My Story
by Shir Asayag
“Understanding that there is more than one culture living in the world, whether it's across the sea or a neighboring country.”
If I remember correctly, it was three months before we left. I had a midlife crisis on the kitchen floor. I was sobbing, screaming, hitting the floor, and yelling at my parents that they basically ruined my life. I was devastated. I was so happy in Israel. I didn't understand why they would want to take it all away from me and my brother. When I was almost ten years old, I moved to the United States. It was my first time getting on a plane since I was five. I was terrified. My stomach was flipping upside-down. I was so nervous, I didn't know what to expect and at the other end of the flight, I'd walk out of the plane and onto this new city.
Boarding the plane, I wasn't thinking of anyone but me. Yes, I was a selfish little girl, but how would I speak to people? I didn't know English. Would I have friends? What would I eat? Is there cereal in America? I was keeping myself company with these questions, distracting myself of what was going on around me. As I sat down, I felt sick. I wanted to go back home to my Safta, and just lay in her arms, hold her, and never let go. But I couldn't. Partly, because I was already in my seat buckled up.
As the plane took off, I felt like someone was doing flips in my tummy. I even threw up, but no one cares about that, except the stranger sitting next to me and the flight attendant. The landing was terrible. We had to stop at Philadelphia due to some problems with the plane. My mom, my brother and I got a hotel room. We made friends with some old Israeli couple, and went and explored the city of Philly with them, which I did not enjoy.
The next morning, we got on our plane to San Francisco. I didn't enjoy the flight, because unlike the first one, there were no TV screens. When we landed, an old family friend waited for us, right as we walked out into the welcome area. It was nice to finally see a friendly face, but not nice to be 7,387 miles away from the rest of my family. He drove us to his house. The entire ride was weird and strange. I always dreamt of America being a different world, with magical houses and flying cars, or something along those lines. But actually, it was just another old, boring country with lots of highways, taxis everywhere, and billboards—but in English. I came all the way to this so-called amazing country, just to see billboards in English? I was so furious and ready to go back home.
You can say that my first experience in the United States affected the way I view it today. In some senses, I hate it. It took everything from me. My childhood, my house, my bed, my small neighborhood, my beach, and of course my entire family. However, as I grew up, I realized I needed to replace the things I missed. So I found myself new friends, got a new comfy bed, created my own small village made out of family and friends, and found actual family members living in the area.
Am I grateful for coming here? Well, yes. I met wonderful people, learned a new language, expanded my knowledge on the world and on people. I got to have many great opportunities, saw beautiful sites, visited extraordinary places, and yet, I'm still mad about my parents for moving us across the ocean. I will always be mad. Since the day my dad told us we were moving, I will always play the, "Well you moved us across the ocean in less than half a year" card on my parents to get away with things. And I'll always thank them for this, but thank them in anger. I think that remembering has significantly affected me, shaping me into the person I am today. Understanding that there is more than one culture living in the world, whether it's across the sea or a neighboring country. I understand now. I understand it all.