I have a new friend, Ryan.
He’s my current favorite person.
Ryan grew up in a very Christian family. In China, his native country, the government doesn’t like certain Christian families. And when a Communist government doesn’t like you, you’re fucked. They took away his house. They confiscated his family’s store and all their working privileges. Then the Commies pursued the family, so they could never stay in one city for too long. Ryan didn’t get to finish high school, learn to drive, or make any lasting friendships. When he was 16, his family illegally crossed the border into Laos and counted on the kindness of strangers to get to Bangkok, where they would wait out a refuge offer from the US. Five hard years later, they arrived in good old sunny California.
I learned so much about our amber waves of grain from this Chinese refugee. The first one being that I might actually be proud of the purple mountain majesty. We are damn good hosts. Before Ryan, I’d never been a fan of welfare, believing the stories I’d heard about mothers popping out schools of babies to get more money and lazy people cashing in on our tax dollars. I’m a fan of good ol’ working hard, so I eschewed welfare as an option for anyone (one of my very few Republican tendencies).
But that’s not what it’s about at all. At least not in Ryan’s case. He gets just a small stipend but lots of help in finding jobs. His parents get intense English classes and their own tiny apartment in a very Chinese suburb. Their church helped too, and after arriving in February, they already seem quite comfortable. They really needed the help, and I like that our country can and does give it to them. What else would they have done?
“I went to San Diego a few weekends ago. Just had to get out of LA,” Ryan said last week on the phone. He sounds like an Angeleno already even though he just bought his very first pair of sunglasses last month. That’s why he’s my favorite person. So driven. So adorable. So ready to be American. But frustrated because he and his parents are stuck in a suburban one-bedroom where not many people speak English.
And that’s where I come in. I have appointed myself Ambassador of Americaness and have vowed to show Ryan all the evils of America, like Taco Bell and He-Man. So, where did I take the whole family to give them a peer into American gastronomy? The Cheesecake Factory. The bread. The humongous plates. The hustle and bustle. The menu as long as the bible. It was such a joy to see it all from foreign eyes: The curious eyeing of the ‘tell you when the table’s ready’ buzzer, the humongous drink glasses, and the ice water deemed ‘too cold.’
After an awkward instruction of napkin placement, we were all in. Ryan said the salad was the best he’d ever had. His dad ate the shit out of some tamales. His mom nibbled daintily at the salmon. But both parents were fascinated by the little gold packets in the middle of the table. They rolled them in their hands curiously and peered inside. Though I tried to show them that the creamy spread was meant for bread, they didn’t mind eating it a la carte. When it was all over, we’d demolished a goat cheese pizza, several entrees, and a raspberry cheesecake. When asked the favorite part of the meal, the parents pointed to the butter. Butter. The crux of American culture. Who needs goat cheese pizza when you’ve got butter? Who needs anything when you’ve got butter? I agree. And I appreciate that the eyes of these newcomers have led me to appreciate the little things, the things that come in gold wrappers. The things that were sitting there all along. And free.
God Bless America: We have butter.
Burritos and sunglasses. It’s like he was born here. 