In a week where noted sack of diarrhea Donald Trump has suggested that the United States ban all Muslims from entering our borders, and in which many of my fellow citizens apparently see no problem with that, I find myself appreciating the diversity of my community all the more.
In my undergraduate class–the one I am taking secretly at my local community college–my classmates come from all over the world. Here is a list of their first names:
Alexis, Ansomah, Darlin, Dayany, Evelyn, Fatima, Floriin, Fredericia, Juliana, Kargbo, Katrina, Khadija, Lucius, Matthew, Mauricio, Mayra, Nirmeen, Pratichhya, Raymond, Rodrigo, Sarah, Susan, Suvd, Thomas, Victor, Waleed, Zainab
Some are native born, but most are immigrants. They hail from every continent except Australia and Antarctica.
I love their accents. I love their perspectives, often so different from my own. I love the women’s hair (but this white lady knows you don’t touch), which in some cases is outrageously and awesomely huge. I love the variations in their bodies and faces. I love the way they seek to reconcile their family’s culture with “American culture,” whatever that is. I love the way they make me appreciate my privilege. I love the way they are overcoming adversity. I love that every day I walk to class, I pass taxicabs and a plumber’s van in the parking area. The average student is so obviously a working-class person who is going to school to have a better life.
I love that my classmates inspire me to try to have a better life too.