Essay #6
Before the family I never met arrived in 2008, I saw a picture of them. An orphanage worker said, “This is your new mommy and daddy, and they will pick you up in a month.” I said, “Cool!” and left to play tag. At the Celebrate Children International Orphanage in Addis Ababa, I had no memories of my birth parents.
In July, a friendly-looking white couple carrying a bag of toys greeted me. Confused by what was happening, I shook their hands and ran outside. The staff urged me to introduce myself. When my friends saw the toys, they acted as if Santa Claus were visiting us, but I was unimpressed. Finally, my new dad lured me back with a Hershey bar, and I was hooked!
Soon it was time for me to say goodbye. My mom said we were going on an airplane, and she showed me a map of the world and photos of my new siblings and pets. She explained how we were going to travel from Ethiopia to the United States, but until we got to the airport, I didn’t realize that I’d never see my friends again.
Making the transition to life in rainy Olympia, Washington, was a dramatic change from living in the hot, vibrant city of Addis Ababa. I couldn’t believe how much land and water surrounded me. I spoke only Amharic, so I couldn’t read the welcome sign, but I sensed enthusiasm! Addy hugged me and screamed, “I ALWAYS WANTED A SISTER!!” Noticing my bug eyes, my mom gently released me.
Filled with light and beautiful artwork from exotic destinations my parents had visited, the house blew me away. Like a real estate agent, my mom showed me every inch. My bedroom was the last stop on our world tour. My eyes went straight to five Barbie dolls. An unfamiliar smell filled the room. Like a detective, I followed it to the kitchen, where I vacuumed Mac ’n’ Cheese into my mouth, licked the bowl, and demanded more of my first beloved American meal.
Soon I was off to Olympic View Elementary. The bustle of the morning drop-off made me anxious. What the heck did I get myself into? Overwhelmed, I activated my super-grip and pleaded with my mom not to leave. Abruptly, I was in a room full of strangers.
My classmates didn’t resemble my Ethiopian friends, but I got used to being one of four black kids in my school. First, I didn’t feel discrimination, but I soon learned about racism from the History Channel. It didn’t take long to connect the dots.
Bullying. Recess battles with rivals. Detention. Confrontations with authority. Trayvon Martin’s death. Wake-up call.
I wondered if I’d have a similar fate. I resented my siblings because they never had the burden of fearing for their lives because of their skin color.
When my dad got a job in Maryland, we moved to the East Coast. In Takoma Park Middle School, I saw more people who looked like me. This was a liberating time, but it was short-lived. My school was more diverse, but it still felt segregated. The Black Lives Matter movement was picking up traction, and everyone was feeling combative.
Nasty arguments. Attempts at empathy. Lingering resentment. Dinner-table tensions. Hopeful for resolution. Someday?
Although my junior year got complicated by the pandemic, I began to feel more comfortable in my role as an activist for social justice, not only in my school but at the community level. I participated in protests and town hall meetings, and I raised $2,010 for the Black Lives Matter movement. Co-organizers and I provided supplies for protesters in Maryland and Washington, D.C. I hope to bring this same energy and spirit to my college community. Like John Lewis, one of my civil rights movement heroes, I believe fighting for equality is a legacy I will be proud to carry on.