“Bessie showed me the poem you told her to learn …” I paused bewildered.
“Yes?” Her friendly eyes urged me to speak.
“From what Bessie told me I felt I could talk myself out to you what’s bothering me.” I stopped again.
She leaned forward with an inviting interest. “Go on! Tell me all.”
“I’m an immigrant many years already here, but I’m still seeking America. My dream America is more far from me than it was in the old country. Always something comes between the immigrant and the American,” I went on blindly. “They see only his skin, his outside—not what’s in his heart. They don’t care if he has a heart…. I wanted to find some one that would look on me—myself … I thought you’d know yourself on a person first off.”
Abashed at my boldness I lowered my eyes to the floor.
“Do go on … I want to hear.”
With renewed courage I continued my confessional.
“Life is too big for me. I’m lost in this each-for-himself world. I feel shut out from everything that’s going on…. I’m always fighting—fighting—with myself and everything around me…. I hate when I want to love and I make people hate me when I want to make them love me.”
She gave me a quick nod. “I know—I know what you mean. Go on.”