their stories so we can present a diverse documentary.
In this issue, we reprint the second part of a short story by Ali Sadr that was published several years ago. Among the immigration stories that we are presenting in this column, we saw a relevance to revisiting this story that is based on actual events. The story is about Ali Sadr coming to the U.S. to continue his education in 1976. Due to the length of the story, we had to break it into two parts. The first part was in the last issue (Peyk #208).
We drove through the terminal loop, then he exited the airport and entered a freeway. I could see the TWA sign behind us.
“We passed it; there it was!” I exclaimed.
He ignored me. Then he sped up onto the freeway. I realized what was going on, but played dumb. I reminded him that my flight to Denver was only an hour away. He suddenly turned toward me and said, “Shut up!” Then he slowed down and parked on the shoulder. He asked me how much money I had. He suddenly turned mean and angry. I asked him how much the fare was. I was trying hard to be calm and dumb using my best English. He turned toward me in a way that ensured I could see the pistol in the holster under his jacket.
“Give me your Goddamn money!” he screamed.
I jumped back and pulled my wallet out and opened it towards him. There was only $45 in it. I thought of jumping out of the car, but what about my suitcase in the trunk? He grabbed my wallet, pulled the money out, and demanded, “The rest Goddamnit!” (When we were still a couple of hours from New York, I went to the airplane bathroom to freshen up, like everyone else. I also put all my money, except $45, into my boots. Just in case!)
He yelled again. “The rest!” I calmly explained that was all I had. He was furious. “You fucking Arab, you come to America with $45?” Of course, he was using many other expressions, which I knew were not nice, even though I didn’t understand them all. I just stared at him and tried to keep calm.
“My cousin is in Denver and my parents wired him my money. They said it was not safe to carry the money on me!” I explained. I think my story was convincing because he stopped yelling. He then got quiet.
Did I say that I was really scared? Would he buy it? What if he asked me to take off my shoes or open my suitcase? Or just push me out of the car, in the middle of nowhere? For about a minute no one said anything. He was holding the wheel with both hands and staring forward. My heart had come up to my throat. But I knew I had to continue my act. I finally said if I missed my flight I had nowhere to go in New York. Without looking at me, he took the money and threw the wallet back to me with a couple of nasty words. I took the wallet and told him that I hadn’t eaten for a while and that was all the money I had. He stared at me and then he shook his head. He probably couldn’t believe that I was that dumb! He threw me a $5 bill and stuffed the rest into his pocket.
Suddenly he stepped on the gas pedal and entered the freeway, exited at the first exit, and made a U-turn over a bridge ending up in the opposite direction, towards the airport. Neither one of us talked. He banged on the steering wheel a few times out of frustration. He slowly came to stop in front of the TWA terminal. I got out. He opened the trunk. I grabbed my suitcase and thanked him. He didn’t say a thing, just took off. I was going to throw up. I grabbed my suitcase and started running towards the entrance.
Suddenly I came face to face with a huge black cop. I got excited and started to explain to him what just happened to me. I even pointed out the limo to him, which was still stuck in the bottleneck of the terminal. I said, “That guy, black car, gun, my money.” He calmly listened and shook his head. He kept looking at me and looking at the car. I was sure he could see it better since he was at least one foot taller than me. Then he looked at me and said, “You better hurry up; you’ll miss your flight.” He continued with a very calm voice, “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you!” He said something about my suitcase and walked away. I felt sick to my stomach.
The next thing I remember I was on the plane trying to eat something. There was a whole bunch of very loud cowboys smoking cigars behind me. I was trying to make sense of what had just happened to me. I already hated America. I wanted to go back so bad. I was going to cry or throw up or something. I was so lonely!
***
A cold breeze swept through the streets of Trinidad. There were hardly any street lights. I was already out of breath, climbing uphill with my luggage in the direction that supposedly would take me to the college. I stopped to take a breath. What is going on? What kind of college is this? Are they all sleeping at 11 o’clock?
***
I spent the night before in Denver to take the Greyhound bus to Trinidad the next day. My friend Ahmad told me that in all airports there is a panel with pictures of the local hotels and a phone. “Just pick up the phone and punch the number next to each picture of a hotel; they will come and pick you up,” he explained. It took me a few tries until I hooked up with a hotel whose rate I understood. A nice lady on the other end of the line asked me to wait for fifteen minutes, exit from door number three, and meet her in a gray van. I didn’t wait and just walked out. It was so refreshing, a light rain! I stood in the rain thinking I would go back the next day and head back to New York and home. That was it! I already had my dose of America and didn’t like it. No, I didn’t at all. I was so depressed and wanted to cry so badly. But crying? No, not me!
I was deep in thought when I heard a young lady, with big eyeglasses and long blond hair, talking to me. She said my name, of course in the best way she could. I acknowledged. She helped me put my suitcase in the back of the van. I was the only passenger. As soon as I got in, I heard the radio playing a very familiar song—“Rocky Mountain High” by John Denver. This was the only familiar thing I had felt in a long time. I suddenly calmed down and felt safe. The lady with big glasses kept smiling and asking me routine questions about the flight and how long I was planning to stay. I told her I planned to go to Trinidad. She showed me the hotel restaurant and got me registered. She was so kind and helpful. I thanked her and went to my room. I locked the door and sat on the floor. What do I do? That was all I could think about. I finally convinced myself that if I got some rest I would be able to think more clearly. I was hungry, but I didn’t want to leave my room. I was so scared. I got my money out and counted. I remembered that guy’s face when I told him I only had $45 and when he gave me back $5. I started laughing. Wow! What an experience! I couldn’t wait to write to Ahmad and tell him the guy who robbed me was white, clean-cut, and good-looking!
I couldn’t sleep. My mind was going in a million different directions. I opened the suitcase and pulled out one of the pistachio bags and ate almost the whole thing. I tried so hard to get some sleep. No way! I didn’t know about jet lag at the time. I watched TV all night. Finally, as soon as I heard some noise outside, I took a shower, dressed up, and went to the hotel restaurant. A waitress gave me a menu and poured me some coffee. I looked at the menu. I couldn’t recognize any item, except scrambled eggs. I pointed to that on the menu. She said scrambled eggs and asked me a whole bunch of questions. I did not understand a word. I just repeated with a broken voice, “Scrambled eggs please!” Before she left, she poured me more coffee. I hadn’t asked for it. I drank some more. She came back and poured some more. I said, “No, thanks.” She ignored me or didn’t hear me. She brought me my eggs and toast and poured more coffee. I thought I was probably going to pay at least $10 just for coffee! The next time she came with the coffee pot I almost yelled “No coffee!” She jumped back and said “Ok, gee what a …” and left. Other customers were looking at me with surprise. Finally, she brought me the check and kept her distance. She looked upset. I checked my bill. The total for coffee was 25 cents and written in large letters were the words: “Refills Are Free!” I was so embarrassed!
***
Where the heck is this college? A Ford Mustang drove by. I thought I heard some Farsi words. It was going towards the 7/11. I thought about going back to the store and asking for help. But I decided against it, I was almost halfway to the top of the hill. I was straining to see some signs in the dark that resembled some sort of office or college building. Nothing! Just dark black walls, on both sides. A few windows were still lit. I was stopping every 15-20 steps to catch my breath and put the suitcase down. I felt my arms were at least one foot longer. Still no sign of civilization—what kind of town was this Trinidad?
***
I missed the two o’clock bus. The next one going to Trinidad would leave at 6 o’clock. At the Greyhound station, they let me leave my suitcase in a storage room. I thought my English was ok. So full of confidence I told the clerk at the station that I was going to college in Trinidad. He just stared at me, then said, “What?” There went the confidence! I tried to say it better and clearer. But it came out worse. The more I tried, the worse it got. With no self-esteem and total frustration on my part, somehow the clerk finally got it. He told me I had a few hours to kill. He gave me a map of downtown Denver and marked several locations of interest. He told me to be back by 5:30. I went to see the state capitol building, which was one of the pictures on the map. It was nice, but I started to get nervous and decided to go back to the bus station and wait there. I was tired. I hadn’t slept for several days and had no energy left for sightseeing. Besides, I didn’t want to miss the bus again.
Even until that morning, I was committed to going back home. I had convinced myself, So what, I can be like my classmates. Even if they send me to Zoffar to fight. I will be with my friends. It would only be for two years. I can’t stand this country. Then at the lobby, I saw the young lady who had given me a ride the night before. She said hi and asked how I liked Denver. We talked for about 15-20 minutes until someone asked for a ride and she left. But when we talked, she was so kind and reassuring that it really calmed me down. When she found out that I was there to go to graduate school at Syracuse, she was really impressed. She told me I must be very smart. She said, “Going to a different country alone, to a graduate school, to study in a different language is really phenomenal.” That was it. She pumped me up with self-esteem. I decided that I could do it and I was here to stay.
Deep in thought and just one block away from getting back to the Greyhound station, a group of young men started coming towards me. I recognized them as Indians, with long hair, some braided, some just loose. Their leader was obviously drunk, with watery eyes and a dripping nose. He came straight towards me and asked for money. There were 5 or 6 of them. They surrounded me. They were speaking their own language amongst themselves but English to me. Their leader yelled, “Give me your money!” I responded in Persian that I didn’t have anything. They looked at each other. He asked if I understood English. I said, “Very little.” The chief pulled a quarter out of his pocket and showed me, “Money.” He was getting mad. A group of people appeared on the opposite sidewalk. They weren’t paying any attention to us. Cars were going by and no one was even looking. I had no choice but to continue my act and stay calm. I started searching my pockets and found a quarter and a few pennies. One of them was staring at my briefcase. I continued in Persian, held up the quarter, and said, “Pool-thank you.” They spoke to one another in their own tongue and said something to me. They argued and one of them grabbed my briefcase. I resisted and held it up close to my chest. The chief told them to leave me alone. I started walking fast toward the bus station. I almost peed in my pants… I was thinking, Why me? Is this kind of stuff happening to everyone or is it just me? How could I get robbed twice in twenty-four hours? What kind of country is this? When the bus driver was putting my suitcase in the baggage compartment, I told him I was going to Trinidad and asked him to wake me up if I was asleep.
***
I was almost at the top of the hill. I had no idea how much farther I had to go. Then, like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds, I heard someone in the dark screaming in Persian, “Hassan shampoo yadet nareh (don’t forget the shampoo)!” I dropped my suitcase and ran towards him. Poor guy. When he saw me, he jumped back. I said, “Salaam!,” and hugged him. He was obviously shocked. I introduced myself and told him I hadn’t spoken Persian for days and I was so thrilled to see him. He calmed down and said, “Khosh oommadin (welcome).” He said he would take me to the dormitory right away. I asked where everybody was. Why was the town deserted? He said, “It is Sunday night, what do you expect? You will see in the morning that it is not as bad.” He helped me with the suitcase. He said he and his friend Hassan lived off campus, but their room did not have a shower, so they went to the dormitory to take a shower every night before the lockdown at midnight. He said, “Welcome to Trinidad. This is a hell hole. There is nothing to do. There are only two bars that they call ‘Lounges.’” He said there were always fights between whites, Chicanos, and local Indians, and that students usually got caught in between. He said that they just had to cope with it until they finished their junior college and transferred to universities. He advised: “Don’t get stuck here. Leave as soon as you can.” And I did—indeed.
