HOME IS WHERE LOVE IS
A cold shiver ran down my back as
I stepped foot into Nueva York. The
seven-hour plane ride caused me
dizziness. The white clouds outside
the miniature windows were breathtaking. It was my first time being
thousands of feet above the ground,
but I experienced this alone. I was six
and independent. My head shifted
in all directions as I exited the plane
with no family. Instead, a stewardess
named Laura was by my side. She
wore a blue pencil skirt with a white
button down and her face reminded
me of a Russian Matryoshka doll. My
pink Dora backpack felt heavy on
my shoulders as Laura and I reached
the long line of “First Time Arrivals.”
Others stood in long lines behind
signs that read “Tourists Only” or
“Citizens Only.” I knew nothing of
this new place, but I did know that
my parents were waiting for me
behind those rigid walls that read,
“Welcome to New York!”
HPAC YOUNG WRITERS REVIEW
My tios y tias made sure I knew my
new address and my mom’s telephone
number before I left Ecuador. As I stood
on American soil and filled out forms
with Laura, images of my aunts crying at
the airport in Ecuador flashed through
my mind. Their voices saying, “Te vamos
a extranar,” and “Saludame a tu madre
y a tu padre.” I had said goodbye to the
people that took care of me when my
parents had to go away, the people that
gave me the love I sought when my
mama y papa said they were searching
for a better life, the American dream.
As I thought of everyone I left behind,
I promised myself to always keep them
in my heart as I started a new life in this
country.
After the official in the
immigration booth stamped my leathery
brown passport, Laura led me down a long
hallway. The sound of her pointy heels
click-clacking their way down the white
and gray tiles echoed in my ear. I followed
her into a room with giant conveyor belts
displaying different luggage. I realized
I was supposed to claim my own. Laura
dealt with the giant suitcases, as I looked
for my small one, decorated with the
faces of Bratz dolls. When my bags were
located, Laura pushed the luggage cart
through immense glass doors where I saw
hundreds of people yelling, with balloons
and flowers in hand. As I wheeled my
suitcase out the doors behind Laura, I
felt like the crowd was awaiting a performance, I was in the spotlight. I hated
being the center of attention. My heart
palpitated and I got goose bumps on my
arms as I walked among the disturbing
crowd, until I heard a comforting voice.
“Britnney! Aqui, amor!” As the
sound reached my ears, I let out a loud
sigh. I recognized that voice, the voice
that told me stories at night, the voice
that promised me everything was going
to be okay, the voice that called me in
Ecuador every night to tell me the day of
my trip was closer day by day. It was mi
mama. She was standing with my dad by
her side. I ran to meet them, I felt safe
again. I felt invincible with their warm
and soothing arms wrapped around me.
I felt like nothing could ever go wrong
because I was with my parents again, my
family. The tears in my mom’s eyes represented the effort she made to get me here.
I imagined how difficult it was for her to
spend long nights away from me. It was
hard for me too, but knowing that when
I looked up at the stars, and that she
could see the same sky, was comforting.
She held me close to her heart and she
smiled so bright that it illuminated any
one of my darkest days. And even as a
six-year-old, I saw how hard my father
and my mother had worked to have this
reunion with me, their only daughter,
their hija linda. And wherever they both
are, is where my home will always be.
6 TRAIN VOLUME III: 2014–2015 | 15