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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,

I smile.

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