I’m not really sure how to characterize this period of my life.  Tough?  Formative?  Sad?  Hopeful?  Other?  It doesn’t matter, this will always be a big part of me.

Leaving the birth country for a new one was difficult.  I remember crying a lot.  I missed my friends and family.  America was big.  America was scary.

Adjusting was not easy.  While I learned and spoke English in Malaysia (a Commonwealth country), I had the tell-tale Malaysian accent.  The one I can immediately identify today.  I had trouble pronouncing certain words.  A not-so-awesome friend would constantly remind me of the time in 7th grade where I bungled fhe words “Calculator” and “Connecticut” in English class.  To this day, anytime I see those words, I silently say them to myself as a reminder that I can pronounce them properly.  Like now.

My parents bought a house in a decent neighborhood and school district.  But I wear clothes bought off the DC streets.  We go to the grocery store for entertainment, they don’t have these in Malaysia.  I have no idea what I’m doing at school.  Bullies, lots of them.  They play cruel tricks on me.  I almost get detention because I don’t know how to read the complicated lunch schedule.  I get suspended for fighting (yes I started it, found a bigger guy to make a point, fought him in front of half the school, lost but was less picked on after).  I am so unathletic, I get sent with a few guys to the mainly girls section of PE.  

I drop most of the accent after a year.  American TV and radio will do that.  Getting made fun of will also do that.  I learn to play the major US sports in a year.  I learn that my arm is above average.  I can outthrow many of my peers.  I learn that my reflexes from playing badminton are useful for baseball and hockey – I discover I can field balls and save shots like a champ.  I even realize I have enough football skills to play at the level of a sandlot backup quarterback.  And yes, that jumpshot.

To remind me of who I am, I put posters of Malaysia up on my bedroom walls.  These eventually come down for Clyde Drexler, Tom Gugliotta, Kevin Hatcher, and Jimi Hendrix.

We almost get deported.  Our file was evidently dropped behind some file cabinet at the INS.  Economic pressure affects the family.  They find the file.  We stay.  My dad keeps his job.

I somehow make it into a magnet high school program.  Average in math, a decent writer, a hell of a problem solver, I beat out Ivy League bound kids on the critical thinking portion of the test.

But I never forget where I’m from.  Not entirely by choice.  I get reminded of that from time to time.

I don’t really know how to close this one.  Because it has never really closed.  I cling to this saying.  It applies to everything a person has done in life.

Once one, always one.

Immigrant song.