Sign in or 
| Version | User | Scope of changes |
|---|---|---|
| Jun 6 2008, 9:57 AM EDT (current) | Hikari66 | 3069 words added |
| Jun 6 2008, 9:54 AM EDT | Hikari66 | 3069 words deleted |
Changes
Key: Additions Deletions
Xenophobia By: Hikari Sohma
I was having that dream again, the dream where I’m walking through that dark tunnel, searching for the light, but never finding it. And the strange thing was that I knew I was dreaming, but I still couldn’t make myself wake up. So I stumbled along through the darkness, knowing that I would wake up screaming once again. In about five, four, three, two…
And then I felt the warm meaty hand grasp my shoulder, felt the warm breath caress my cheek. And then came the husky voice.
“Hola, senorita.”
And then I woke up screaming, sitting straight up in my bed, cold sweat dotting my brow. I was panting, and trembling fiercely, my hands were shaking as I pulled the blanket off of me. I knew my parents wouldn’t come to check up on me, they were accustomed to my screaming by now. This was the seventh night in a row that I’ve had this nightmare. I shuddered, feeling as if I were about to vomit as I remembered the husky voice, speaking those two Spanish words.
I had xenophobia, a major fear of foreign people. I didn’t know why I felt that way, I mean, they never did anything to hurt me. But it all started when I was five. I was playing at the park, and had been getting dark. I was old enough to go to the park by myself, since it was close to my house, so my parents weren’t with me. Anyway, I had gotten off the swings and began to skip merrily back home, humming zip-a-dee-doo-da when I saw some dark figure lumbering toward me. I hadn’t known what it was, but when it got closer, I saw that it was a dirty looking Mexican, holding a beer bottle and grumbling slurred Spanish words. Of course, I was young, and hadn’t known he was drunk at the time. In fact, I just thought he looked tired. He kept swaying, and his eyes were half-closed and rimmed with red. So being my cute and innocent self, I said:
“Hey mister? Are you tired! Why don’t you come over and sleep at my house?”
How was I supposed to know not to bring home drunk Mexican strangers?
He began to yell at me in Spanish and waving his beer bottle in the air. It scared me even more when he yelled at me in a different language, especially because I didn’t know what he was saying. I had begun to cry; I remember having fat tear drops sluicing down my cheeks. And then he had dropped his bottle, and it had shattered against the concrete, sending shards flying. One had dug so deep into my hand, that it began gushing blood. I still have the scar. I ran home crying even harder then, shouting: “Freak! Freak! You’re all freaks!”
I’ve been afraid of foreign people ever since…and drunks.
My parents tried to send me to a shrink, hoping that if I talked about it, I would get over my xenophobia. Turns out, my shrink was from Sweden, and I ran out screaming before he even had a chance to ask, “How was your day?”
My parents never sent me to another shrink again. I started failing school too, for we had many foreign kids in my class. I could never pay attention to the lessons; I was to busy staring at the foreign kids as if they were some kind of deadly disease. My teachers suggested switching classes, but all of them had at least two foreign kids. I wanted to drop out, but my parents were against it. My friends also hung out with me less, because whenever we went out in public, and passed by some Cubans mowing the lawns or something, I would begin to shriek like crazy, and it would take so long for my friends to control me again.
But I was fine with it; I wasn’t much of a people person. I spent most of my time outdoors, walking through my garden, sometimes going down to the park to watch the little kids play while sitting on the swings. I spent the rest of the time I didn’t spend outside in my room, reading, drawing, or just looking at the ceiling and thinking. My parents worried, but I didn’t care. I was fine, although I hated these nightmares I kept having.
I got out of my bed and pulled on jeans and a blouse before heading out of my room and down the stairs. My parents were already up, mom was frying some bacon, and my father was watching the replay of last night’s football game while picking at his scrambled eggs.
“Morning…” I yawned, announcing my presence in the room. My father nodded at me before returning his attention back to the TV. He was a sports freak.
“Good morning, Izzy,” my mom greeted me, giving me a warm smile. “Would you like some bacon?” She said everything politely. That’s just how my mom was, always the polite one.
“Sure thanks,” I replied, sitting down at the table. Muffin, my light brown kitten leaped onto my lap and curled up, purring fiercely. I smiled and stroked her silky pelt. Muffin was my best friend, she never questioned about my phobia, never tried to send me to some shrink, and never fussed about my fears. She was just there to comfort me when I needed her.
My mother laid out a plate full of eggs and bacon in front of me. I thanked her and dug into it. I was starving.
“So we got another call from your teacher today, Mr. Smith,” my mom began. Her voice was quiet, and I knew that she was about to explode. I should’ve brought my earplugs.
“And?” I tried to sound indifferent.
“He said you’re failing his class. And when you gave him your homework yesterday, it was your Spanish homework.”
“I guess I picked up the wrong paper,” I mumbled, shrugging. “It could’ve happened to anyone.”
“Did you even bother to check if it was the correct homework?”
“Why? It was in my math folder…”
“I am sick and tired of this Isabella McCullough! This is the third time in the past week that I’ve gotten a call from your teacher that said you were failing! You better get your grades up or else I’m taking your cell phone!” she snapped at me.
“Fine! I don’t even use it anyways!” I retorted. We glared at each other.
“It’s about time you got over this ridiculous xenophobia!” My mother hissed. “It’s getting in the way of you passing the ninth grade!”
“I don’t care if I freaking pass!” I growled, standing up abruptly. I grabbed my backpack, shoved it over my shoulder and stomped out of the house. It was a beautiful day out, with the sun shining brightly above, and fluffy white clouds dotting the sky here and there. But to me, it felt as if the sky was gray, with cold rain pelting down on me. I hated when I fought with my mother. We had always been so close. We used to always go to Disney World, me clinging to her when we went on the scary rides, which were mostly all of them. I hated rollercoaster’s, things that shot straight up and things that went upside down. But my mother loved all of that stuff, so I went with her to make her happy. She would always take me to get ice cream after, but I would instantly throw it up. My mother would always laugh, and I would always join in with her.
But ever since I started failing school, we’ve been drifting farther and farther apart. I stalked away from my house, not bothering to look back. I knew I shouldn’t have yelled at her, but I had been too pissed off. I was definitely going to be in trouble when I got home. I sighed, and felt as if my own personal rain cloud was hovering above my head.
The moment I reached the school gates, I knew I was late. None of the teenagers were out in the courtyard, but I spotted a group of them running along the red track, and I could hear the faint whistle from P.E coach. “Ahh…shit!” I hissed under my breath. I rushed into the brown stone building and down the hall, toward my English class. I opened the door, and stepped into the room, breathless.
Immediately, the teens in the class turned their heads as one to look at me. I blushed, wishing that I hadn’t made such an entrance. “Nice of you to join us, Miss McCullough,” Mrs. Baretta growled. “Take your seat and turn your book to page 124.”
I nodded, bowing my head, so no one could see how red my face was. Everyone turned their attention back to their books; my friend Mary didn’t even look at me as I passed. I understood why she didn’t pay attention to me anymore; I haven’t spoken to her since the beginning of the year. I sat down at my desk and placed my backpack on the desk, blocking my face from Mrs. Baretta. It was then that I realized someone was sitting next to me.
I had always sat by myself, everyone else sat with their friends, or at least with someone else. I had never seen this kid before, so I guessed he was new. I also guessed I missed his introduction.
He was very handsome, with dark tan skin. His eyes were shockingly green, and they stuck out against the color of his face. His cheekbones were high and angular, his lips full. His nose was perfectly straight. His hair was a wave of black that curled slightly. He had a friendly grin splayed across his face as he looked at me. But I didn’t smile back. Those features…they definitely weren’t American.
“Hello, my name is Jasper.” He had an accent; I just didn’t which country it came from. “I’m from Spain.” That answered my question. I scooted to the edge of my seat, shaking uncontrollably, and began to scream.
-*****************-
I was sent home early, since I had been sent into hysterics. The other teachers and kids obviously didn’t want to witness another one of my episodes, so I willingly agreed to be picked up by my dad. He came in about five minutes, pulling up to the school in his blue Volkswagen. I clambered into the car, and my dad pulled away from the school and back onto the road. I fell into an embarrassed silence.
“New kid?” My dad spoke.
“Yeah,” I replied quietly.
“Foreign?”
“Yeah…”
“Where’s the kid from this time? Italy? Germany? Mexico?”
“Spain.”
“Ah.”
I instantly felt more comfortable. That’s what I loved about my dad. He never overreacted, never scolded me on something I couldn’t control. He accepted my xenophobia better than my mother, and even I, did.
We arrived at my house a minute later, and I climbed out of the car. As I got out, I swear I heard my dad sigh.
-******************-
I was glad my mother was home, she worked at the hotel in Port St. Lucy. She wouldn’t be back till around seven, and I knew that was when I would be receiving another scolding for arguing with her that morning, and by freaking out and going home early because of some new kid. So I decided to get out of the house and head to the park, where I can think about what I’m going to say to my mom and watch the little toddlers.
School must have been let out by now, it was almost four. I had spent most of the day inside, watching TV with my father, doing the laundry and dishes and cleaned my room, which wasn’t something I did that often. But I was tired of being stuck inside, so I left a note for my dad, who was now asleep, and headed outdoors. It was still a beautiful day, and I no longer felt as if a rain cloud was hovering above my head. Instead, a heavy pressure settled over me, as I imagined my mother’s anger. Suddenly I wished I was still only a little kid, and that I was at Disney World with my mom and throwing up all over the place. Those were the good times.
But as I made it over to my usual swing, I froze. There he was, the foreign kid…Jasper was it? Sitting in my seat! He was watching the little kids with a peaceful look on his face just like the way I did.
I began to back away. I couldn’t let him notice me; I couldn’t let myself make a scene in front of all those little kids.
But I didn’t back up fast enough, because the next minute, Jasper looked up at me, his green eyes penetrating and stood. I shook my head slightly. Please don’t come over and talk to me. Please don’t come near me!
But he ignored my silent please. He jogged over to me. “Isabella right?” he called. I backed away faster. Don’t come near me! Don’t come near me!
“Wait!” he cried. “I want to talk to you!”
I let out a muffled scream; I had covered my mouth with my hand. Suddenly, a jolt of pain shot up my leg and I fell to the ground. My heel pulsed and I lifted my head to see that I had tripped over a large rock. God why am I so damn clumsy at times like this? Jasper loomed over me, his green eyes filled with concern, but in my mind, I was remembering the drunk Mexican…and the beer bottle…I shuddered horribly. Even my fingertips were shaking.
“Get away!” I moaned. “Leave me alone!”
“I’m not gonna hurt you.”
My eyelids flew open. Jasper’s voice had been so soft, so soothing. It reminded me of my mother’s when she used to comfort me after I had a nightmare, or had scraped my knee. I looked up in surprise.
He was holding his hand out to me, a worried look on his face. “Are you okay? You fell pretty hard.”
“Ugh…” I groaned. “I’m fine.”
I stared at his hand. Should I take it? I looked at his face again. It was so beautiful, and so friendly. He looked as if he had known me all his life. I gulped. Helping me up wasn’t bad right? I mean, there were no beer bottles in sight, and he didn’t smell like alcohol. I decided to at least let him help me up. I tentatively reached out and touched his out-stretched hand. It was rough but warm. I gulped again, grasping it firmly. He easily pulled me up, his muscles barely straining.
“Thanks…” I mumbled shyly, removing my hand from his and holding it to my chest. It was warm.
“You’re welcome,” he said, smiling.
We fell silent.
I suddenly felt like I should apologize. “I’m sorry…”
“You have xenophobia.” It was more of a statement than a question. I looked at him in surprise and then ducked my head, embarrassed.
“Yes.”
“And that’s why when you saw me and I said hi that you started screaming.” That was a statement also.
“Yes…” I wanted to get away from him, but found that I couldn’t.
Jasper didn’t answer. He studied my face slowly for a long moment, and then smiled. It was a stunning smile. “Well I’m gonna help you.”
I looked at him in surprise. “What…?”
“I’m gonna help you get over your xenophobia.”
I gaped at him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m gonna help you get over your xenophobia. I’m gonna show you that not all foreign people are scary.”
“How…?” I was confused. Why did this guy from Spain, who I barely knew, want to help me get over my xenophobia?
“I’m gonna show you.”
And that was it. Over the next few days, Jasper stuck by my side. He was in all of my classes, and always sat next to me. I was still wary of him, and sometimes I still wanted to scream in fear, but the more days he spent with me, the more I felt comfortable. I guess…I was starting to like him. He was very interesting too. He told me all about his family, about how he had three brothers and two sisters, and how he was the oldest. He had moved to Spain because his family was rather poor, and couldn’t find work. He had two dogs, Bonita and Zorro. He liked fishing, swimming, sports, reading, thinking, and watching the little kids, just like I did. He even came over to my house once, much to my parents’ surprise, and showed me how to cook delicious tamales.
And in return, I felt myself telling him all about me. I told him I liked the same stuff he did, and about Muffin, my best friend. I told him about how much I hated math and about how I was bad at it. He offered to tutor me when I told him that; he was a whiz at math. I told him how my xenophobia started, and how my parents had tired to help by sending me to shrink. I told him about how my friends wouldn’t hang out with me anymore and me them.
I couldn’t believe it. I actually felt as if Jasper was just a person, not a guy from Spain. For once, I didn’t feel afraid of him. I met his family; they were all very nice, just like him. His baby brother and baby sisters were adorable, and his dogs were loving. My heart fluttered when I realized I wasn’t that afraid of any of them.
Jasper was helping me. Step by step, he was helping me go back out into the world, into a world of people that weren’t just Americans. He helped me realized that foreign people were just like us Americans. In fact, they may even be better. Jasper was helping me by being my friend, someone I can tell all my fears and problems to.
That night, I dreamt about the dark tunnel, but this time, I felt the warm hand of Jasper in mine. With a beautiful, reassuring smile, he led me into the light.
THE END
I was having that dream again, the dream where I’m walking through that dark tunnel, searching for the light, but never finding it. And the strange thing was that I knew I was dreaming, but I still couldn’t make myself wake up. So I stumbled along through the darkness, knowing that I would wake up screaming once again. In about five, four, three, two…
And then I felt the warm meaty hand grasp my shoulder, felt the warm breath caress my cheek. And then came the husky voice.
“Hola, senorita.”
And then I woke up screaming, sitting straight up in my bed, cold sweat dotting my brow. I was panting, and trembling fiercely, my hands were shaking as I pulled the blanket off of me. I knew my parents wouldn’t come to check up on me, they were accustomed to my screaming by now. This was the seventh night in a row that I’ve had this nightmare. I shuddered, feeling as if I were about to vomit as I remembered the husky voice, speaking those two Spanish words.
I had xenophobia, a major fear of foreign people. I didn’t know why I felt that way, I mean, they never did anything to hurt me. But it all started when I was five. I was playing at the park, and had been getting dark. I was old enough to go to the park by myself, since it was close to my house, so my parents weren’t with me. Anyway, I had gotten off the swings and began to skip merrily back home, humming zip-a-dee-doo-da when I saw some dark figure lumbering toward me. I hadn’t known what it was, but when it got closer, I saw that it was a dirty looking Mexican, holding a beer bottle and grumbling slurred Spanish words. Of course, I was young, and hadn’t known he was drunk at the time. In fact, I just thought he looked tired. He kept swaying, and his eyes were half-closed and rimmed with red. So being my cute and innocent self, I said:
“Hey mister? Are you tired! Why don’t you come over and sleep at my house?”
How was I supposed to know not to bring home drunk Mexican strangers?
He began to yell at me in Spanish and waving his beer bottle in the air. It scared me even more when he yelled at me in a different language, especially because I didn’t know what he was saying. I had begun to cry; I remember having fat tear drops sluicing down my cheeks. And then he had dropped his bottle, and it had shattered against the concrete, sending shards flying. One had dug so deep into my hand, that it began gushing blood. I still have the scar. I ran home crying even harder then, shouting: “Freak! Freak! You’re all freaks!”
I’ve been afraid of foreign people ever since…and drunks.
My parents tried to send me to a shrink, hoping that if I talked about it, I would get over my xenophobia. Turns out, my shrink was from Sweden, and I ran out screaming before he even had a chance to ask, “How was your day?”
My parents never sent me to another shrink again. I started failing school too, for we had many foreign kids in my class. I could never pay attention to the lessons; I was to busy staring at the foreign kids as if they were some kind of deadly disease. My teachers suggested switching classes, but all of them had at least two foreign kids. I wanted to drop out, but my parents were against it. My friends also hung out with me less, because whenever we went out in public, and passed by some Cubans mowing the lawns or something, I would begin to shriek like crazy, and it would take so long for my friends to control me again.
But I was fine with it; I wasn’t much of a people person. I spent most of my time outdoors, walking through my garden, sometimes going down to the park to watch the little kids play while sitting on the swings. I spent the rest of the time I didn’t spend outside in my room, reading, drawing, or just looking at the ceiling and thinking. My parents worried, but I didn’t care. I was fine, although I hated these nightmares I kept having.
I got out of my bed and pulled on jeans and a blouse before heading out of my room and down the stairs. My parents were already up, mom was frying some bacon, and my father was watching the replay of last night’s football game while picking at his scrambled eggs.
“Morning…” I yawned, announcing my presence in the room. My father nodded at me before returning his attention back to the TV. He was a sports freak.
“Good morning, Izzy,” my mom greeted me, giving me a warm smile. “Would you like some bacon?” She said everything politely. That’s just how my mom was, always the polite one.
“Sure thanks,” I replied, sitting down at the table. Muffin, my light brown kitten leaped onto my lap and curled up, purring fiercely. I smiled and stroked her silky pelt. Muffin was my best friend, she never questioned about my phobia, never tried to send me to some shrink, and never fussed about my fears. She was just there to comfort me when I needed her.
My mother laid out a plate full of eggs and bacon in front of me. I thanked her and dug into it. I was starving.
“So we got another call from your teacher today, Mr. Smith,” my mom began. Her voice was quiet, and I knew that she was about to explode. I should’ve brought my earplugs.
“And?” I tried to sound indifferent.
“He said you’re failing his class. And when you gave him your homework yesterday, it was your Spanish homework.”
“I guess I picked up the wrong paper,” I mumbled, shrugging. “It could’ve happened to anyone.”
“Did you even bother to check if it was the correct homework?”
“Why? It was in my math folder…”
“I am sick and tired of this Isabella McCullough! This is the third time in the past week that I’ve gotten a call from your teacher that said you were failing! You better get your grades up or else I’m taking your cell phone!” she snapped at me.
“Fine! I don’t even use it anyways!” I retorted. We glared at each other.
“It’s about time you got over this ridiculous xenophobia!” My mother hissed. “It’s getting in the way of you passing the ninth grade!”
“I don’t care if I freaking pass!” I growled, standing up abruptly. I grabbed my backpack, shoved it over my shoulder and stomped out of the house. It was a beautiful day out, with the sun shining brightly above, and fluffy white clouds dotting the sky here and there. But to me, it felt as if the sky was gray, with cold rain pelting down on me. I hated when I fought with my mother. We had always been so close. We used to always go to Disney World, me clinging to her when we went on the scary rides, which were mostly all of them. I hated rollercoaster’s, things that shot straight up and things that went upside down. But my mother loved all of that stuff, so I went with her to make her happy. She would always take me to get ice cream after, but I would instantly throw it up. My mother would always laugh, and I would always join in with her.
But ever since I started failing school, we’ve been drifting farther and farther apart. I stalked away from my house, not bothering to look back. I knew I shouldn’t have yelled at her, but I had been too pissed off. I was definitely going to be in trouble when I got home. I sighed, and felt as if my own personal rain cloud was hovering above my head.
The moment I reached the school gates, I knew I was late. None of the teenagers were out in the courtyard, but I spotted a group of them running along the red track, and I could hear the faint whistle from P.E coach. “Ahh…shit!” I hissed under my breath. I rushed into the brown stone building and down the hall, toward my English class. I opened the door, and stepped into the room, breathless.
Immediately, the teens in the class turned their heads as one to look at me. I blushed, wishing that I hadn’t made such an entrance. “Nice of you to join us, Miss McCullough,” Mrs. Baretta growled. “Take your seat and turn your book to page 124.”
I nodded, bowing my head, so no one could see how red my face was. Everyone turned their attention back to their books; my friend Mary didn’t even look at me as I passed. I understood why she didn’t pay attention to me anymore; I haven’t spoken to her since the beginning of the year. I sat down at my desk and placed my backpack on the desk, blocking my face from Mrs. Baretta. It was then that I realized someone was sitting next to me.
I had always sat by myself, everyone else sat with their friends, or at least with someone else. I had never seen this kid before, so I guessed he was new. I also guessed I missed his introduction.
He was very handsome, with dark tan skin. His eyes were shockingly green, and they stuck out against the color of his face. His cheekbones were high and angular, his lips full. His nose was perfectly straight. His hair was a wave of black that curled slightly. He had a friendly grin splayed across his face as he looked at me. But I didn’t smile back. Those features…they definitely weren’t American.
“Hello, my name is Jasper.” He had an accent; I just didn’t which country it came from. “I’m from Spain.” That answered my question. I scooted to the edge of my seat, shaking uncontrollably, and began to scream.
-*****************-
I was sent home early, since I had been sent into hysterics. The other teachers and kids obviously didn’t want to witness another one of my episodes, so I willingly agreed to be picked up by my dad. He came in about five minutes, pulling up to the school in his blue Volkswagen. I clambered into the car, and my dad pulled away from the school and back onto the road. I fell into an embarrassed silence.
“New kid?” My dad spoke.
“Yeah,” I replied quietly.
“Foreign?”
“Yeah…”
“Where’s the kid from this time? Italy? Germany? Mexico?”
“Spain.”
“Ah.”
I instantly felt more comfortable. That’s what I loved about my dad. He never overreacted, never scolded me on something I couldn’t control. He accepted my xenophobia better than my mother, and even I, did.
We arrived at my house a minute later, and I climbed out of the car. As I got out, I swear I heard my dad sigh.
-******************-
I was glad my mother was home, she worked at the hotel in Port St. Lucy. She wouldn’t be back till around seven, and I knew that was when I would be receiving another scolding for arguing with her that morning, and by freaking out and going home early because of some new kid. So I decided to get out of the house and head to the park, where I can think about what I’m going to say to my mom and watch the little toddlers.
School must have been let out by now, it was almost four. I had spent most of the day inside, watching TV with my father, doing the laundry and dishes and cleaned my room, which wasn’t something I did that often. But I was tired of being stuck inside, so I left a note for my dad, who was now asleep, and headed outdoors. It was still a beautiful day, and I no longer felt as if a rain cloud was hovering above my head. Instead, a heavy pressure settled over me, as I imagined my mother’s anger. Suddenly I wished I was still only a little kid, and that I was at Disney World with my mom and throwing up all over the place. Those were the good times.
But as I made it over to my usual swing, I froze. There he was, the foreign kid…Jasper was it? Sitting in my seat! He was watching the little kids with a peaceful look on his face just like the way I did.
I began to back away. I couldn’t let him notice me; I couldn’t let myself make a scene in front of all those little kids.
But I didn’t back up fast enough, because the next minute, Jasper looked up at me, his green eyes penetrating and stood. I shook my head slightly. Please don’t come over and talk to me. Please don’t come near me!
But he ignored my silent please. He jogged over to me. “Isabella right?” he called. I backed away faster. Don’t come near me! Don’t come near me!
“Wait!” he cried. “I want to talk to you!”
I let out a muffled scream; I had covered my mouth with my hand. Suddenly, a jolt of pain shot up my leg and I fell to the ground. My heel pulsed and I lifted my head to see that I had tripped over a large rock. God why am I so damn clumsy at times like this? Jasper loomed over me, his green eyes filled with concern, but in my mind, I was remembering the drunk Mexican…and the beer bottle…I shuddered horribly. Even my fingertips were shaking.
“Get away!” I moaned. “Leave me alone!”
“I’m not gonna hurt you.”
My eyelids flew open. Jasper’s voice had been so soft, so soothing. It reminded me of my mother’s when she used to comfort me after I had a nightmare, or had scraped my knee. I looked up in surprise.
He was holding his hand out to me, a worried look on his face. “Are you okay? You fell pretty hard.”
“Ugh…” I groaned. “I’m fine.”
I stared at his hand. Should I take it? I looked at his face again. It was so beautiful, and so friendly. He looked as if he had known me all his life. I gulped. Helping me up wasn’t bad right? I mean, there were no beer bottles in sight, and he didn’t smell like alcohol. I decided to at least let him help me up. I tentatively reached out and touched his out-stretched hand. It was rough but warm. I gulped again, grasping it firmly. He easily pulled me up, his muscles barely straining.
“Thanks…” I mumbled shyly, removing my hand from his and holding it to my chest. It was warm.
“You’re welcome,” he said, smiling.
We fell silent.
I suddenly felt like I should apologize. “I’m sorry…”
“You have xenophobia.” It was more of a statement than a question. I looked at him in surprise and then ducked my head, embarrassed.
“Yes.”
“And that’s why when you saw me and I said hi that you started screaming.” That was a statement also.
“Yes…” I wanted to get away from him, but found that I couldn’t.
Jasper didn’t answer. He studied my face slowly for a long moment, and then smiled. It was a stunning smile. “Well I’m gonna help you.”
I looked at him in surprise. “What…?”
“I’m gonna help you get over your xenophobia.”
I gaped at him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m gonna help you get over your xenophobia. I’m gonna show you that not all foreign people are scary.”
“How…?” I was confused. Why did this guy from Spain, who I barely knew, want to help me get over my xenophobia?
“I’m gonna show you.”
And that was it. Over the next few days, Jasper stuck by my side. He was in all of my classes, and always sat next to me. I was still wary of him, and sometimes I still wanted to scream in fear, but the more days he spent with me, the more I felt comfortable. I guess…I was starting to like him. He was very interesting too. He told me all about his family, about how he had three brothers and two sisters, and how he was the oldest. He had moved to Spain because his family was rather poor, and couldn’t find work. He had two dogs, Bonita and Zorro. He liked fishing, swimming, sports, reading, thinking, and watching the little kids, just like I did. He even came over to my house once, much to my parents’ surprise, and showed me how to cook delicious tamales.
And in return, I felt myself telling him all about me. I told him I liked the same stuff he did, and about Muffin, my best friend. I told him about how much I hated math and about how I was bad at it. He offered to tutor me when I told him that; he was a whiz at math. I told him how my xenophobia started, and how my parents had tired to help by sending me to shrink. I told him about how my friends wouldn’t hang out with me anymore and me them.
I couldn’t believe it. I actually felt as if Jasper was just a person, not a guy from Spain. For once, I didn’t feel afraid of him. I met his family; they were all very nice, just like him. His baby brother and baby sisters were adorable, and his dogs were loving. My heart fluttered when I realized I wasn’t that afraid of any of them.
Jasper was helping me. Step by step, he was helping me go back out into the world, into a world of people that weren’t just Americans. He helped me realized that foreign people were just like us Americans. In fact, they may even be better. Jasper was helping me by being my friend, someone I can tell all my fears and problems to.
That night, I dreamt about the dark tunnel, but this time, I felt the warm hand of Jasper in mine. With a beautiful, reassuring smile, he led me into the light.
THE END
