Twenty years

Twenty years ago, my mother, no longer a prisoner, gave birth to me.
Twenty years have gone by. We have left behind a thousand pieces of a country stained by revolution and war. We have left behind a dusty trail and have bought a house with a back yard. We have cut down dead trees that were a hazard to the house. We have Americanized and revolutionized into liberated women. We have taken a new faith, one of individuality. We have found our own Gods. We have begun writing.
Twenty years.
My father isn’t the same man. He is thinner, but happier. He lives on a strict diet of fat free. He solves puzzles, gardens, rakes leaves and walks the lawn.
My mother graduated from college with an associates degree in childhood development. My mother is opening a daycare in the basement. My mother stresses over loans and mortgage, but reminds herself that in America, she can be rich.
Twenty years.
On my first day in an American school, I said, “I don’t understand” to everyone who approached me with a question. I repeated my name over and over and heard it back in one too many syllables.
Twenty years.
No longer a teenager, I am bound to follow my mother’s footsteps into becoming braver and daring to live my way. I am bound to adopt my father’s strength, remembering that hard times do end.
Twenty years pass by and you realize that people have revolutionized not only you, but everything that has happened to you.

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