When I went to the first grade, I shared a battered and cramped desk whereby, I could easily see the washed out Iranian flag fluttering in the wind. The flag pole was situated at the asphalted schoolyard, where we chanted “Death to America” every morning. Although the school was modest, old, and had dirty floors and appalling walls, I had developed a sense of belonging to it which lasted to the day I finished my first grade. After school, on a warm summer day, I heard my mother burst into tears; she was diagnosed with stage IIIB colon cancer. At the time I did not know what cancer was or how it would affect my family and me; however, I was told that we were going to the United States for my mother’s treatment.
I was 7 when I first stepped off the KLM plane on which we went to Houston, where I got enrolled in Roberts Elementary School. With a lush green grassy yard, woodchip-covered playgrounds, and Oak trees flourishing on the sidewalks, Roberts was far divergent from my school experience in Iran. Setting foot in the classroom …show more content…
I am Sina, but who is that? The relationships I have with my friends and what I do portray an intriguing image of my identity, yet what happens when they are taken away? who am I then? If I have no identity, on what basis could I connect with others? I was being called terrorist and inculpated for a crime I had not committed. It was as if I had been lost in a pitch-black tunnel, not knowing where to go. With nobody accepting me, I acquiesced in their decision that yes, in fact, I am an Iraqi-American terrorist. I gave up proving myself to others, took all the slurs and insults for granted, and did my utmost to help my classmates despite their offending me. That moment I saw everything change. I was making friends and was no longer called Iraqi or terrorist. I was able to see a light at the end of the never ending tunnel that I was trapped