During my first semester at Bridgeport, I had to take English 101, the required Introduction to Composition and Rhetorics class. For the final paper I wrote an essay capturing my first experiences in the US, and Laurie Allen, my teacher, masterfully rewrote the paper in a form of a poem. Back then I was writing on a Macintosh SE someone had lent me until I bought a less ancient computer (readers of Martin Mystery comic books should have no problems recognizing the model). This class was the most fun I have ever had with writing. Mrs. Allen, thanks. :)

I, Vladimir Vacic, Student From Yugoslavia, Observe:

Doors are pushed to go out and pulled to go in,
exactly the opposite from home,
and because Americans are paranoid about fire,
their buildings have more exits than entrances.

If there's no chair free, students sit on the floor.
When they walk around the dorms
they go bare-footed.
Even to the toilet they go bare-footed.

Eating and drinking in class
is not considered a lack of manners,
nor is lateness. One student arrived half an hour
after class had begun, carrying a bicycle.

When it comes to writing research papers,
professors judge quality by quantity --
concise is a four-letter word;
too long does not exist.

Grocery shopping is pop art in its naked brutality --
shelf upon shelf of Campbell's canned soups,
thirty seven kinds on toothpaste,
nine varieties of apples, all tasteless.

I have forgotten what comes first,
my given name or my family name,
the month or the day of the month.
I have forgotten the taste of good coffee.

I have forgotten how to say please,
thank you and excuse me.
I have forgotten how to wear shirts that button.
I have almost forgotten our national anthem

and the rotting scent of war. When I am home
Cristmas, I will go bare-footed
in my mother's house. I will sit on the floor
without explanation. No tea, I will say. Coca-Cola.

L. N. Allen