A Beautiful Life

Party All the Time [Eddie Murphy]

September 1985, Goldview

When Mia Schäfer immigrated to the States and was bullied for not speaking English, she figured she had two choices: focus and study hard to learn the language, or beat these little shits' asses. She decided to do both.

Mia was only seven years old when she and her dad moved to Goldview from Germany. He was a well-known kickboxer back home and had gotten a contract to work in the United States. It was sudden when they packed their bags, took passport photos, and got on a plane, moving to a small apartment in a grubby neighborhood. But Mia was used to living in small spaces, had adjusted to life in the city, seemingly surrounding by darkness and flashing lights.

He fought the first weekend they arrived. Before she could even unpack her suitcase or take a bath. She came with him. She always came with him. She wasn't supposed to, but he had no choice. She would stand in the sidelines, holding his agent's hand. The lady was young and pretty with teased blonde hair, layered bangs. She wore a grey pencil skirt that hugged her figure, a matching blazer with shoulder pads.

She held Mia's hand, but it was always a loose hold. Just tight enough not to misplace her. Sometimes Mia wondered what would happen if she ran away. It would have been quite a scene—a little girl in baby pink pants and My Little Pony sweater, her ponytail bouncing as she ran in an arena full of men as her white sneakers squeaked against the floor. The sound would be flushed out by all the groans and grunts, the drunken cheering. She wondered if her dad would notice her while he was in the ring, would see her sprint, her call for attention. Would he stop the fight? Would he care?

It was the smell of cigarette smoke and stringent aftershave. Flashing lights and music pulsing with electronic beats and synthesizers. The women wore leather jackets and tall hairstyles. Lips gold or a fiery shade of red, blue pigment smudged against their eyes. Mia thought they were the coolest. She wanted to be like them.

When Mia started school, she realized the girls who looked more like her were nothing like her. She discovered it was the kids who were different from her were the ones she related to. Despite her blue eyes and fair skin, she was unaccepted, unwanted. Whenever girls would smile, it was in mockery. They laughed at her clothes, her voice, and it fucking sucked because she didn't have the words to defend herself. Really, she didn't have the words because of the language barrier—just to have the chance to curse them out and stand up for herself.

Mia didn't have recess because it was during that hour where they'd take her and the rest of the foreigners to a room they called "bilingual class." At first, she had no idea what it was. Nobody spoke German, and every kid there was fluent in every other language but English. How would this teach her English? Why did they group every ethnic kid as if they were the same? The logic was fucking stupid.

But she somehow made friends there. Despite the fact they could barely communicate with each other. It was something they had in common, she supposed.

Mia's bedroom was small, but it was her own. A space for privacy, to think, to listen to the radio. The carpet was a dark, muddy brown, and she liked to curl her small bare toes against it, gripping at the old fibers. The walls were probably once white, but now a more creamy, yellowy color. She used a dresser that had already been there to store her clothes, wiping off the dust herself.

She had nothing but her boombox and a portable cassette player she brought with her from Germany. She would spend hours tuning into the radio, lying on her bed with the boombox beside her, listening to songs she couldn't understand the words to. But music and rhythms captivated her, the beats resonating in her chest, and the melodies proving irresistibly catchy.

Sometimes she brought the cassette player with her to the fights, to drown out the noise and chaos. She recorded some songs off the radio she liked. One of her favorites was a Madonna song. She didn't know what it was called. It was a slower pop ballad. The contrast of the music while watching her father shove a push kick into his opponent's stomach somehow soothed her.