Living isn’t fair.

The past ten months in Brookings had been a continual tussle of having faith and not having faith – a fluctuation that, in most instances, opted to stop on the former. Lately, however, my psyche had settled for the latter. The infinitesimal linear membranes of my reasoning that support the conformity of arguments warp into a complex ball-like silhouette that any lawyer’s rebuttal wits may only go about in circles, or, just as worse, end up on dangling ends. In a state of skepticism, there are just few things that may successfully penetrate the core of the ball and rouse me to believing that a coin can be flipped to reveal another side. Show me some love. Show me some actions. Only then, I would have a change of heart.

Brookings, SD


My ego feels like a point – that which has no part – as stated by one of my professors. It senses but obeys no feeling anymore. It knows something but refuses to fathom. It adores nothing but itself. All were consequences of the gigantic disbelief that people around me put on view. The distantness of the people in Brookings towards an alien like me is a clear example, if you ask me to illustrate the point.

Perhaps, Brookings residents possess an equivalent alter ego – that which adores no one and nothing but itself. Perhaps, their egos lies at the center of a black hole, that point called singularity, where the laws of fellowship no longer make sense. Perhaps, their egos are their priced Earths; Martians are warned for a cosmic blast even for a slight feel of evasion. Perhaps, their egos tell them to beware of the unfamiliar, brown-looking guy who says hello to them on the streets. Perhaps, they are tired of just about anyone paradisiacally conforming to what is virtuous, to what is fit.

To see [and to feel], is to believe. Humane judgment directs that I shouldn’t muse over it because there are much more serious things in Brookings’ life that demand the front page of my attention (studies for instance) – but I am beyond wrecked. This has to come out; else, it would forever ricochet in my head.

Discount the feeling of being inside a safe-deposit vault for a safe environment and police visibility day in and day out. Ignore the lush trees that sprinkled the parks all over town. Forget the idea that Brookings is all too beautiful. In the eyes of a stranger, Brookings could offer every tale a Cinderella ending.

All that glitters is not gold. Believe it. Six out of ten people in Brookings are unresponsive to foreigners. No ANOVA is necessary to derive the statistics. Constant walks along streets; meetings inside bars, coffee shops, offices, groceries, cinemas and even churches – coupled with the basic counting skills – could very well establish the shocking revelation. In point of fact, it won’t take a whiz kid to feel the indifference of being treated like a dirty dog. A woman clutched her handbag tightly to her belly upon seeing that I was next to her. An old lady hid her purse when I sat beside her in church. A couple looked at me from head to foot, like I had just killed their whole clan, when I said hello. A saleslady refused to attend to my request and opted to entertain the next “white” male. A group of guys shouted and laughed at my expense while biking for home and a lot more…