Feb. 18, 2022 | Ruxandra Guidi | True Jersey - It’s my third year at Nutley High, the only high school in this northern New Jersey town of fewer than 30,000 people. It’s also my third year living in the United States. Everything still feels new.
One day, my guidance counselor, a soft-spoken Irish-American man whose name I cannot remember, sends a letter to the apartment where my mom and I live. He is tall, like one of the oaks in the park towering over me. It’s time to talk about my future, he tells us.
A week later, we are sitting in his office, facing the school’s courtyard. It’s winter and the weathered greenery outside looks sad and scraggly.
“Your grades are pretty good,” he tells me, pointing out how my favorite subjects must be creative writing and French.
Indeed, I’d been thinking I’d like to become a writer who travels. Or maybe a traveler who writes. I don’t know. The possibilities are so new. But the school counselor isn’t listening. He talks over and past me.
“Have you considered the Army?” he asks, looking at my mom. “It’s a great option for many Hispanics. You’ll get your college paid for and they’ll help you get your citizenship.”
We try to hide our frustration and thank him, shaking his hand goodbye.
I grew up in Venezuela. A nation that welcomed so many exiles fleeing the U.S.-backed Southern Cone dictatorships in the ‘70s. A nation that was a model of democracy in the region for decades. So the idea of joining the U.S. army feels repugnant.