Michelle Winslow greeted here guests as they arrived, and a thought occurred to her: she had clearly, deliberately, been assigned all of the foreign kids in school. Because she was...
(Lake Point High School's all-American girl)
Because she was Russian, herself? That thought slowly marinated in her head, settling deeper. Fortunately, Michelle's training as a spy gave her some level of resistance to whatever was affecting her. No, Michelle had never been a spy. Masha had been. Masha Volkov was a Russian spy, and Michelle Winslow was as American as American could be.
But she remembered Masha. The realization hit her so hard she almost lost her composure in front of her guests, but her training-- Masha's training kept her body language unreadable: Masha was the real woman, and Michelle was the invention.
But at the same time as she knew that should have been true, what Michelle felt, what she experienced in this reality, was that Michelle was real, and Masha was almost like a book she had read. But it was slowly becoming like her favorite book, one that she'd read a dozen times over, the longer the evening went on.
Nonetheless...
"Okay," Michelle clasped her hands together as the fifth boy to arrive sat down on the last available sofa spot in the small apartment's living room, "it's time to introduce ourselves."
Blank stares. Michelle got the sense that they weren't confused or unwilling to participate, but rather that none of them were very comfortable speaking in English.
Her smile didn't falter. "It doesn't have to be a big deal, just your name, and what country you're from. I'll start: my name is Michelle, and I'm from America."
There was a special weight in that word, "America." She hadn't said she was American. She hadn't said she hadn't said she was from the United States. She had said she was from America. Like it was less a country, and more an ideal. America. Holding truths to be self-evident. Bringing in the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Giving them purple mountains' majesty and amber waves of grain. Watching that star spangled banner yet wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. All of those things. That's where Michelle was from.
America.
She gestured her hand towards the boy nearest to her, and he was slightly taken aback, but yet he followed the implied instruction nonetheless. "I am called Andres, and I am from Chile."
Michelle opened a drawer in her coffee table and pulled out a small stack of stickers. She peeled one off, an American flag, and stuck it on Andres's shirt, just over his left breast. "Try again."
"My name is Andrew," he said without even a hint of an accent, "and I'm from America?" His expression looked as though he wasn't even sure what words were coming out of his mouth. "My parents are from Chile, though. I'm pretty sure." He thought for a moment. "I definitely speak Spanish."
"Of course you do," Michelle reassured him. "Even if English is the primary language spoken in the United States, America is a nation of many languages. We are all the stronger for each additional language that we hear on our streets." Then she turned to the next boy, smiling.
"I am Dirk," he took the hint, "and I am from the Netherlands."
Another sticker peeled and placed on the boy's chest. "Are you sure?"
"My name is Derek," he corrected. "And I'm from America." A sense of pride welled up in Derek's chest as he said this. He and Andrew shared a laugh.
Michelle went down the line.
"Issouf," the boy said shortly and warily as, unbeknownst to him, a girl who was once a football player was invited into his home several miles away. "Burkina Faso."
Michelle paused, drew out her motions as she reached for the stack of American flag stickers. Something looked different about Issouf. He was shrinking. The close-cropped coils of hair on his head began to lengthen and twist themselves into tight braids. His clothing began to shift around him.
"Could you say that again?" Michelle secured a single sticker between thumb and forefinger.
"Issoufa, Burkina Faso," came a more feminine-sounding voice, as a scarf materialized and tied itself around her hair.
Michelle smiled, peeled the sticker, and placed it on the girl's shirt. "Sorry, just one more time."
"My name is Josephine," she said with confidence, "And I'm from America." But that confidence quickly faltered as she turned to her host. "Am I still Muslim?"
"Of course you are!" Michelle hugged the girl who didn't know she had only just become a girl. "In America, you are free to practice whatever religion you want. We appreciate differing perspectives, and we value your cultural knowledge. Wouldn't it be a shame if all of that got white-washed away into some WASP-y stereotype? Yes, your ancestry is still from West Africa. Yes, you're still Muslim. Just, you're also American now. And you're a part of what makes America so amazing."
The Russian spy living inside of Michelle's head told her that these were lies that Americans told themselves to feel better, and that this delusion was something to strategically exploit. But nonetheless, Michelle believed it. With her whole heart, she overruled the cynical echo of a memory that was Masha and decided that idealism, inclusion, and fundamental support of everyone who needs it, were the true foundations of the country that she so loved. Even if she had only started loving that country the night before.
And soon Jack from Wellington, New Zealand became Jack from Wellington, Florida. And then Daniyar from Kyrgyzstan became Daniel from Kentucky. And as the night went on, names would change to Andrea and Daria and Jackie and Danielle, as door-knocking cheerleaders made their way to each boy's bedroom and left it a girl's bedroom. But in that moment, what was important to Michelle is that she was inviting these classmates into the American experience. She had just minted five new Americans who previously (Jack aside) barely even spoke English. And she was going to fill them with all of the hopes and dreams that being American meant to her. And they were all going to go home the following day with pride in their hearts for the wonderful country that they called home.
