As
a kid, I never really knew why my parents chose to move us from Colombia to the
United States. All I remember in the months leading to April 25th,
2001 were several things. First, I started saying goodbye to all my friends, selling
all my video games, and knowing how proud I was of being able to pronounce
“Washington” in English. I never really knew how big the country was, or that
they spoke differently. All I knew was that my family and I were packing
things, and getting ready to go.
We
landed, and I was so happy to see my dad and older brother again, whom had
already left the country weeks before. Once we left the airport, however, I
immediately noticed something different. The cleanliness. “Wow!” I would say,
look at how nice the roads are. “Look at the cars!”
Suddenly,
we jumped on a time-machine, graduated from school, learned a few things here
and there, traveled, got a cat, and 2015 arrived. I was in Madrid with Shannon,
and from one day to another in June, we were both going to Colombia in
September.
As
we just completed the trip, I reflected on everything that occurred. We got to
see my grandma and aunt, plus many more family members that I didn’t remember.
We saw once again how beautiful the country is, and how a picture of mountains,
trees, birds and the gust of wind giving us a shiver is a unique experience. On
top of that, the country provided us with bountiful fruits and vegetables at
unimaginable prices. We ate tons of fruit, and of different kinds we hadn’t
seen before – or remembered for that matter.
As
we roamed the streets of Bogota and Pereira, we also saw that my birth country
is still improving. The homeless are numerous, and the pollution gives you a
“in your face” experience. Despite all that, I wondered why I didn’t feel the
strong emotion I was expecting after returning.
Yes,
I was very happy, but the feeling of extreme longing was not there. So I
wondered, and found my answer. I am an immigrant whose home has
seen me grow to who I am today. I am eternally grateful at my heritage, but the
US is my home.
For
years I longed to return, to see my family, and in a way, give thanks to the
country that raised me to age nine. However, as we flew back from Bogota to
Miami, I felt relieved. A weird feeling. Relived in the sense that I could now
focus on my future. No longer was I trying to identify myself whether I
belonged on one side – Colombian, or the other – American. Instead, I belong in
my own. Meaning that I make sense of who I am, and how I identify myself. Some
days I may feel more Colombian, and some more American. Or some days neither.
Either
way, the trip helped me understand a bit more of where I come from, and how
fortunate I am to have come to this country.
