I was eleven years old, riding in a cramped bus
On bumpy roads to Myanmar,
Then waiting with my mother
For a visa to America
While my father worked too hard
Without enough sleep and anxious
For the reunion with his family.
What can I say to express
these images with words on this page?
From Myanmar to America, it was my first time
Riding in one those giant strange flying vehicles.
Where I used to live, seeing an airplane
Always made me smile,
Something from another world
As small as paper in the sky.
But does this make me so different
From those who grew up in America,
Who know what to do, know the rules
and don’t look up at every passing plane?
After one year here, what have I learned?
We take some things for granted, and it’s hard
To be happy. But I am proud of myself. I remember
The beautiful mountains and rugged roads
Of my home, and my long journey to America
Every time I see a tiny airplane in the sky,