by Bedar

Language doesn’t care about your social standing. I am a future law professor in my country, and among
the academic community, I can speak with the greatest of ease. My language is in perfect harmony with
my thoughts, and is my passport to high society. I can also speak of philosophy, music, and art. But that
first day almost a year ago, as soon as I set foot in the United States, everything changed for me. In New
York I became something besides a prospective lawyer. I became a foreigner—a foreigner that didn’t
even know he was holding his map upside down.

And there was so much more that I didn’t know! With a change of language also comes a change of
culture, and no dictionary can help you discover these changes. For example, I bought an airplane
ticket from my hometown in Kurdistan to New York, and I reasoned with myself that once I arrived in
New York it would be cheaper to buy tickets for a particular flight. I was right about that. What I didn’t
know, however, was that when I got to New York, there were no longer seats available on the flight, and
that the next available ticket would be more than a day away. So, horribly, I was stuck in the New York
Airport for more than 24 hours. I thought about getting a hotel, but it was winter, it was dark, and after
picking up my two large suitcases from baggage claim, I didn’t think I could walk very far. I did step out
quickly onto the street, but after snapping a photo in the incredibly cold New York air, I realized I would
not step outside the airport again. I settled into a stiff leather chair and watched my suitcases carefully.
I waited. And waited. My laptop was dying. I looked for a plug. Even the outlets were different here.
Why didn’t I know that? Another thing I should have known.

One long day and one stiff neck later, a lady at my gate told me to get on board. I was so happy to
finally board a plane headed to Phoenix.

When I first arrived at the Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, I walked out onto the south curb. My laptop was
now dead. This meant that I couldn’t use Google Maps to find my way, so I motioned for an airport taxi
conductor to come speak to me.

I gave the address to this man, who read it and said, “I will take you for sixty dollars.” My English
listening skills were not good, especially when dealing with another foreigner. The conductor, a small
brown man with a mustache, said it again, “Sixty dollars!” I thought to myself, “What a horrible price for
just a small ride!”

It wasn’t until seven months later that I started remembering this event, and I came to the realization
that he did NOT say sixty dollars, but sixteen!
Yet that day my poor, uneducated ears heard sixty, and so my ears and I refused to listen to him
anymore. I told him, “Oh God, no!” and that it was too much to pay. I walked away from this poor little
man and wandered back toward the airport information center. I was informed by a tall woman to take
a bus that would take me to the light rail. I fumbled around with my English and she finally gave me a
list of buses. She told me which bus would take me to the light rail.

“What’s a light rail?” I said.

“It’s a train,” she said.

So I boarded a shuttle that took me to the light rail. I met a conductor.

“Could you please take me to that address?”

He was not a conductor. I asked another person, “Where’s this address?” I said.

“Just take the light rail,” he said.

And then, I don’t know, I simply got on and off, grabbing my suitcases as I went, asking people if they
knew the address I kept unfolding out of my pocket.

Soon I was at the end of the line at a place called Sycamore Station, and I asked for help again from a
complete stranger.

“Get on that bus,” he said.

“Alright,” I thought, “I can get on another bus.” I looked at my luggage. My hands were so tired. They
would not straighten.

This bus was not like the shuttle, and it was not like the buses back home. In my country, we don’t pay
as soon as we get on the bus. We pass the money to the driver after we are seated. So when I went
inside the bus, I asked the driver, “Could you please take me to this address?” He stared.
“Okay, it’s on my way.”

And then he stared at me. And I stared at him. And then I turned away to sit down. He raised his voice.

“You have to pay.” I turned back around, set down my luggage, and felt in my pockets for American
money. I took out dollars, could I use dollars? I took out coins, was it enough? The bus driver stared at
me. Finally, I sat down.

Soon I was sitting down, frustrated that I didn’t know how to do something as simple as pay for a bus. I
refused to look at the bus driver, but then I realized he was my only hope of finding my hotel. So I kept
looking out the window at each stop, hoping he would remember my request for help. Finally, at one
stop, he spoke.

“It’s down this street to your right,” he said. I wondered if he was speaking to me. He said it again, this
time looking straight at me. I got off.

When I finally unlocked my hotel room, I sat on the bed, and I realized it was the first time I had ever
been in a place without my family.

It had been fifty-five hours since I had first stepped out of my home in my country. Now, more than two
days later, I finally had the chance to sleep. Ironically, I was wide awake. Arizona time was ten hours
behind the time zone in my city. So day and night were reversed.

And now, as I sat in my room, I noticed how lonely I felt. There was no one there. When I was home, if I
opened a door, I would be greeted by my wife, mother, father, sisters, and brothers. But now, it was
just me. The hotel room was small, and it began to feel smaller. It was the first time a feeling came over
me.

“Oh my God! I am so far from my family.” This thought kept spinning in my head. I am so far from my
family. I am away from my family for a whole year. One year. 55 hours. These numbers kept going
through my head. I cried.
I looked out the window. Where was I? What was I doing? It is time to go home. There were too many
new rules. I can’t even get on a bus, I told myself. I can’t even get off a bus. What else don’t I know?
Language and culture, my old friends, had turned their backs on me.

That night, for a brief moment, I decided to go back. I told myself to go back home and cancel my
scholarship. I thought, I should just forget this. It took me awhile before I remembered why I came in the
first place. That is when a phrase came to my mind.

It said, “To be something special, do something special”

I am an educated person, but I am also a faithful person. As a Muslim, I believe in God. And it was in
that hotel room that I remembered that I wanted to do something for Him. I wanted to be a productive
member of my society. Of course I was going to become a law professor in my country, but I knew when
I made this decision that I had wanted more. I wanted to be a lawyer with a law degree from the United
States. I wanted to help my country to escape from the government corruption that was a part of
everyday life. Strangely enough, I believed that learning American law would help make my job easier in
my own country. I needed to add my past experience as a lawyer with new knowledge, just like I
needed to learn a new language and culture.

Although it took me fifty-five hours to learn it, my first American lesson was a simple one. I learned that
life has many beginnings, and I was to begin again.

Things to Think About

Many people think that Bedar has courage. What does he do to demonstrate courage?

What is Bedar's motivation for learning English? Do you think it is important to have motivation to learn
a language? Why?