The Statue of Liberty

Shoha wasn't doing well. They called him "Shawn" now, but his new name was an affliction, not a medicine. They could call him by an American name and dress him in American clothes, but he wasn't an American. Gau (father), Eza (mother), and Tedzi (older sister)—they wore their differentness like honor, but Shawn was embarrassed. His name and his face and his mother meeting him at the bus stop and chattering in Gozasu, these were keeping him out.

He, more than the rest of his family, felt trapped in a cage suspended above both worlds. Neither American nor Gozash. What was he? He was a hybrid, a specimen, a case study. And study him they did, his classmates. A distant study, a wary study. They wouldn’t risk getting too close. His teachers didn't help. Always accentuating the difference. Saying, "your people," and "where you’re from,” and “could you tell us, please.”

He had wanted to come ever since he heard the word. Amberega. America. He had seen some pictures. Statue of Liberty. A city at night. America was a place of height. And expanse. Spreading out in every direction, unstoppable. He liked this. As soon as they landed, and he saw the highways, endless cement, he wondered if this was really a good thing and a good place. They rode in a bus for three hours to reach their new home.

He knew now America wasn't built on magic. But he wanted to be a part of it, because what choice did he have? Clinging to Goza was impossible. It was becoming further away every day. And every day when he woke up under sheets printed with football players, it receded another day into mists. He'd get up and get dressed and try to be like everyone else now.