The Beginning of the End

My father was the first to emigrate to the States. Shortly after his departure I was told my mother and I would be going to. The idea of leaving behind my life as I knew it, and going to what seemed like another planet made me so sick I started popping out red bumps all over my body in rebellion. Well actually, I came down with chicken pox. I was able to delay our trip a couple of weeks this way and managed to celebrate one more birthday in the place I knew as home.

My friends and classmates soon heard that I would be leaving and going to what all the adults seemed to think of as "a better place." We children didn't see it that way. My friends had many reassuring stories to tell me about America. The one I remember best was about the unusual security measures in the USA - upon stepping out of your home you must show your documents to armed soldier-like security guards. You are required to tell them where you are going and when you will be returning, and if you don't get back to your home within that time frame, you are shot with rifles. I tried to explain this to my mother but she didn't seem to take me seriously. It was all a joke to her! She was seriously willing to give up our freedom to some American soldier just to go live in America. Why?!?!

My relatives didn't make me feel any better either. My grandmother was so shocked we were leaving that she decided to steal our passports and hide our plane tickets. My mom tried everything to get those essentials back, but it was no use. I realized that I would never see my father again if I stayed in my safe headquarters. If I wanted to be with my daddy again, I would have to face the dangers and rifles of America. So I managed to convince my grandma to return our passports and tickets and just a few days later we were at the airport. All of our family and friends were there. Even my aunt from Italy had come to say goodbye and send us away. The tears that were shed from our eyes that day and the collective pain that was felt among cannot be described in words. My grandmother was frozen stiff as she watched us walk away into the "ticketed passengers only" area. And while I didn't black out, I can't remember anything else from that moment.

I've grown to appreciate my strange defense mechanism - my brain refuses to save and store the most painful moments of my life. These scenes are somehow discarded from my brain's file cabinet, and they can't be found even in the recycle bin. But it's times like these I wish I had a memory of those horrible occasions, one of which is that long trip to America and that first day after entering the land of the free.

I can assure you I found no armed security guards in front of our house, and there wasn't a curfew of any kind in effect. But believe me, this didn't make me feel any better or any safer. The only place I could feel good and safe was at home. And I did NOT feel at home.