"What do you remember from El Salvador?"

 This question. This conversation.

 Again.

 "I remember the mountains." Is my reply. Hushed. Apprehensive. How many times have I heard this song and dance? "I remember the beaches. They're nothing like California's. They're warm, and vast, and everything a beach ought to be. I remember the volcanoes, and the pupusas."

 They smile, curious, like always. Let's see how long that lasts. 

 "Do you ever miss it there?"

 "Of course I do." I'm used to it. I'm so used to it. They just want to hear my sob story. It's just that... "But I don't really miss school."

 They pause. That statement is out of the blue. Especially for me, goody-two-shoes, Ms. A's. "Uh, why?"

 "I hated it there." I explain. They're confused, not intrigued. This isn't the story they came to hear. A deep breath, I continue. "It made me feel like my life was worthless. It was all about school, always."

 They cut in. "Oh, but, when did you move here?" 

And back on track, in their eyes.

"A few years ago." I offer. Watch them, anticipate the question. That one:

"We came on a plane once my dad managed to get us the residency." I add before they ask.

I add, and watch a bit of the light in their eyes die.

"Oh."

Because that wasn't the sob story they wanted to hear. It never was, not really. People always wanted the tales of crossing the border. You're an immigrant, you must've crossed. At least by car. Plane was boring. That was how civilized people traveled. And for some reason you can't be an immigrant and cross on a plane. 

They tried to pick their curiosity back into place. "Well, how hard was it to learn English?"

The unspoken remained, because it was just a guarantee: How hard was it dealing with a language barrier?

"I actually already knew English." I said, with a shrug. "I learned by watching YouTube videos. Content in Spanish got boring, you know?"

"Oh. Really? That's impressive!" And I felt the praise. I really did. YouTube videos? Brilliant, absolutely brilliant, you must be a genius. 

Except that I also watched that light just fully flicker out, in their eyes. 

That's not what they wanted to hear. Of course it's not! Where's that tale of immigrant struggles? Of culture shock, of language barriers, of being picked on for screwing up your grammar and being permanently in ELD? That tale of having to hop the border, of that conversation with the government officials at the gates? The discrimination? The struggles in this new world? I just didn't have that. I was an immigrant, born in El Salvador beneath tropical skies vast and blue, raised in the folds of a volcano. And yet somehow...

I wasn't?

"So... Is it better in America?"

The U.S.A. My brain automatically corrects, but I keep my mouth shut. Keep it shut and pull a smile. "Yeah. There's so many cool things here. California is kinda flat, though."

Keep it shut, pull a smile, and don't think about the fact that we just skipped that caveat. Completely. That: Oh, what did you struggle with? That they always want to hear. That unique story, that unique struggle, that unique trauma. Everyone has it, right? Right, right, but not me, not me, because I didn't feel culture shock, sheltered as I was. Not me, because I could speak English. Not me, not me, because school has never been a struggle, not now, certainly not before, right?

Or is it that I just keep my mouth shut? Because whenever they ask, they're always so direct, as to what they expect, that there's no wiggle room for what I went through? Like when they ask for my first name and last name, and there's no room for my middle name, because there just wasn't ever consideration that I had one. So I keep my mouth shut, shut, because they don't want to know. They never expect that; they never want to hear the tales of how I kicked and screamed and punched and agonized over school when I moved here. Never want to hear the tales of how the school system here was so freeing I actively sought for familiarity by making it restricting. Never want to hear the tales of going to sleep at night, crying because I was sure I was a failure, I was sure I was stupid, because now that school wasn't hanging over my every breathing moment, I had time to think, and thinking led to spiraling, and spiraling led to crying and hating.

Never wanted to hear how I'd never had a chance to have my voice heard before.

Because that's not the immigrant struggle. 

And I'm an immigrant with "no" struggle, then.

Just answer the question. 

Again.