‘I Can’t Wait to Make It to America So I Can Complain About How Horrible It Is!’
The following is satire.
COMMENTARY: By Irina Malashka, Current “Dreamer,” Future “Undocumented” American, Minsk, Belarus
After years of applying; after years of hoping; after years of praying and worrying I can finally thank God — my kids and me are leaving Belarus and coming to America. Halleluiah!
That’s right, my kids and me finally got approved … by the human trafficking network in Minsk to endure the nightmarish escape from Belarus, then be smuggled through Western Europe, stuffed into a trailer on a cargo ship to then be (hopefully) ignored by the bribed U.S. Customs agent in New York as me and my five kids are soon lost in the churning humanity of Brooklyn, then possibly Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, maybe Washington.
Being from Belarus, one of the last Soviet-style dictatorships in Eastern Europe, you can imagine what we endure. It’s a rough life in a tyrannical, impoverished state, and we’ve had enough. Now finally we’re going to escape this horrible place, paying $5,000 it has taken me four years to earn on the side (via my backside) to make our way to America. Yes! And believe me, once me and my five kids (oh … wait, just had another one. Make that six kids now!) make it to the “Land of the Free,” we will be so joyful, so unimaginably euphoric that we will kneel down on your soil and … And … complain about every single aspect of your pathetic country to no end.
Yes, America, we plan on respecting no law of yours (beginning with immigration), but actually look forward to coming into your nation with no other intention other than to whine and exploit it. We’ll complain about everything — from your food, to your people, your religions, to your exploding welfare system we will dupe into chugging out endless amounts of … doesn’t matter, it won’t be enough for me and my six … (wait, I just popped out another one. Make that seven!) kids.
We’ll complain about the openness your society grants us while simultaneously damning its intolerance. And no matter how much public assistance we get, it won’t be enough. I’ll complain about Americans who’ll refuse to give me money on the street to those who will give a whole $5 or $10 (because, honestly, even $1,000 would not be enough, you selfish capitalist pigs).
You see, America, years ago immigrants came to your shores seeking to make it on their own, and in doing so contribute and help build the nation. As your Statue of Lady Liberty or whatever it’s called says, “Give me your tired, your poor/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” And we came. Immigrants came here seeking freedom to worship, to open businesses or work for better wages, plow their own fields, or just for freedom itself. Well, those days are gone. Get over it.
These days so many like me don’t head to the U.S. so much for freedom or the opportunity to make it ourselves as for the guarantee of what we will get from the rest of you (i.e. those who immigrated before us, legally). It’s a troubling dichotomy, so it may be hard for you all to accept. … Ouch … Aughhh … AAAAaaa! … Yep, I just busted another one — make that eight kids now. Whoo!
And in no way will I teach my now eight kids … wait, ahhhh … Is that? … is that ..? Nope, never mind, that was just gas … Anyway, in no way will I teach my kids to speak English so they can assimilate easier, because we have no intention to assimilate. We’ll just stay in other communities from Belarus and other former Easter Bloc countries and live among them, never learning English or common American customs.
Honestly, we’re not coming to the U.S. to become Americans; we’re coming to make a sliver of America part of Belarus. In fact, we will be offended when Americans won’t bother to learn
our languages and customs. After all, this is the age of multiculturalism, isn’t it? Forget that “When In Rome” crap. This is the age of going to Rome and telling the Romans what to do. So don’t expect my kids to grow up feeling any respect or connection to your country, either. They’ll turn 20 not knowing a word of English. They won’t know a lick of your laws. They won’t know a shred of your holidays or history. They’ll just continue to breed in your already innumerous, self-segregated, ethnic enclaves, branching out and assimilating not one bit. Not only will we refuse to help make America into the melting pot it’s been, but only add to the mosaic it increasingly is; each piece being its own socio-demographic; separated, ignorant of other pieces, never daring to melt into its neighboring piece, exemplifying what a mosaic is by nature: shattered.
I can’t wait to … whoops, just slid out another one. Nine kids now! … Anyway, I can’t wait to complain about how little money I get from your government. I can’t wait to complain about how my lack of knowing your language, your dress and customs will prevent me from getting a job, let alone a job I can move up in, and about how you won’t bow to us, the Malashko family, and unexpectedly change your ways to accommodate ours. Years from now you’ll try to order a burger at your local McD’s and my oldest son will be behind the counter and not understand a damn thing you’re saying. And when you get frustrated and complain, we’ll call you a racist, a xenophobe, a bigot and more.
And they’ll be plenty of your fellow Americans to defend us! You already have politicians defending our pending unlawful, parasitic existence; “rights” groups fighting for us and the contributions we will make to … well, nothing. And at best we have a complacent media that will not report on when, let’s say, my son Alexi rapes your daughter in a drugged-out midnight craze years from now, or is caught running a chop-shop for stolen cars.
No, America, you seem to have everything already set up for us. No way could we get away with any of this in Belarus (told you things were oppressive here). Oh, and they’ll wonder why we escaped.
See you in a few, America (wh- … whoo-oa! Yep! Just shot out lucky number ten!).
—Irina Malashko,
Current “Dreamer,” Future Undocumented American,
Minsk, Belarus
The preceding is satire.
