The good vibes

“Hey Ramzy, do you want this pizza?”

Lunch time. One of my friend just brought one large pan of pizza from the cafeteria. He want to share it with us. Including with me, who was apparently sitting next to him at the main corridor that afternoon. Unfortunately, the pizza’s topping is pepperoni. Of course I know what pepperoni is made of.

“Nah, man, I’m good for now.” This coleslaw might be tasteless, but I’m not switching to a haram diet plan for now.

“Really? You didn’t want some?”

“Nope, thank you.”

My other friend sitting next to me quickly intervened. “What’s wrong with you? That’s pepperoni!”

He suddenly looked very guilty. Maybe he didn’t remember that I’m a Muslim, and being a Muslim means a total abstinence from consuming pork. (Trust me, that’s the most general stereotype of Muslims Americans tend to remember). Offering a large pan of pepperoni pizza to this Muslim guy is the mother of all crime.

“Oh man, I’m so sorry. I apologize.” His voice turned more and more apologetic. “I’m sorry, I totally forget about it.”

“No, no, that’s okay.”

But he didn’t give up. He handed me a bowl of mozzarella fingers from his tray. “But you can eat cheese, right? Here, have the fingers. I’m so sorry. Please, have this one.”

I gladly accept another awkward moment of my intercultural experience that afternoon.

I arrived here in the United States in mid-August, when summer is not entirely over but fall has not arrived yet. Like other exchange students, I began my journey in Washington D.C, the first American city I stepped foot in. And that’s also where I had my first impression of American people and society in general: they are warm, caring people. Everybody seems to be nice with each other, and they treat strangers — like us, the exchange students — with utmost respect and kindness.

At Washington D.C., we attended our one-day orientation. Arrived in the hotel, we lined up for registration and getting all administration stuff done. While we were waiting, there is this middle-aged gentlemen welcoming us with wide smile and sincere face. He dressed simply with volunteer identifications and greeted us one by one, shaking our hands, exchanging smiles and laughter. He even distributed all of our stuff to us. And turns out that he was some kind of a high-ranking official at AFS international leadership, and a former Ambassador of the United States to Panama. Wow, you can’t get a better welcome than that.

One of the first thing I learn here is that American people are just like many other people in the world. I am placed in Indianapolis, Indiana. It’s a lovely city with a population of a million people, but still retains its small-town feeling. The people here are typically Midwestern: nice, kind, often with smile. And the feeling of a distinct American cultural identity is very strong here.

Every morning, somebody might see me walking down the corridor and casually greeting “good morning!”, or maybe stopping for a little chat. If it’s Monday, they’ll ask “do you have a great weekend?”; if it’s Friday, maybe a little “have a great weekend!”. I used to left dumbstruck when somebody greeted me “how is it going?” politely and I didn’t even know him. Same thing, you can expect random fist bump from some guy you didn’t really know when you’re sitting alone in the library or cafeteria.

They know I’m a foreigner — an Englishman in New York, if Sting would put it — and they are naturally curious of it. (“So your name is Mow-ham-med, right?”). They would ask how do you like it here, whether it suit your expectation or not. They would gladly offer you help anytime you need it. They would happily hear your stories, feeling proud when you mention the reason why do you want to come here. (“Of course, we’re the greatest country in the world!”). Because just like many other people in this world, Americans are just as good, as kind, and as sincere as them.

I can feel this vibes everywhere. At my temporary host family house, where I got the first glimpse of American everyday life. At my current family’s house, where I stay awake until 2 AM in the morning to watch the Chicago Cubs making their history, inning by inning. At the debate class, where we discuss a motion of teacher-student fight. At the YMCA’s swimming pool, where the lifeguard used to be an exchange student too. At Model UN sessions, when we negotiate to save the world but ended up launching nuclear weapon to each other. At the Interdisciplinary class, when endless lecture of American history sometimes alternated with cranky memes and Hamilton’s rap battle song. At the newspaper class, where we discuss Harambe as serious journalistic stuff. At the school’s football field, where I interviewed the athletic director while roaming around with a golf cart. At Lucas Oil Stadium, where I watched my first football game. In Indianapolis. In New York City. In Cincinnati. In Washington. Everywhere.

This is not the first time I live abroad, but this is the first time I’m lost abroad. So far, I loved every single bit of it.

“So, have you missed home?” one of my friend asked lately.

“Well, I don’t really know,” I replied after a long thought.

Maybe I’ve found a new home.

Initially published in Bina Antarbudaya's Medium channel.