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It was a crisp autumn day at Erasmus Hall. Leaves on the trees outside in the courtyard were covered in hues of orange and red, dancing whimsically to the ground. Throughout my time at the school, I never once set foot in the courtyard. I usually spend my days walking up and down the hallways to and from classes. The only time I would have some rest is during lunch period, when I would go to the cafeteria, which was often bustling with the chaotic symphony of teenagers, serving as the backdrop to my ill-fated courtship.
On one of those unfortunate occasions, I walked in, and there she was, Sarah, leaning against the worn, laminate counter of the bustling cafeteria, her hair catching the warm light from the overhead fixtures. In that moment, she appeared as a vision of Americana that could have sprung right out of a classic rock song.
In my mind, I was the new kid from the islands in this urban jungle. Even though I was shy, I had enough courage to believe I could sweep her off her feet with my thick Jamaican accent. That particular day, my outfit was a vibrant clash of colors against the monochrome New York fashion, which made me stick out like a sore thumb—a peacock among pigeons, if you will. My heart thumped a reggae beat as I approached her, the playlist I meticulously curated thumping in my ears through one earbud, the other dangling, ready to share.
“Hey, you ever listen to Dancehall music?” I ventured, my accent thick, each syllable pronounced with heavy emphasis. She looked up, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Her nod was all the encouragement I needed. With a flourish, I offered her the spare earbud and sat beside her. I felt like it was an intimate gesture that could lead to my very own teenage romance.
As the Dancehall beat thumped in our ears, a surge of bravery—or perhaps foolhardiness—propelled me into motion. There, in front of Sarah and an unwitting audience that gathered as if summoned by the spectacle, I stood up and unleashed the dance moves that had once made me the life of the party back home. My hips swayed, my feet shuffled, and my arms wove through the air, an embodiment of the music’s infectious energy.
What I hadn’t accounted for was the difference in cultural appreciation for such… enthusiastic displays. To my Jamaican sensibilities, dancing was a form of conversation, expression, and life itself. To the onlookers at Erasmus Hall, it was a comedic sketch unfolding in real time. Sarah’s attempt to stifle her giggles only emboldened me; I mistook her amusement for admiration and doubled down on my efforts, throwing in moves that were sure to be crowd-pleasers back in the street dances back home.
The final act of my dance marathon involved what I intended to be a suave, Marley-inspired spin, ending with a pose that I hoped conveyed nothing but coolness. Instead, my spin was more of a slippery stumble, a graceless pirouette that ended with me landing squarely on my backside. It was a cold and hard realization of my new reality, which was filled with cultural and social clashes, a far cry from the atmosphere I left behind.
The laughter that erupted was thunderous, a cacophony that seemed to echo off the school walls and into my very soul. But as I looked up, red-faced and sprawled on the ground, I saw not mockery in Sarah’s eyes, but a sparkle of genuine amusement. She extended a hand to help me up, her laughter mingling with mine as I accepted the fall with as much dignity as one could muster in such a situation.
She asked. “You okay?”
Although I felt embarrassed, I said, “Yes,” and stood up.
She held my hand and smiled, making me comfortable enough not to let my stumbling discourage me.
That day, I learned several valuable lessons: the universal language of music may require some translation, and some people’s appreciation for individual expression can be somewhat reserved. Also, perhaps most importantly, embracing your uniqueness can turn even a moment of sheer embarrassment into an opportunity for connection. My journey from a Jamaican newcomer to an assimilated foreigner was marked not just by missteps and laughter but by the realization that home isn’t merely a place—it’s a state of being, a warmth you carry inside you, capable of melting even the coldest of barriers.