A new family just moved into the house across the street.
A mom. A dad. Three kids.
The first week, I saw them weeding out the garden together. The second week, they cleaned all the windows and some furniture appeared. The third week, they all sat in their front yard looking at the stars.
The fourth week, someone wrote something on their neat, newly painted front door. ”YOU DON’T BELONG HERE.” It said. In thick, black ink.
I hadn’t talked to them up until that point. I didn’t know what to say or do. If they spoke English at all. I didn’t know if they wanted me to talk to them, or if they just wanted to be quiet and pretend they had been living in that house since the beginning of times.
It’s kind of a city thing, not talking to your neighbours.
In a world where you can be anything, be kind.
The front door had to be repainted four times, for the letters to finally completely disappear.
Then, one day I was walking home from the bus stop when I saw two of the kids outside. I thought about the things that are said about refugees. They’re Murderers. Rapists. Criminals at best. But I just saw two children playing, and a family trying to fit in.
They were kicking a tennis ball. To small to play football with, but all they had. Realising I still had a football left that I got for free somewhere, because you know, I’m white and privileged, I ran inside to try and get it. I threw it at them from my window. For you, I mimicked.
I’ve never seen two children so excited, and a mother smiling so happy behind the kitchen window.
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