This Must Be America

When I was nine, my family left our village in Cape Verde and took a plane to America. The first one to spot us in the Boston airport was my cousin Tony. He spotted my mother in the crowd and called her name. Then there was Uncle Benjamin, Cousins Antonia, Liana, David, Henrique, and Manuel. And finally we saw my big sister Eunice. She was crying and wouldn't stop. I got scooped by someone and carried outside. I had never seen so many cars or so many glasses. (That's what I called windows.) I had never seen so many people. We got into a taxi. I had the window seat. Watching the cars, I wondered what made them go, and where were they going? We went underground and I got scared. We might never come out. And the cars were going so fast.

I wanted to go home. This was not home to me! The numbers in the front of the taxi said 12:45 p.m. At that time my grandma would be having lunch in the veranda: biscuits and fresh milk and mangos. She'd be dressed in black.

Now we were out of the underground. A man passed by us riding two wheels. I stretched out of the window to see that. How did he do that? There was no motor. He just sat on a seat and it went. I shook my head and thought, this must be America.