26/365

in his dark blue metallic mercedes benz
that glittered like a velvet jewel—
with its light coffee creme interior
and the top down
and the tape deck
and the automatic windows
in 1983
i was american.

in our shiny lime volkswagen bug
that grumbled like a broken neon sign—
with its walnut faux leather interior
and the sputtering exhaust
and the staticky speakers
and the hand cranked windows
in 1983
i was foreign.

he was hi fi
we were lo fi
he was guess and reebok
we were no name and no brand
he was steaks and restaurants
we were fesenjoon and picnics
he was american gigalo and blonde
we were bob dylan and john lennon
he was white carpets and girlfriends
we were shag and family
he owned
we rented
he was american
we were foreign.

perhaps we only feel
the post traumatic stress disorder
of assimilation
miles after childhood.