I never thought fleeing tyranny to the land of the free would be as restricting and unwelcoming as this, stripping my name and soul from me in the name of freedom.
The large wooden crate crashed to the ground with astronomical force, a plume of smoke rising and clouding the already nearly suffocating air in the crowded marketplace. I felt my calloused hands ache and ears ring from the noise and chaos, the sun seemed to seep through the woven Mexican serape and soak into my torched skin. The day was nearly over, I observed, as I wiped my sweat soaked forehead with a stained red bandana.
“Victor, shift’s over.” Grumbled the farmer, waiting for the last crowd of late shoppers to buy his produce before he could pack his stand and take his truck back home. I sighed with relief, thankful that he hadn’t gotten other interactions with his boss, it was a blessing itself that I was given work, work that wouldn’t break me. My new “American” name was the least of my worries.
The sun beat down on my head, my black hair not helping to cool me down from the relentless Kentucky weather. I missed my home, mountainous cliffs dropping to turquoise blue seas, and the sweet Mediterranean breeze, but I was free in Kentucky. The street corner rounded and I saw my home, water damaged, a yellowing ceiling that caved in, threatening to collapse at any moment, crafting an impromptu skylight. The blind old woman sat by the entrance of the office, undisturbed. Her presence reminded me of my mother who would spend hours by the river when I was a child, singing me Friuli and Emilia-Romagna, her voice carrying and flowing like the water. I smiled and ducked into the small doorway to my home.
Some time passed before there was a knock on the small wooden door, seeming to rattle and echo through the whole house. I approached the door, remembering to peek to see who was there, having already learned my lesson from my first interaction when I moved here. I stared at the broad and harsh faces of three men I had never seen before, yet I felt an unknown force push me to open the door. Anxiety raced through me as the door creaked and I feared it would fall of the hinges.
One of the larger men saw the opportunity and forced the door inwards, pushing me back and entering my home. The statue la nostra signora dei dolori shook, nearly tipping over when walls shook from force. After they all filled in I noticed the distinct red paint being tracked in, leaving bloody red boot prints on my cement floors. Words had been painted over my walls and windows, marking me for what I was.
Ginzo
Goombah
I couldn’t read the rest before I was ripped away from the door by the back of my collar. I stood face to face with a hulk of a man. He was a fair amount taller than I was, with straight blond hair, buzzed so short he seemed to have been electrocuted. His eyes squinted as he pulled

me closer to his face, staring me down. It wasn’t long until I was thrown on the floor, knocking my wind out.
“C’mon boys, where’s that rope?” Said the smaller one of the three, shifting from foot to foot. I couldn’t tell if he was anxious or overly eager. The realization hit me and sank to my throat like a bullet of lead. My hand instinctively wrapped around my neck. I scrambled to my
feet and held my hands up defensively, showing I had no weapons in hopes of no violence.
“No, no, there no need for rope. You are wrong.” I muttered, cursing myself for the barrier between us, making us appear to be from different worlds. The men just stepped closer, mocking my accents and snickering to each other.
“Oh, Vito, I think you the one that’s wrong, ya filthy ginzo. See, we’re doing our town a service, we’re trying to keep it nice and clean from your type.” the larger man growled at me, sinking down to my level, his hands tightened around the rope. There were fragments of bark lodged into the fibers, in that moment I understood why I had never seen any of my neighbours. The shorter man pulled out a switchblade, waving it tauntingly in front of my face.
“No need for rope, huh?” he snickered.
I immediately scrambled to my feet and ripped out the door, leaving my home and belongings. I hastily opened the door to my car, the rusty door squeaking in protest as I swung the door open and closed in quick progression. Thankfully I had my keys, I turned the engine over, and backed out of the dirt driveway before the large men could catch up with me. I noticed them running after my car down the street, hooting and swinging the rope in a circle around their heads. For a moment I was scared they would lasso my car and bring me back against my will, leaving me hung up like a christmas ornament in a tree for everyone to see. As if a big sign was around my neck that said in big bold letters “No Ginzos Allowed!” But I kept driving, I kept driving until I didn’t have gas, then I would get gas and drive more. I was afraid that no matter where I stopped they would find me.
I concluded my trip in Washington, transfixed by the Columbia gorge. The breeze flew through my hair and left my ears cold, the wind was salty and sweet and I felt something swell inside me. That was where I was supposed to be, that was where I would fight to be, my new home. My gratuito.