“How’s it going?” Asked the customs agent at the border control at the Philadelphia International Airport when I approached his desk. How is what going? I thought for myself, scrambling through my head for a good answer. Well, I’m here, aren’t I? I wanted to say. That’s what’s going on.
English is not my first language. I’ve lived in Knoxville for two years now, and I still panic when someone asks me this question. Although nothing throws me off more than “what’s up?” I’ve learned now that I’m expected to say “nothing much,” but even that doesn’t make much sense to me. Why would you ask someone what is up? The sky, I’d like to say, but I’m afraid that might come off a bit rude.
I came to the U.S. two years ago with a suitcase in each hand, filled with a carefully selected collection of clothes, my childhood teddy bear, and a dozen photos I planned to put on the wall in my new dorm room. Photos of the life I had left behind. Of my mom, dad, brother, grandparents and all my friends…