When I said goodbye to the only world I had ever known, I was ten years old.
Monrovia was busy, noisy, and very hot. Even the sound of neighbors' laughing, music from roadside speakers, and the grinding noise of a generator during power outages filled the air in Liberia.
Although it wasn't ideal, it was home.
I played barefoot soccer with my relatives on dirt roads. We used sticks to get mangoes off trees. We were familiar with every dog, neighbor, and backyard shortcut.
There was terror, though, behind the laughs. Although I never heard it directly from my parents, I heard talk of violence, unrest, and a better life away. Somewhere named "America."
At the time, I couldn't quite understand it. I only knew that my mother had sat me down one day and said that we were traveling to the United States. There, things will be different.
It wasn't even close to being different.
It was the end of winter when we arrived. I had never felt so cold in my life as the snow dropped from the sky like frosting. This place was silent. The streets were empty and wide. There was no wave from the neighbors. The dish had a distinct flavor. People spoke quickly. I was unable to keep up.
The most difficult part was school. The children made jokes I didn't understand, laughed at my accent, and asked whether I lived in a hut. I wanted to just go away. In Liberia, I was talkative and fun, but in America, I became quiet and little.
I used to cry after school on some days. Days when I asked my mom to return back home. However, she would say something like, "You'll see why we came one day."
In seventh grade, I had the opportunity to stand in front of my classmates and give a statement about my background. My hands trembled. I had a drum-like heartbeat. However, I mentioned Liberia to them. About the joy, the culture, the heat, the street food, and even the fear. They didn't chuckle for the first time. They understood.
At that point, I came out of hiding. I came to realize that I should be proud of my story rather than ashamed of it.
Years later, I find myself living in two different worlds. I walk the streets of America with my head held high, Liberia in my heart. I now know how to get along with both cultures. Even when it's difficult, I've learnt to speak up. I've discovered that the most strong versions of ourselves can occasionally emerge from the most terrifying life transitions.
Not only did moving to America change my living condition. That changed my sense of identity.
