First Flashes of America

At five years old, I sat on my father’s backpack in the middle of the airport, sobbing and discombobulated.

“I want to go home,” I was weeping. The lights by the waiting area were glaring, muddling my brain, and erasing all sense of night and day.

“We can’t go home,” he was trying to explain, “We’re already in Los Angeles – halfway to New York, where mom is.”

“But I want grandma too,” I protested, limbs collapsing with exhaustion as I slipped to the floor. It had felt like days since our plane took off from Hanoi – a disorienting and draining mess of hours that were impossible to make sense of. As eager as I was to see my mother again, the only thing that seemed real to me in that moment was my grandma – who had pedaled me to school, scolded any kid who bullied me, let me stay up late to watch soap operas – left behind in Vietnam. 

As I lay forlornly at his feet amidst crowds of rushing passengers, my dad scooped me up off the floor, and carried me the rest of the way to the gate, where we boarded our connecting flight to New York City.

I came to America in the heart of winter – December 15, 2000. My mother had already been there by herself for six lonely months, doing her Masters at Cornell. My dad and I landed in New York City, where she met us at the airport; several days later, we all made our way to Ithaca.

Sheltered from the lights and bustle of the city by a few hundred miles, Ithaca was so small that it rarely appeared on maps. Dominated on one side by the clock tower and ancient stone buildings of the university, the rest of the town was enveloped in a cradle of creeks and serenity. Not that I could tell – or care – right then. For days after, jetlag left me entirely oblivious to my surroundings: days of the week, time of the day – nothing made sense.

About a week after our arrival, a family friend named Edith offered to take me sledding with a couple of other kids in the neighbourhood. Leaving me in her care for the afternoon, my parents reassured me that they would be back to pick me up in a few hours. We drove over to the school playground, where the hill was covered in a flawless blanket of freshly fallen snow.

For the first hour or so, I had a genuinely good time – tumbling down the hill, kicking up fluffy snow, and absolutely fascinated by the technique of rolling a snowball to make it bigger. Despite not knowing a single word of English, it wasn’t too hard to get along when we were busy having fun. So much of children’s language is universal.

But then the chill set in. It was my first proper introduction to the mind-numbing North American cold. I tugged on Edith’s jacket, getting her attention, but failing to communicate my discomfort and desire to go back inside. Shaking, gesturing with my hands and body, speaking the words in Vietnamese in some desperate hope that she could understand – all to no avail. 

On and on went the afternoon, each hour dragging far longer than the first. Frozen and consumed with frustration at my inability to communicate, I had never felt so lost and helpless in my life. As the snow continued to fall, I stood huddled on the hillside, waiting and waiting until I could be taken home.

It was my first memory of feeling firmly blocked from the outside world. As a child, I adjusted quickly – to the language, at least. But – especially as I would continue to move between four countries until the age of eleven – layers of disconnect remained. They remained for my parents, and for my American-born brother, just as they remain for all immigrants who find themselves trapped in a seemingly impenetrable environment.

We made it back to Edith’s house eventually, where I was given hot chocolate. My parents picked me up and quickly taught me how to say, “I’m cold.” The chill on the snowy hillside steadily dissipated in our cozy kitchen.

It was one boundary conquered, and many more to come.

Originally published on Project Boundless.