By Lydia Haile ’19. Art by Angie Kang ’20.

the uber driver at the airport sees us

asks, American?

We nod.

he says, Trump, then laughs,

large, hearty, from the belly

and that is the end of our conversation.

I wonder, on the ride

(and it is a long ride)-

stretches of highway and offramps

what does it mean to represent a country

a country that does not represent you

what do they see when they see me-

the stars and the stripes waving around on the backs of their eyelids

burgers and fried chicken and pick-up trucks

or do they see something else

the airport worker raised her eyebrows at my passport-

as if to say, that’s interesting-

is that really interesting? or is it something else

my rare pigment

do I scream migrant

or expat

I wonder what they see first

I wonder if they can be separated