We Were Immirgrants

We were liberated from the plane by friendly airline attendants telling us thank you and goodbye in utterly foreign sounds. My body ached, my stomach was tied and my eyes were dry from tears. The sun glared through the windows of the smoke filled terminal. We moved gingerly closer to the passport control desk--in the long line of ‘estrangeiros.’ My most vivid memory is of the security guards carrying AK47s strapped around their shoulders and berets tilted on their heads. After a few questions and answers from my father, we had our stamps that further confirmed we entering into the land that was not ours. I was thirteen days into my twelfth year. I was eleven. And, we were immigrants. In a moment, a person goes from being totally at home to being totally foreign in a place that is home to so many others. To be immigrant, one has to have a place were they belong and be in an environment that is not yet so.