Passage II

Coming to America

Though it was fifteen years ago, I still remember my journey from China to the United States when I was seven years old. On the tarmac outside the crowded airport in Shanghai, I mustered the last of my feigned courage to wave goodbye to my grandparents and boar ed the plane. The plane taxied a long way, then quickly sped up, gave a sudden jolt, and lifted off.

Seeing dark storm clouds ahead, drops of rain began to streak my window. Feeling so much force against me, I shut my eyes in search of familiar memories I would recognize. I called up visions of Grandma singing lullabies to me, of delicious meals at the Spring and Autumn festivals, and of my schoolmates walking with me to school.

I was traveling from my home in Shanghai to New York City. I was to join my parents, who had gone to pursue graduate degrees to the United States when I was just three. But I was quite nervous about living with these people whom I could barely remember. Suddenly I felt empty, acutely aware that I was leaving the only home I'd ever known.

As the plane gained altitude and the dark storm clouds have given way to a deep blue sky. Images of home quickly filled that blue void. I saw myself blowing out candles at my grandparents table on my seventh birthday. We made do with dumplings, duck, and a small white cake. I can still picture the two beaming faces across the table—Grandpa with his knowing grin and Grandma with her plump cheeks dimpling as she smiled both congratulating me on my good fortune of going to live in the United States. (26)

Twenty-four hours after leaving Shanghai, I finally got off the plane in New York. A woman recognized me from pictures as my mother rushed toward me, wrapped me in her arms, and gently spun around with me immediately felt safe and at home in her arms.

Now, as I reflect on that fateful trip, I am proud of the bravery of that little boy who left the security of his childhood home for a new life. (29)